“First thing we’re going to do is see a real doctor,” I heard him say. “Your bone is going to heal all wrong—”

Jember shoved the door shut and headed for the kitchen.

“Will the plan still work?” I asked, rushing up beside him. “With Kelela gone?”

“The important thing is that the Evil Eye has a target,” he said, “which she’s already provided. She doesn’t have to be in the vicinity for it to become active. The two of us will just have to construct some more shields to make up for it.”

We spent the morning constructing more shields, while Magnus lounged around in the room and drew, then took a break from each other after lunch. Not that working with Jember was unpleasant—some of my best memories were of us sitting on the bed, constructing amulets. It was as if the act of carving patterns was the only way we could connect. Therapy, in a way.

But he needed time to rest his fingers, so Magnus and I took a short nap and then headed to play some music. I think we’d both decided, without telling each other, that we wanted to spend the entire day together. Besides … part of me was terrified there’d be no tomorrow.

Nonsense, Andi. Everything will be fine.

For a moment, all I could hear was the creak of wood and our slow footsteps echoing off the old hollow halls as we walked.

But Magnus jolted and held me close, because there was something else echoing, too. Some sort of slapping sound coming from the game room.

“God, what was that?” he whispered. He grabbed my hand as I moved toward the questionable sound. “What are you doing?”

“Stay here,” I said, rushing to the door, but Jember’s laugh made me freeze before I could enter the room.

“Are you trying to break me?” I heard him say. “Your skin is hard enough without you using full force.”

Definitely questionable.

I peeked into the room and saw Jember and Saba standing on opposite sides of the billiards table, their hands flat against the fuzzy surface in front of them. I felt blessed to witness the full glory of him and Saba playing the slap game. Both at once, they each shot their right hand out, attempting to slap their opponent’s left hand. Jember won that round, managing to move his hand out of the way and slap Saba’s.

It didn’t have an official name, and as I grew older I wasn’t really convinced it was a game as much as a method Jember had invented to torture me. We’d played it when I was little, as something fun to pass the time between possible dinner and leaving to see a client. My left hand was usually red and sore by the end. I was fast, my reflexes good, but Jember’s slaps hurt.