We all nod in agreement.

“Anyone else have anything to say? No? Let’s go.” Paheli gets to her feet and leads the way up the stairs to the floor containing the door to the Between. She signals to a man dressed in the same loose white tunic and pants that Qasim was wearing, and he nods, bowing slightly.

We stand, momentarily tense, in front of the black door leading to the Between. We worked hard to unlearn fear; we are not going to let it define our days again, but oh, we remember how it feels to live with fear’s clammy touch. None of us miss those days.

Paheli opens the door and we step into the Between.

Talei leads the way to the door that will open up to Istanbul. Before Talei can pull open the door, though, Paheli halts her. She turns to Taraana, who immediately stiffens.

“Have you ever had any run-ins with any middle worlder based in Istanbul?” she asks him. “Do you know?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve never been to Istanbul before. Assi told me the city is too crowded with middle worlders, so I stayed away.”

“All right.” Paheli gestures to Talei to open the door and she does. Or she tries to. But the door is stuck again. Once again, it takes Taraana to pull it open.

We exit the Between in the Beyoğlu District in the European half of Istanbul, not far from the apartment we own on Istiklal Avenue. However, our first destination is the magic shop in Balat, the Jewish quarter of the city located in the Fatih District.

Taraana seems starstruck by Istanbul. He looks around at the architecture and landscape with bright eyes.

“The city is overflowing with magic,” he whispers, his fingers closing around Paheli’s. She looks at him with some exasperation.

“Are we friends again?” she asks him.

“No. Maybe,” he says distractedly, his eyes moving around.

Istanbul, once known as Constantinople, is a city with deep roots, and, just like in Byblos, people have left their histories sunken into the stones of this place. A fact that the citizens of the magical world don’t usually acknowledge—like Mama Magdaline said, human lives generate the magic middle worlders live on.

“Can you tell the difference between refined magic and crude magic?” Talei asks Taraana as we walk. “Like, is the magic on the streets here crude magic, or has it been refined by the Between?”

Taraana’s face contorts in a frown as he considers her question for a minute. Then he nods self-consciously. “I have been able to do that since always. It’s just that I didn’t have the words to explain what it is I am able to feel. To me, refined magic is like breathing in clear mountain air, while crude magic is breathing in smoggy air.”