The man I knew was one who, in spite of his impatience and brusqueness, was unfailingly respectful. Dirva checked and double-checked appointments he had. He was compulsively punctual. But then again, he was a man with a great capacity for secrets, and the notion of him preparing for a new life in a foreign country while living his old one as if nothing was about to change did not seem so far-fetched. I pushed Sorcha for more than this rough sketch of Dirva’s youth. What had drawn them together? How long had they been together? Was it the shaping? There are stories of that, tales of a shaper so thoroughly caught in the thrall of an admirer that they cannot extricate themselves for weeks, months, even years. How had they met? What happened to each of them after Dirva left? But Sorcha didn’t know. He said no one talked about it. Dirva’s exit was a sore spot for his parents, and whatever happened to Liro in the weeks after was a sore spot with siblings.

I had to see Dirva. I needed to see him. I fought the urge for two or three days because I knew coping with his dying da was sapping all his strength, but there are times when the things you need are so immediate that you can’t help but demand them, even when you hate yourself for being so selfish. I went alone. Sorcha asked me where I was off to, and when I told him, he rolled his eyes. On the long walk to Liro’s house, I rehearsed my questions and my statements over and over. Seeing Dirva again was a thing for which I needed to prepare.

It was late afternoon when I got there. The world was painted in primary colors: a red sky served as a backdrop to the blue houses, and the sandy street burned a glowing yellow. I knocked on the door and stared down at my feet, running through my prepared statements one final time in my mind. I heard the creak of the door and launched in. “Mr. Villai’Muladah, sir, it is not disrespect that brings me to this door today but instead a deep wish to…”

“You must be the student.” He spoke Semadran, but the voice was not Dirva’s. I looked up and saw instead a nahsiyya man with blue skin and black hair. He was razor-thin and narrow, all long lines and sharp angles, and stood about inch or so taller than me. His eyes were large and black, ringed with Semadran violet. He was dressed simply, in a loose linen shirt and wool pants, barefoot, and covered with bright streaks of paint.