It swings soundlessly. The black iron is dark with a freshly oiled luster and not a single trace of rust. Lining the stone path are dried bushes with bare branches and parched earth beneath. As he walks, leaves sprout and fill until the bushes are full and vibrant. The wooden door buried into the...
Çeda could hear the man she’d come to see, old Ibrahim the storyteller, but she couldn’t yet see him. The sheer density of the gathering wouldn’t allow it from her current vantage, so she skirted the crowd, standing tiptoes every so often and looking for an opening. As she...
She spoke with him for two hours, and he was nearly ready to pull Bahett from the masquerade, but Atiana begged him not to. She didn’t want anything to seem amiss, especially since she and Yalessa hadn’t been harmed. When she finally made it back to her rooms, she downed a small carafe of warmed ...