Magic is thick in places where blood has been spilled. The Jemaa el-Fna, the large square that is our destination, was the site for public executions back in the days of the Almohads, who, according to our understanding, were the nice and kind rulers who did things like public executions. They spilled enough blood in the square that it draws all middle-world creatures in the area, especially after the sun sets.

For humans, the square holds its own attractions. We have sat among crowds of humans, as enthralled as anyone else present, with the tales woven by the storytellers whose rich and rough voices make stories come to life in ways that make your breath hitch and your heart pound. We have seen snakes charmed by the wailing music that charmers play. The chained monkeys set us free, and sometimes we secretly set them free.

The ensuing chaos is always worth it.

When we emerge from the souks out into the square, the sun is a recent memory in the sky and the night is fresh and ripe with possibilities. We skirt past the carts selling fresh orange juice and weave through the increasing numbers of people toward the food stalls that glimmer more enticingly to us than a store selling nothing but diamonds would at this moment.

We probably shouldn’t be here; we should have returned to the riad with Taraana or chosen a more hidden place to eat, but we are flush with success after finally finding conjury we can hopefully use. We are living dangerously. The crowd around us is composed of locals, tourists, and middle worlders who give themselves away by the liquid way in which they move. We pull Taraana’s hood over his head so his face is in shadow. The glasses make him look nothing more than human anyway. We receive one or two piercing looks from middle worlders, but most of them are too busy with their own errands to give us a second look. It should be fine. We’re only staying here for the length of a meal anyway.

We stop a moment to appreciate the spectacle of the food stalls that spring up in the Jemaa el-Fna every day after dusk. Each stall is numbered, though the numbers are not in sequence. Stall number five, for example, might be right beside stall number 105.

Imagine a cool October night. The heavens high above are heavy with stars—not that you will have the time or inclination to look up. A million conversations are happening simultaneously around you. Somewhere, a storyteller’s deep voice is poised on the tip of a precipice, the pungi of a snake charmer wails plaintively, voices accompanied by a darabukka sing to entice your stomach and your hunger. Meat sizzles on grills, and a thousand different aromas compete to awaken your appetite. Smoke obscures the view sometimes, but your nose is not easily distracted.