Not just that you learn from stories, though that can happen, too. But even deeper: Could it be that, by choosing certain stories, you draw to yourself the happenings inside them? So that your life begins to echo your stories? Ashraf gripped my arm and pulled me down the hallway toward the stairs. I stumbled, lost my footing, but she didn’t stop—didn’t even slow down. She just kept on dragging me until I was sure my arm was going to wrench out of its socket, until my feet, scrambling around, finally got themselves underneath me again. My mind froze in terror around the image of the Khatun. I couldn’t think. I gave a hard, twisting yank with my arm, slipped out of Ashraf’s grasp, and fled away from the stairs. I landed wrong on my bad foot, stumbled, and Ashraf was there again. She grabbed my braided hair and hauled me to the steps, then up. Pain jolted through my neck, burned like fire in my scalp. I tried to keep up with her to ease the fury of the pain, but she was moving fast, moving through courtyards and hallways and up another long flight of steps until at last we came to the Khatun’s quarters.
