Zezili stared long at the crack in the glass. She had never wanted talent; channeling the satellites was a rare gift among Dorinahs. Her mother’s station would have been far more advanced if she’d been more powerful. As it was, she could do a few tricks and infuse weapons and other items, but Zezili had never seen her shape trees into boats or grow and strip orchards with a glance. For the first time in many years, Zezili thought it might be a useful thing. The mirror had still been under construction when she went through. It was possible it wasn’t infused yet. But if it was… Breaking the shadow mirror would require someone to open the gate – one of Monshara’s omajistas – and a parajista to break the mirror. Or maybe an omajista could make a portal and break the mirror, too? Zezili didn’t know enough about how any of it was done yet. And she certainly didn’t have those types of people in her social circles. In truth, she didn’t have much of a social circle. All she could bring were the bodies to fuel the gate. At least she understood the bodies part.

“Thank you,” Zezili said, and turned away.

“Look at that, Haodatia; she thanks me!” her mother said.

Zezili waited until she was clear of the salon before thrusting her helm back on. Being in town made her suddenly self-conscious of her hair. She hated that.

As she began to untie Dakar, she saw Haodatia running after.

Zezili paused.

Haodatia handed her a folded piece of lavender paper. “Your mother wanted me to give you this,” she said, and touched Zezili’s sleeve. “It was good to see you again, Zee.”

Zezili grunted at her and turned away, taking the paper with her. She saw Haodatia’s tentative smile wither. The hairdresser went back inside.

Zezili unfolded the paper and read her mother’s neat script:

Anyone making a mirror that large would require a very talented jista. Our best is Isoail Rosalia. She lives above the traveler’s house outside Lake Morta, doing special projects for Tulana. Tell her I sent you. She owes me a favor.

Zezili crumpled the note and stuffed it into her coat.

She’d need to burn it later. Lake Morta. There was no dajian camp anywhere near there. It was remote and, this time of year, would already be cold. In another month, snow would start to block up the passes around the country there, and she’d have no way in or out until late spring.