Well, I wanted to go back to the shimmering world. For once, I had no interest in the man behind the curtain.

Another kind of levitation: in Nepal, a little girl is chosen when she’s three years old, and recognized by some as the Kumari, the embodiment of Durga, goddess of destruction and blood sacrifice. They say that she is a god, and also that she is a girl. They say she can see into the past and future. They say that if the Kumari smiles at you, it’s an invitation to heaven, and that you will die within the day. The Kumari has her every wish attended to. Her feet must not touch the ground, so she’s carried everywhere, covered in jewels and the finest fabrics. She is held in the air and worshipped.

But when the Kumari reaches puberty, she becomes mortal again. The Nepalese believe that the energy of the goddess goes out with the girl’s first blood. So they put her down—but by then, her legs are unsteady. She has no social skills to speak of. She may not know her family. She’s mortal, but worse than mortal. She is an infant alien jammed into the newly bleeding body of a twelve-year-old girl.

There are other legends about the Kumari: that if you try to deflower one, even years after her descent into the mortal realm, snakes will slither from between her legs and eat your penis whole. The legend goes that because of this legend, no man who knows a Kumari’s past will have her, and many must turn to prostitution to survive. But in all truth, there are some ex-goddesses who live quite normal lives. One of them opened a bank. A bank! I find this comforting.

Without Serena as our center of gravity, my connection to Janet and Laurel began to fray. Laurel gave me up without a second glance; she forgot me so thoroughly she didn’t even think to avoid me. I remember her bumping into me once in the dining hall, jabbing her tray into my side. She was carrying a bowl of strawberries and two mugs of tea. Janet was waiting for her. “Oh,” she said, her face blank, her eyes wide and watery. “Sorry.” The smell of alcohol was overpowering, and when I looked into her mug, she pulled it away.

Janet was different, but Janet, really, was Laurel’s. I knew that. Though the two of them seemed uneasy together too. Their bickering had turned sullen. Their silences had legs, fingernails.