Sweet snow below.

She had other things to worry about. Like the quest in two days. Through daama Sharr of all places.

The thin mattress did little to muffle the squeak of old wood when she slipped out of bed. She would have to ask Deen to take a look at the creaking bedframe soon. He was always tinkering with random materials, coming up with inventions he dreamed of sharing with the Pelusians two caliphates away.

She threw on a faded tunic and then Baba’s heavy cloak. She swung on her smaller satchel, pushing Baba’s heftier one away. If she made the trek to Sharr, the lumpy thing would be at her back. With extra clothes, her favorite soap, and the kit of rare medicinal items Baba had put together over the years—strips of fabric, tonics, liniments for wounds, resin for burns, and herbs—all from a time when Demenhur wasn’t a cursed chasm of snow, a time Zafira could only dream of.

As she stood with a sigh, she heard the howl of wind and the snap of the front door, but out in the foyer there was only Lana, curled on the majlis, a book in her lap. When Zafira opened her mouth to ask who had come in, she saw what Lana was reading.

Silver glinted in the firelight. Kharra. Kharra, kharra, kharra.

“What are you doing?” Zafira asked sharply.

Lana startled, her eyes snaring on Zafira’s satchel and hunting clothes. A plate of aish el-saraya from the wedding sat beside her, syrup glistening in the firelight.

“Were you going to tell me and Umm?” Lana asked, accusation in her sweet voice. She held up the letter, and the dip in her forehead bothered Zafira more than she liked.

“I only got it today, and then there was the wedding.” And also the little problem of me not really speaking to Umm anymore.

Lana was silent a moment. Accusation on her face gave way to hurt, pulling at the cords in Zafira’s chest. “But were you going to tell us?”

“Maybe. No. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now, does it?” Zafira asked tiredly.

She held out her hand, and Lana folded the invitation before giving it back. The broken seal flashed like the silver-cloaked woman’s smile.

Zafira reached for the old blanket hanging by the front door, her fingers brushing the dusty coat beside it. Baba’s coat. He had the most elaborate sayings for everything, and he used to describe its color as the waters of the Baransea on the calmest of days beneath the cloudiest of skies, even though he had never seen the Baransea.

Skies, if she went on this journey, she would see it.

Baba had been a collector of stories, a weaver of words. He hadn’t been alive before the Sisters fell, but over the years he had gleaned tales from before the Baransea became dangerous, before the Arz sprang up, rimming the caliphates and obscuring the sea from Arawiya. His stories were the reason Zafira knew so much.

Pieces of Baba were scattered throughout their house—his boots, his favorite cup—because Zafira couldn’t bear to get rid of them. Even after so many years, she was methodical in her cleaning every evening. It unnerved her to see anything out of place, but in the case of Baba’s things, she could only ever run her fingers over their surfaces and gasp away an endless sorrow.

It was her fault. It would always be her fault. If only she had been stronger, better.

When Baba had ambled home from the Arz five years ago—months after his disappearance—the first thing Zafira had noticed was his state. His clothes were torn and tattered, shoulders hunched. By the time she saw the blood and understood the expression on his face, he was already moving for her. Readying to attack the very same daughter he had ventured into the Arz to save.

Moments later, he was dead, killed by—

“Okht?”

Zafira flinched. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” she said to Lana quickly. She tucked the frayed blanket around her sister’s shoulders, stomach clenching at the bones that jutted more sharply than they had one moon ago. “Get some sleep. Umm might start any moment now.”

Her words were followed by a soft keening from Umm’s room. Something propelled Zafira forward—instinct, perhaps—before she remembered Baba’s glassy eyes, blood stretching a horizon across his chest. She clenched her teeth and dug in her heels.

“So much for that.” Oblivious, Lana shoved the blanket away with a scrunch of her nose. “Is the trek to Sharr really the day after tomorrow?”

Zafira looked away. “Yes.”

Lana’s disappointment was a fist to her stomach, and she forced herself to meet those eyes. Baba’s eyes, earnest and ancient.

“I’m sorry, Lana.”

“Will you take someone with you?” she asked, and glanced wistfully at the novel tucked under her blanket before adding, “A safi would be a good ally to have on your side.”

“I don’t know who’s going. I don’t even know if this is real. But you and I both know that safin don’t care about us.”

The so-called great safin—with their pointed ears, heightened abilities, and endless lives—had abandoned Arawiya when the people needed them most. The caliphates had relied on magic the way a drunk man relied on his glass—except for Alderamin. And now that magic was gone, the safin lived as fine a life as they had before, selfishly hoarding their resources and turning their noses from Arawiya’s suffering.

“Maybe they want to help but can’t,” Lana said. “They have the Wastes on one side and the Arz on the other.”