We walk on the right side of the road to avoid the constant traffic. The motorcyclists are not particular whether the road they use has pedestrians or not; there are many near-collisions as we walk from our riad to the entrance of the souks. The din in the city is gaining momentum, and though the Jemaa el-Fna is mostly empty at this hour, the afternoon will bring the street performers out in force. When the sun sets, the food carts will open for business, and we will be present to provide them with some.

The souks are not entirely untamed wilderness. They are frequently organized by the products they have for sale. Some sell all the types of olives you will ever want to eat; some sell mounds of spices in fantastic colors and with sharp smells; and others sell shiny things that make our hearts beat faster. Taraana, as usual, is looking around in wide-eyed wonder, his starry eyes visible to the world. Valentina pinches him and he puts the spectacles back on. There are numerous middle worlders around, but there are just as many humans in the area. No one seems to have paid him too much attention, so we relax our vigilance slightly.

The plan was to go straight to Farroukh’s store, but we get distracted along the way and spend a couple of hours browsing. We sample desserts and street food to sate our hunger during lunchtime and go farther into the souks. We come across a stall that sells nothing but empty birdcages carved in the most exquisite of patterns. Taraana won’t step close to one, so we move on to a stall that only sells wooden spoons. We are visible to the human proprietors of these stalls, and they give us grievously wounded looks when we don’t purchase anything. So, of course, Daraja goes on a shopping spree; her soft heart is easily moved.

“Wasn’t there a conjury store here the last time we visited?” Areum asks Paheli. “Let’s go see if it’s still there.”

She nods. “Yeah, it was in the area that exclusively sells beads. But I don’t remember what the conjurer’s name is.”

“I do,” Valentina replies with a twist of her lips. “Bahir. I remember him and his anguish really well.”

“It wasn’t that bad!” Paheli protests. “Only the conjuries made of paper caught fire.”

“The majority of them were made from paper, Paheli,” Etsuko says patiently.

Taraana turns his head so Paheli won’t see him laughing, but Ligaya snitches on him.

“I’m not laughing at you!” he says, laughing at her.

“You are lying, aren’t you?” Paheli glares at him.

“Yeah,” he replies sunnily.