“And you were Mr. ‘The Adults Can’t Help Us’ not more than a half hour ago!” Winnie tapped her finger on the table furiously. “How do we know this lady is actually here to help us and she’s not like some minor boss we have to fight in order to search the shop for clues?”

At Ahmad’s stare, she sighed exasperatedly. “You’re not the only video game fan, you know.”

Ahmad looked down at the table. He didn’t know what else to say. She was right about him not usually being so quick to trust. But for some reason, the familiarity of the woman was sinking into his gut and warming him.

And the smell of chai in the air reminded him of home. How could he not want to take a sip?

Winnie leaned in to say something more, but a new tray settled in front of them.

“Here we are,” Madame Nasirah said cheerily. “Who’s going first?”

“I’m not thirsty,” Winnie started, and Ahmad broke in, “I’ll have some.”

He focused on Madame Nasirah’s smile so he didn’t have to look at Winnie’s dagger eyes. The warm, fuzzy feelings he’d had about the girl while they were plummeting through the air were starting to evaporate. Winnie Williamson wasn’t the boss of him, and she was the one who had pointed out that this was his city.

His Paheli wouldn’t hurt him. Would it?

Madame Nasirah raised the teapot so that the tea cascaded, bubbling and frothing, as it filled the glass.

“My mom’s friend from Morocco pours tea like that, but I always thought it was for fun,” Ahmad said, feeling another rush of that bittersweet sense of home.

“Of course she does,” Madame Nasirah said cheerily. “The tea tastes better that way.”

As Ahmad slid his glass carefully toward him, the woman turned to Winnie, who looked unsure. “I’m not much of a tea person. I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh, come now,” Madame Nasirah said impatiently. “It’s a rite of passage in my shop. And you’ve never had my tea. Come, child. Take some.”

Winnie bit her lip, but then Ahmad exclaimed in surprise, “It’s chai!” He stared into his cup at the creamy, carefully spiced tea sloshing within it. “It’s my ma’s chai.”

“My teapot knows,” said Madame Nasirah, smiling at them.

Winnie held out her glass and stared at its contents as they poured in. Ahmad leaned forward to investigate. “That’s not chai. But how—”

“Results may vary per player,” Madame Nasirah said primly, taking back the pot and rising to her feet in order to peer at the shop’s dusty counter. “Now, where did I put those spinach pies?”

Winnie wrinkled her nose down at her cup and looked up at Ahmad.

“What?” Ahmad asked.