She sits cross-legged on a seat of plush cushions and carpets, facing away from me, head raised as if in contemplation. She’s dressed in a swirling blue wrap, like a bedouin. She’s not just old, she’s ancient. Her skin is the texture of tooled leather. In her right hand, she clutches a hookah pipe. When I cough to get her attention, she turns her head and looks at me, eyes narrow as slits.

I stand in the shadows, nervous, contemplating backing out.

“Mother?” I say, watching her take a deep drag on the hookah. She sits quite still and exhales, blowing a plume of smoke my way. She says nothing.

The ground tilts. The smoke floats.

“I’ve come a long way to find you,” I say, feeling light-headed. “The Pathfinders brought me. They said you’d help me.”

She takes another drag, blows smoke out her nostrils like a dragon and squints at me under hooded eyelids. Then she nods, but it’s difficult to say if she’s understood a word. “You,” she says, finally. “Huh! Who are you?”

“I’m Ana.”

“So, Ana, you think a name makes a difference?” She eyes me up and down, then flicks her hand impatiently. “Look here, do you have anything to drink on you? I’m running short. Whiskey’s my preference, but I’ll take whatever you have.”

“Anything to drink? I’m sorry…I…I’m confused…I thought…”

“You are confused,” she says. “And, on top of it, lost.”

I let my fist fall to my thigh, but stop myself from dragging my knuckles up the muscle. “I’m not from here,” I say, feeling marooned. “This world…it isn’t mine.”

“Is that a fact?”

“I don’t belong here.”

“Oh? Where do you belong?”

My arms hang limp at my sides. I’m not sure what to say. It’s a good question.

“You do not know,” she says—inhaling, exhaling. “You will.”

“I need your help,” I insist. “My best friend, Bea. She was taken by Reapers. I’m trying to find her. Malik said you’ll have answers—”

“Malik Habib?” she interrupts.

I nod vehemently, feeling encouraged. At last I’m getting through to her.

“Never heard of him,” she says, and the spurt of hope dissipates.

“But—”

“Come,” she says, rising to her feet. A quick movement that belies her age, inexplicably fluid, as though ungoverned by gravity. Deep power emanates from her and I suddenly feel daunted and small. Without waiting, she moves away—a shadow within shadows—into the recesses of the tent (a tent that now appears to stretch well beyond the limit of logic).

“So, you’ll help me?” I call after her. “Do you know who’s behind Bea’s abduction? Or where I can find her?”

She makes a grumbling noise and continues walking, moving quickly.

“Where are we going?” I ask, hurrying after her. “And how big is this tent?”

No answer.