The sidewalks are full of humans and middle worlders, so we walk in groups of two and three with Taraana and Paheli at the forefront. With Miray’s glasses on, Taraana looks like any other exceptionally beautiful eighteen-year-old. Thanks to us, he is smartly dressed. He walks with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders stiff, ready for the world to bare its teeth at him at any second.

We spent most of last night at a hair salon. We weren’t solely following our whims, though a large part, we don’t deny, was indulgence. Our changing facades function as disguises in case Baarish has managed to lay his hands on our descriptions. Apart from Taraana—we couldn’t convince him to color his hair, as he is a bit of a purist where some things are concerned—we all sport new dos that make this morning look brighter and us more colorful. Paheli’s waist-length hair is now a pale lavender, and she seems smitten with the way it looks.

“Do you remember that song that was popular a few years ago?” she said this morning while admiring herself in the mirror. “The one that made girls loving themselves sound bad?”

We did not. We have better taste in music.

“Humph,” she said when we told her as much. “It isn’t as if I like that song. It was just so difficult to avoid. I happen to love myself very much.”

We first look for our informant in the Hagia Sophia. Unlike the Greenich, our informant in Istanbul has no fixed location, which makes the business entirely inconvenient. He is not in the Blue Mosque, where Taraana is bedazzled by the domes and spires of the house of worship. Finally, we check Topkapı Palace and find him lingering in a courtyard there. He is sitting on the floor with his hands pressed to the ground and his eyes closed. Probably absorbing the magic in this place.

There are too many middle worlders around for us to approach him as a group without drawing unnecessary attention, so Paheli separates from us and sashays over to him. She sits down in front of him and waits until he opens his eyes. This middle worlder’s name—well, he calls himself Hizrat. He and Paheli have a history neither of them wants to talk about, but their bond is undeniable. Even if a long time passes between their meetings, they pick up the threads of their friendship and continue for however long we are in town. He is very tall and limber with curly black hair and eyes the color of the full moon. Though he looks to be no more than twenty, we know his years contain centuries.