For that reason, New Orleans boasts many more magic users than a lot of other cities in the world. We have said before, haven’t we, that magic is the currency of the middle world? However, very few middle worlders can actually use magic. Sort of like how everyone can hear music, but only a few people can make it. Similarly, all middle worlders can reap the benefits of magic, but very few can actually shape it. This is why magic users are extremely valued in middle worlder circles.

The French Quarter is the oldest section of the city and is refulgent with magic, so, obviously, we invested in real estate here. From outside, the place we bought looks like a one-level shotgun house painted a sunflower yellow. A porch, surrounded by black wrought-iron railings, wraps around the outside of the house. The front yard is closed off from the sidewalk by a white fence. A garden full of hibiscus and other rioting blooms is interrupted by a path that meanders its way to the five steps leading up to the front porch.

We walk up these steps light with relief at being in a place where we can perhaps be safe for a bit. The door, spelled to respond to Paheli’s hands, swings open and we enter the house. The middle worlder who manages the house for us appears in the parlor the front door opens to. She utters a short, surprised sound when she sees us. Two steps later, she is pulling Paheli into an embrace. Paheli suffers the contact for a brief minute before pulling away. She smiles to soften her action, but the not-human woman doesn’t seem to mind. An almost maternal affection lights the woman’s eyes when she looks at Paheli.

Her name is Eulalie, and she is one of those rare magic users we mentioned previously. We keep her supplied with a liberal amount of Between diamonds, and in return, she shapes our house to be as big on the inside as we need it to be. We each have a room; there is an excess of them here. The house also boasts a pool, a library, and even a conservatory, all of it invisible to human eyes.

Taraana stands uneasily in the very feminine parlor, looking around in the same way a mouse does when it doesn’t know which direction the cat is going to attack from. He starts when he sees Eulalie, her rich brown skin glowing with health and magic. She, in turn, goes still before a strangely gentle expression settles on her face. She takes a step toward him and Taraana takes two back, his fingers clinging to Paheli’s. His fear is written on his face in the cuts and bruises that decorate it. We move closer to him, wanting him to be at ease, hurting for him.