She turns away after sniffing haughtily and starts walking faster, going ahead of us. “Let’s go see if that store still exists.” We follow quietly; it doesn’t take us long to reach the area where the store was located. Old craftsmen and women sit in tiny stalls squinting at the pieces they are working on. All of us are moved to buy something sparkling from each of the stalls we pass.

Suddenly, Paheli freezes and gestures for us to move back. We obey without hesitation, turning back and retracing our steps without changing our expressions or revealing any distress. Paheli doesn’t stop walking until we are at least a kilometer away from the area.

“What was it?” Valentina asks.

“The store was closed, and there were middle-world creatures wearing armor bearing an insignia of some sort, standing guard outside the emptied store,” she says with a frown on her face.

“Let’s just go and find the son of that conjurer from Chefchaouen. Wouldn’t he be our best bet?” Widad asks.

Paheli nods. “At this point, yeah.”

“Is that really a good idea?” Talei asks. “Perhaps one of us should accompany Taraana back—”

“I’m not leaving,” Taraana says with a particular set to his lips.

“Taraana,” Paheli says.

“No,” he replies.

Paheli sighs and gives us a look. We, understanding her unspoken request, immediately surround Taraana, hiding him in the center.

Old Mahmoud’s son, Farroukh, sells in Marrakech what his father used to sell in Chefchaouen: shiny silver pots and pans. The store is sizable; one side is dedicated to the pots and pans, and the other side sells drinks. We’re inured to surprise and accept the strange pairing.

Valentina orders us drinks, and while we wait to be served, we peruse a selection of trays on the side. Most are made from exquisitely carved wood with Moroccan landscapes painted on them. A large number feature the streets of Chefchaouen.

“Look,” Kamboja says, pointing to one. The scene painted on the tray is of the Chefchaouen street on which the store selling the conjuries was located. The tree with its branches spread is impossible to mistake. We look at the proprietor, a dark man of about forty years with a pleasant face and a gentle demeanor.

He notices our gaze and, smiling, walks over to us. “Is there something we can help you with?”

“This is going to sound strange,” Paheli says, “but did your father’s shop in Chefchaouen burn down the day before yesterday?”

The man’s face changes dramatically when he hears her question. His eyes narrow and his hands close into fists. “Did you have something to do with it?”

Paheli rolls her eyes. “Give my intelligence some credit. We are the ones who asked the grandmother to phone you to keep your father from returning home. Did you?”