Chefchaouen is located in the Rif Mountains of Morocco and is known as the Blue City due to all its houses and buildings at least partially painted the shade of blue we associate with a lament. It has narrow, cobbled streets that frequently change into stairs, alleys, and dead ends. It is a place where stories breathe and become legends. Magic loves this city; it is the only place where doors to the Between manifest not simply as upright rectangles on uninterrupted walls but as actual doors with all the design that fancy magic can grant them.

Taraana hasn’t asked us any questions. Perhaps he has read our hearts and knows not to. We close the door behind us and stand awhile in the parlor, listless in our grief. Paheli catches Valentina’s hand, and they look at each other in wordless communication. Valentina nods, so Paheli drops her hand and separates from us. The skin under her eyes is bruised. She pauses for a moment and her eyes snag on Taraana. Her mouth moves as if she is trying to work up the nerve to say something, but then her shoulders droop. She disappears into a bedroom on the other end of the house without a word.

Taraana stares after her, his face worried.

“Leave her be,” Valentina says. Outside, it has started to rain. A light drizzle that feels custom-made for the way we feel right now. “She needs time.”

“She will blame herself,” Daraja says. “She always does.”

“This is not the first time we have lost somebody,” Ligaya tells Taraana. She stomps to a chair and throws herself on it, burying her head in her arms.

When you lose something or someone, your life becomes a series of sharp corners and razor edges. No matter how much care you take when navigating it, you will get hurt and you will bleed. No one knows this truth more than we do.

“So, what do we do now?” Areum asks in a small voice. She and Kamboja are holding each other.

Valentina purses her lips and thinks. “Talei, Areum, Kamboja, and I will go exchange some Between diamonds for money. We’ll get some food on our way back. The rest of you, get some rest. We’ll be back soon.”

We slip out of the house and into the pale blue brilliance of the city. The cobbled streets are wet and slippery; pedestrians hurry up and down the roads with heads bowed against the rain. We keep ourselves invisible from the humans and our eyes out for middle worlders. Chefchaouen is not unfamiliar to us, so we navigate its streets with ease.