Provenance. A word I didn’t know. “I didn’t steal anything. The book is mine. My . . . mother gave it to me.”

He nodded, then stuck out a hand, waggling his long fingers like some kind of sucker fish. “Let me see this marvelous book. I’ll tell you if I’m interested.”

Sure, fella, and have you snatch it? “I don’t carry it with me.”

Suddenly, the idea of even one of his sticky fingers touching the book—my book—made my stomach churn. Wait. My book? When had I got so possessive?

He pocketed his squid of a hand. “Come back when you do.”

“I doubt it.”

He’d decided there wasn’t any book at all, and that was fine by me. Surely this heat-plastered, too-black-haired dude wasn’t the only book dealer in the Souk?

I sauntered away. But once out of his sight, I slumped in a heap on some plastic crates stacked against a tree. Out of steam. Totally done. Even the rustle of real leaves in a grass-scented breeze did not perk me.

I’d failed. First time out on my own, and I’d failed. Not ready to run my life after all. Time to slink back to the den and ponder tonight’s humiliating lessons.

I stared up into the dark tree canopy, contemplating the long, hot trek home. But when I dropped my sorry gaze, I saw the most amazing thing.

Large white letters. How had I missed them before?

The crates lined a recess in the row of kiosks, like a storage alcove. At the back, a dark-colored tent was near invisible in the brighter riot. One flap, folded and clipped open, spilled warm light from inside. On the closed flap, the stenciled lettering: BOOKS.

I got a little chill, because really, this was a bit weird. Like some tall tale of magical appearances you’d hear in the Mess, or read about . . . in a book. I went over and peered in.

Racks and racks of books! Real books, everywhere, up and down, piled and stacked and shelved, enthusiastically but not without purpose. Talk about plenty, and no illusion here! Two oil lanterns hung from the ridge pole, throwing light to left and right, but leaving much of the interior in shadow.

So many books.

I shivered, my chest tight. My head felt hollow, a gale rushing through it. A true memory quake this time, brief but a humdinger, unless I was just too played out from a long night’s work.