But right now, I don’t care. Because a voice screams in my head: She told this person her name was Lady. She told her she thought something would happen to her. She told her all of this, and she told us nothing.

“What’s that?” asks Baba Yuki, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t keep me out of the loop, now.”

Out of the loop. I want to laugh.

“It’s nothing,” I say, fussing with the crumpled pile of precious bills in my pocket. “Thank you for your help,” I add, numb and unthinking. Before I have to process another word, I walk toward the back room of flowers and choose a random bundle, all coiled sprouts and lazy, lonely buds. It nauseates me, but I can imagine Mama loving them. Beauty isn’t that which is beautiful, it is that which pleases us. I hand Baba Yuki the pile of bills, without counting them.

I’m quiet as we leave, not in the mood to chatter to fill the void. The canopy of trees feels thicker than ever—less like insulation, and more like a living, breathing ceiling closing in on us.

“If there are five parts to White Fox, then why did she only leave us three?” Noni asks me, tiptoeing closer to fresh fears.

“Maybe Yuki’s a liar,” I snap. “Maybe Mama didn’t have time to finish. Can we stop talking? My stomach hurts.”

Noni goes silent.

The gloom shows no signs of lifting, not even when we reach the barbecue-snail place we visited with Mama once. Not even when I take a charred bite and find it’s not repulsive like I remember. I chew and swallow down bite after bite, furious at Lady for trusting her and not us. I know we were kids, and I don’t care. How could she have disappeared ten years ago, with no explanation at all? Fine: three parts of an unfinished fairy tale of a script. It’s a twisted joke.

“I don’t understand how you can eat a dozen barbecued snails five minutes after complaining your stomach hurts,” Nons says, twirling some steaming chestnut flour noodles the width of a child’s fingers in fragrant cream sauce. The sight of her slurping down the thick, rubbery strands makes me want to scream in her face.

The call from the unknown number arrives when I’m polishing off the last snail in my lunch set. I almost drop my phone, thinking it’s Linos replying to my texts with a mythical call.

But some things are mythical for good reason.

“It’s for you,” I say numbly, handing my phone to Noni.

NONI

The call is from Hérrakí Nítuchí, who haltingly informs me he is in possession of my notebook.

My pulse speeds up. “How’d you know it was mine? You looked inside?”