“Sorry,” Eulalie says with a grimace. “Here’s what I can do, though. One of the people attending the meeting today was an old friend of mine. She’s the Keeper of the Green of New Orleans. Her magic comes from nature, trees, and other plants, to be specific. She is very powerful and will be a fount of information for you. I can arrange a meeting between you and her, if you desire. There’s also someone who used to be a librarian in the middle-world version of the Library of Alexandria. She may know a lot more about the Keepers of the Between than my friend, but she’s nomadic, and locating her will take some time. Do you want to wait to meet the librarian, or would you like to talk to the Keeper of the Green first?”

We look at Paheli and she looks at Taraana. “I would like to meet the Keeper of the Green first, if you don’t mind,” he says after a moment.

“All right. I will ask Mama Magdaline and let you know what she says,” Eulalie replies.

A few moments pass quietly. “Will we be safe here? Will I be endangering you all if I stay here?” Taraana asks suddenly.

“There are few in this city who would break into a house I call my own, child,” Eulalie says. The mien she has maintained so far of a good-natured not-human woman falls away, and a creature with teeth peeks through. “I have set up wards outside that will warn us should anyone try to trespass. So yes, we are safe here.”

Taraana looks slightly reassured. We understand. Sometimes you can lock yourself in a fortress and still feel vulnerable.

“Well, since we have discussed all the somber things we can tonight, let’s get back to singing!” Areum says brightly.

“You want Widad to go back to singing nursery rhymes?” Sevda demands incredulously.

“Oh yes!” Widad perks up and clears her throat. “I was singing ‘Alouette,’ wasn’t I? I shall start from the beginning!”

From the Book of MEMORIES

LIGAYA

CITY OF ORIGIN: CEBU

It was midnight. Or a smudge past twelve.

The darkness was held together by broken fragments

of nowhere poetry. I-don’t-care poetry.

I was there. My soul bared and vulnerable to the mockery

of the empty page. Constructing a house (and home)

from the cutout pictures of the Ikea catalog.

I was draining out of myself gradually. Like water

draining out of a swimming pool. I was walking

blind. Emptying out. It’s important that you understand.

One need not be made of glass to shatter.

The Keeper of the Green and the Mysteries of Magic