I kept it short for years after that last day I saw her. I hacked it all with a blunt knife I found somewhere. I got Eulalie to buy me contacts because it was difficult for me to look into the mirror and see my blue eyes staring back at me.

But time, you see. It passes. I let my hair grow again and came to terms with my blue eyes. I started loving parts of my body. My odd feet, my bony fingers, my clavicles, my waist… my hair. I learned to belong to myself.

Taraana holds the hairbrush awkwardly. He brushes my hair as if he doesn’t quite know what to do.

“How are we going to use human conjuries? Won’t Baarish know what they are? He will kill us before we can use them on him,” he says.

I rub my lips, thinking. “I don’t have all the answers, Taraana, but you know, conjuries are the one thing that makes middle worlders vulnerable. So, I’m not sure how we’re going to use the conjuries or even if we can use them, but we have nothing else. We have to see this through. Do our best to find something.”

Taraana stops brushing my hair and turns me around by the shoulders.

“What?”

“What if we can’t find any?” he asks with his eyes downcast.

“We will,” I tell him. Then, graciously, flick him on the forehead. He grabs my hand in protest. “Look, we know for sure that these things exist. They’re rare but not impossible to find. If it’s too difficult for you, you can give up. I won’t. If one place, one city, doesn’t have them, I will go to another one. I will keep on looking until I find something we can use. I will keep you safe. I promise. Okay?” He doesn’t respond, so I pinch his chin. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“All right. Now stop staring at my lips. Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

From the Book of MEMORIES

VALENTINA

CITY OF ORIGIN: PARIS

I was once a king.

Paheli: Continued

We leave the house when the sun dips beneath the horizon and the city lights up; the night sky is enthralled by the pale luminescence of a half-full moon. In other words, it is night and the moon is out when Valentina and I slip out of the house, ignoring the protests of our sisters and Taraana. They want to accompany us, but we’d rather not take the risk.

The air is nice and cool and people are out and about, enjoying it. I glance at Valentina as we navigate the narrow sidewalks of Chefchaouen. As usual, she is perfectly put together. Her lips are a signature red, her eyes hooded to hide their cold depths, her long, skinny boots cover half of her legs, and her clothes are all exquisitely crafted.