Please see our Publisher’s Note following this month’s Editorial that has important information about a new threat to the survival of all SF/F/H magazines.

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Muna shuts the storeroom door as quietly as she can. Holding a just-waxed bundle of letters to her chest, she sticks out her head to check the bookshop floor. If she walks between the shelves on the far right, she can slip out unnoticed in ten heartbeats. The main door of the bookshop is propped open, the sun shining after what feels like a year of sodden clouds and sludged streets—she can’t wait to feel its warmth on her skin. She looks towards the counter. Sometimes, Arethor is too engrossed in arranging the display there, dusting off old tomes, oiling the wood, to pay her any mind.

She takes the first step, trying not to crumple the letters in her stiff hands.

Muna is grateful for her room—her own little room!—in the bookshop’s basement. It’s been eleven months and two weeks since Arethor took her in. When Muna first arrived to the city of Barish, slipping on cobblestones slicked with rain, every shelter she’d knocked on, every apprenticeship she’d begged for had turned her away. The offer of a place in Arethor’s shop, with its crackling fire, wool blankets, and stacks of books was a miracle, especially since Muna had travelled to Barish to pursue her dream of becoming a word-weaver. No doubt your horns are god-touched, her sister, Kusum, would say to that, rolling her eyes. But it was a miracle. Inside Arethor’s shop, Muna discovered an entire shelf dedicated to the Halfborn series—written by her word-weaving idol, Lenore Phoenix, these were the same books that made Muna feel, for the first time, that there was space in the world for stories like hers. Arethor lets her borrow the Lenore Phoenix books whenever she wants. Some of the copies are such a familiar sight by her bedside that they feel like her own. She’s never owned anything as beautiful as these gilt-edged editions. How can she be anything but grateful?

Except—the only way out of her room is through the storeroom and the shopfront, and the shop is never not occupied by Arethor.

The kidskin boots she wears muffle her steps; a winding bookcase running the length of the shop shields her from the counter. She’s at the foyer, its wooden floor gleaming from her efforts with the polish this morning. Its eye-watering scent clings to her fingernails and her shoulders ache from it still. But Muna doesn’t resent the labour: she loves the foyer’s circle of space, its twin staircases leading up to a balcony and mezzanine, a stained-glass window at the back. Today, sunlight splinters a golden yellow and sunset orange through it. She loves everything about it—apart from how exposed it is to the scrutiny of anyone standing at the balcony.

“There you are,” Arethor’s voice booms from above. Muna turns to watch him close a book. “Shall we break for food?”

Her palms are moistening the letters. “I have an errand to run. Please, do eat without me.”

“Ah, but I got us deerheart from Mimi’s tavern. It’s sizzling on the hot plate.”

Muna tries to hide the grimace. When they were seven and six, Muna and Kusum stole a pot of Ma’s ghiu and bartered it for venison from the travelling markets, less than a mouthful each but famously rubbed with the heat of peppercorns and salt harvested from the Damson Sea. They picked the morsels off the fire and plopped it into their mouth before it had even had a chance to cook clean through. They lasted only two seconds before the sudden churn in their stomach was too much and the meat came surging up, back to the ground, back to their horned ancestors. That day, they learned how their bodies contained knowledge from yore, of who they were, where they came from, understanding finally what Ma meant when she said, Consume not what gave you life.

Arethor eats deerheart once a week. Muna politely declines it every time. He insists on offering it to her though she has mentioned more than once that there are certain kinds of meat that she can’t eat. “Hogwash,” he’d said, “we just need to build your constitution”, and told her to sit down and get a plate. She wishes he would just stop. She looks at his smiling face and feels guilt wash over her. He’s only being kind. He knows you can’t afford more than a crust of bread otherwise.

But there’s another voice, what she thinks of as her Lenore Phoenix voice, that points out, When he’s not offering you deer, he’s trying to shove elk or moose or every other horned creature down your throat. That isn’t kindness, is it?

“That’s very generous, but I must run to make the postal service.”

“Writing home again?” Before she can respond, Arethor says, “Really Muna, you must learn to spread your wings.”

Despite the heat from the glass warming her skin, Muna feels a chill at those words. But Arethor’s eyes are crinkled in a smile, not a hint of cruelty on his face. Muna remembers her first glimpse of this man, before he decided to accept a Nehiri apprentice like her. “I didn’t think your kind read,” he had said with curiosity and interest, and she’d ignored the echo of all the voices that had followed her to his door: Nehiris are dirty and wild, Nehiris are only good for working the earth, Nehiris are animals. It was the warmth in Arethor’s gaze, she reminds herself now, that gave her the strength to carry on back then.

Lenore Phoenix’s voice is back: But why does he insist on mentioning wings? There are legends about the Nehiri ancestors, how they soared the skies on resplendent wings before their wings were violently ripped away. Arethor must be unaware of the loss that each Nehiri descendant carries, unaware of the weight of his words. Muna cannot imagine otherwise.

“Well, I hope you have only good words to pen about your master.” There is light humour in his voice, familiar and comforting. “Don’t loiter. You need to speak to the carpenters about the chairs for the Lenore Phoenix event.”

Arethor returns to his book, and Muna knows she’s dismissed. And the order to go to the carpenters means her suggestion about using rugs and cushions on the shopfloor instead of chairs, to create a more intimate and cosy setting for the upcoming event, has also been dismissed. She shouldn’t have voiced the idea: she knows city folk consider the hearth beneath them, that they don’t revere the earth in the same way as Nehiris. Arethor knows best, of course—but Muna wishes that for once he’d respond to her suggestions, acknowledge the effort she put into her ideas, instead of just ordering her to do the opposite without ever discussing them.

Despite this disappointment, when Muna finally steps through the threshold of the shop and the warmth of the sun hits her, she feels her shoulders loosen. She raises her face to the light and breathes in.

• • • •

Muna’s thin robes—rather optimistic for a Barish spring—flap around her legs. The winding alleyways, the grimed windows, the smoke rising from cookhouses all look new in daylight. Muna feels her spirits lifting—until she catches sight of the miller’s apprentice spitting on the floor, his eyes fixed on her head.

Nehiris live under open sky, not cooped up, hunched over papers. Ma and Kusum would gasp if Muna told them her skin has drunk no sunlight for months. Worse, if they knew that even at the sight of the sun, Muna doesn’t rush out, though her body thirsts for heat, remembers too keenly a life spent in the fields, carrying wood, harvesting paddy fields, herding goats.

The truth is that in sunlight Muna becomes too visible, the umber of her skin, the horns curving from her head, stark markers of difference. That first desperate night in Barish, sneaking in and bedding down in a livestock pen, she had desperately thought of ways to hide these markers. Could she cloak her skin and face? Wrap cloth around her horns? That bone-deep shame of entertaining those thoughts—Muna never wants to feel that again. Horns are symbols of a Nehiri’s soul: in their shape and size, in the grooves and twists of patterns lies the story of their people, the cadence of legends, births, deaths, loves. Walk proud, Kusum wrote when Muna let unease leak into her letters. But without any family or friends in the city, it’s not easy to follow her sister’s advice. Much easier to stay hidden in her dark room with a lantern, paper, and pen, much easier to stay in the made-up worlds inside her mind and work on weaving her story.

Muna’s steps are quick, aware that they are on borrowed time, but she pauses at the marble steps of Barish’s Royal Library. Once the palace of the old Throken royals, it is polished with gold, extravagant and opulent from the outside. But Muna could be standing in front of a hovel, and if it was the Royal Library, she’d still look upon it with awe, hope burning tight in her chest.

Inside is her past.

A stream of robed scholars exit from the carved doors. Muna tries to time her errands for this lunchtime rush when, hidden among the crowds, she can peek into the cavernous hall with its speckled marble counters. Beyond the archway lie books of every language and age, including the only inscribed copy of the Nehiri legends. It was what Muna dreamed of holding in her hands when she set off for Barish all those months ago. She straightens—perhaps she can inch in a little more—and catches sight of the guards, their cold blank stares on her. She retreats, cheeks hot.

“Pray, you see me at these doors every day.” The sound of a voice near her, quiet and brittle, makes Muna look up.

“I cannot permit you to enter without proof of membership.” The guard’s voice has no inflection. He stares ahead as if the speaker standing in front of him doesn’t exist.

“Every single day.” The last word Muna hears is a sigh, “Please.”

But the guard moves away from the speaker, towards two robed Barishis approaching the entrance, who are of course waved in without showing any tokens of membership. Muna lets out a sound of disgust, forgetting that she is not in fact invisible. The speaker glances at her sharply. Beneath a cloud of black hair, Muna sees delicate ears tapered to a point. A Senai. Notorious for keen hearing. Not many of their kind are in Barish, certainly not who you’d expect at the Library, wearing magenta robes, arms spilling with scrolls, fingers stained with ink, looking mighty cross. But perhaps in the same way you wouldn’t expect an uncultured Nehiri sniffing about here either.

There’s a wet glimmer in the Senai’s eyes. Muna is about to slink away when an exodus of students makes the Senai fumble her hold on the scrolls and they tumble to the ground. Loose papers fly towards Muna, and she scrambles to catch them. She hesitates when she’s gathered them up. In that hesitation, she feels the absence of her old self. The old Muna would’ve made a joke or a cutting remark about the guard to cheer up the Senai. Old Muna would’ve known what comfort to offer.

She walks towards the Senai, a sweet buttery scent drifting around her. The Senai’s eyes flick to her horn and she returns Muna’s tentative smile. “Thank you.”

Muna passes the papers, and as she does so, catches sight of book the Senai is holding. “Lenore Phoenix!”

The Senai looks perturbed at Muna’s outburst. Her eyes search Muna’s face, then they shutter. “Do you know her work?”

“Do I know her work!” Muna blurts. “I’m a complete devotee. The way she writes about Nuala’s experiences in a world that doesn’t claim her, the beautiful way she writes about being othered . . .” Muna stops, face hot. “Have you . . . read the Halfborn series?”

“Yes.” The answer is clipped.

“It’s not often I meet someone carrying Lenore Phoenix, especially here. You know how these literati think her work frivolous and empty.”

“Don’t I just.” The Senai is smiling again. “No need to apologise. It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone to converse with about books. I’m a bit rusty.”

“Well, if you’d like a reading partner, I work at Arethor’s Arcadia,” Muna says, heart pounding for some reason, “Students come for a hot drink and some peace.”

“That sounds lovely.” There’s a distracted look in the girl’s eyes. “What did you say your name was?”

“I’m Muna.”

The Senai’s eyes dart to her horns, her hands, an expression on her face that Muna can’t quite grasp.

“We’re actually organising an event with Lenore Phoenix in a few weeks, you should come. I’ve hardly being able to contain my excitement. I can’t believe I’ll finally be able to meet her!”

“Oh, I’m not sure—”

“No need to decide now. Here, take this flier, I’m supposed to be handing them out but I’m not very good at making people take things from my hands.” She remembers her own letters then, waiting to be posted. Hurriedly, she bids the Senai farewell, only half noticing the girl’s thoughtful look. Before she leaves, Muna says, “I’m sorry about that dolt guard.”

The Senai’s ears twitch. “I have a deadline today, so of course I forgot my pass.”

“You’re welcome at the bookshop. I promise an absence of dickish louts.”

The Senai laughs, and Muna feels warmth spread inside her. “Perhaps I will. A pleasure to meet you. I’m Karabel.”

Running to the postal hall, Muna wonders if Karabel glimpsed the envelope she’d been clutching—the one with Lenore Phoenix’s name scrawled on it in large letters.

• • • •

. . . Renuka chews slowly. She has a little honey left in her pack—later, when her stomach starts aching, she will slather it on her last roti. After that . . . she will find more food. She will have to. She prepared these portions of food carefully for her journey, but she couldn’t have predicted the days she spent waiting, no cart willing to carry her. She couldn’t have predicted another passenger’s ailing baby, the broken wheels, or the unexpected wave of monsoon rain which delayed their journey at every turn when she did manage to hitch a ride. She closes the parcel of leaves and places it inside her bundle.

The other travellers are gathered around the fire. Its smoke burns her eyes. She knows they wouldn’t welcome her presence in that circle. She’s seen them looking at her bhoto and sari, at the brown flesh between. At her horns. No one speaks to her.

Just as well, words feel like they would blister her throat.

Sometimes, she thinks she can hear Shristi’s laugh in the wind. She looks for signs in the earth, in the footsteps of animals, desperate to find traces of her dead sister, but Shristi is nowhere . . .

Dear Muna, thank you for letting me read this new addition to your work. The details you’ve included really bring the scene to life. Word-weavers often underestimate the power of the quiet scene, and I think you’ve achieved it wonderfully here. Having said that, the sections of Renuka’s journey to the Royal Archives are becoming quite long. I wonder whether you could perhaps consider adding another layer to them. The Nehiris are oral storytellers, right? In this scene, there is a campfire that Renuka is excluded from, but it might evoke memories of other fires around which her family shared Nehiri stories and legends? You introduce the Nehiri legends much later in your novel, but this would be a good place to thread in their importance.

Another suggestion—perhaps a wild one!—Shristi is with Renuka throughout the journey, in her thoughts, memory, dreams, but what if you were to literally draw out her presence on the page, make her appear as a character in her own right? Might tie into our earlier discussions of adding in a second character?

Once again, reading your work, watching you build your world and these characters little by little, truly helps me see my own ideas with fresh eyes and inspires me to put pen to paper. I enclose a few paragraphs of a character study I’m working on for something new, it’s not a book or a series yet, but maybe it can be. It’s inspired by a recurrent dream I am plagued with—where I am standing and looking in the mirror, but there is no reflection. I am invisible, unseen by any.

It’s strange to think about a character other than Nuala—she and the Halfborn world have been with me so long, my whole life it seems sometimes, but talking to you and hearing about your hopes and dreams for your writing gives me courage to do so.

Thank you,

Your Friend.

Muna flushes with pleasure as she reads the last lines. She hugs the letter to her chest, feeling warm and giggly.

She looks at it again and her eyes track back to the bit about Shrishti. Lenore Phoenix is a genius. Shristi to appear in her story as a ghost, of course! For so long, Muna has been stuck on the twin that her main character, Renuka, mourns. She’d felt that the story was missing Shristi’s voice but hadn’t quite known how to incorporate it. She’s looking forward to trying out Lenore Phoenix’s suggestion.

Muna had almost written a Nehiri myth into this last scene, and it seems Lenore Phoenix sensed that absence—and once again Muna marvels at her ability and willingness to read Muna’s work with such care and empathy. Muna knows why she’s delaying writing the myths into her story. She’s waiting for access to Barish’s Royal Library. She wants to read the only written version that exists, said to contain even the older legends that have been lost to Nehiris through time. It feels essential if she is to write Renuka’s story properly, if she is to do justice to the Nehiri myths as she hopes to do with this work. But she doesn’t want to mention her problem or the Royal Library lest Lenore Phoenix think she’s begging for charity.

Muna puts the letter down. Her hands reach for the coin purse under her bed. The weight of it feels good, though it’s only coppers and iron. Her wages go towards this room, the lanterns and candles, the privy and stove out back, paper and ink. She scrimps food money to add a coin to this when she can. If Ma knew all she ate was stale bread and thin onion soup, she’d be appalled. Muna makes sure to describe the smells of the taverns and bakeries in her letters home; if she doesn’t mention she never eats any of the stews or pies, it’s not exactly a lie.

The old Muna, arriving after weeks of a gruelling river crossing, marched straight to the Writers Guild and asked to sign up. She reasoned she could pay her membership fee in instalments. She’d get a job—she’d spent her life tending livestock, she was no stranger to mucking—she’d save up and then apply to be a word-weaver’s apprentice.

How brave old Muna had been, how naïve. She’d even written to her idol, Lenore Phoenix, brazenly asking for advice. She’s thankful to her past self for that unthinking brave act. She could never do it now—and she can’t imagine how dark her life would be without these exchanges with Lenore Phoenix. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that keeps her word-weaving dreams alive. Muna puts down the purse. She’s a long way from saving up enough coin for the Writers Guild—and only members are allowed to apprentice. Only members can access the Library. Only members can search for the Nehiri texts. Muna feels hot and sick.

But she has this. She picks up the letter, breathes in its buttery scent. She runs her fingers over Lenore Phoenix’s advice and finds new ideas swirling in her mind once again. Already, Shristi’s sarcastic ghostly commentary is coming to Muna, a flash of her anger. The sisters’ relationship needs to have tension, and guilt, yes. Muna thinks of leaving her own home, sending not a single coin back—

A knock interrupts her. “Muna dear? I know it’s your break, but it’s urgent.”

Muna hurries to tuck the letter into the vellum sleeve behind her bed. This, she keeps for herself. She won’t expose it to Arethor’s scrutiny or disapproval. She’s long stopped showing him her writing. She had been honest and upfront about her aspirations and assumed they were what convinced Arethor to take her on as bookshop assistant. But after starting the job, every time she brought up word-weaving or the Guild, Arethor sidestepped the issue citing pressing bookshop matters: a huge order coming from across the sea, then a shopfloor redesign, then the annual audit . . . Arethor finally asked her to stay late one evening.

“Oh honey.” His eyes were sad. “You can learn to word-weave, but I don’t know how to say this. Our readers aren’t interested in country folk or Nehiris. Sure, they add colour as background cast when heroes go adventuring, but as main characters? Take it from me dear, I’ve been in the business close to twenty years, and the struggle to sell books that are different is crushing.”

“But perhaps there is some change now? The Halfborn series is incredibly popular and the main character—”

“Tell me you’re not comparing yourself to Lenore Phoenix?”

“What? No—”

“We must learn humility, anything less is unappetising. And I only say this as someone who cares about your wellbeing.”

That had been that. No more talk of the Guild unless it was to run errands there, to discuss publications, or contact word-weavers for events and book signings. One of the Guild workers, who’d watched Muna march in that first day, remembered her—or more likely her horns—and whenever he saw her, he quipped, “Ready to bestow your membership upon us, your highness?” The old Muna would rise, ready to lock horns. But she’d seen his peeling boots, the cheap substance in his hair. Poverty did different things to different people: he was a possibility Muna hoped to never become.

“Muna.” Arethor never seems angry, but Muna has learned to discern the subtle inflections in his voice. Her feet ache as she stands. Her breaks aren’t long but much needed to sit a moment, knead her feet, sip tea to soothe frigid bones.

The knocking is insistent, and in his voice she can feel his growing irritation that she’s taking so long. Barish has laws about workers, wages, labour conditions. Muna knows breaks are her right. Muna also knows her rights aren’t always hers. What could he do if you didn’t live in the basement of his shop?

That question is quashed by another: What would you do if you didn’t live in the basement of his shop?

Those long weeks Muna fought with Ma and Baba and left Kusum behind, that she was turned away from inns and charitable houses, neither wealthy nor poor enough, that she went begging for jobs and was confronted with the reality of life in Barish, the stares and shoves and snide comments—Muna had used up all her bravery. There is none to spare now.

• • • •

The rest of the week, Muna spends her breaks at the carpenters, at Mimi’s, outside the Library giving out flyers. Exhaustion settles in. She climbs into bed, shoulders knotted, jaws throbbing from gritting her teeth—when the students jeer at her, when another shadow tails her home. When she told Arethor she didn’t want to go out after the lanterns went out, he teased, “Afraid of ghosts, are we? Barish is the safest city, mighty safer than your Nehiri wilds I’d wager.”

There’s no time to think of Renuka or Shristi. If she forces herself to pick up a pen, sit for an hour, half an hour, just five minutes, no words come. Instead, she rereads Lenore Phoenix’s letter, wonders why the word-weaver didn’t enclose the character study she mentioned. What an honour it would’ve been to read something raw and unseen from such an accomplished word-weaver like her. Could Muna ask after it in her next letter? What if Lenore Phoenix decided Muna’s opinion wasn’t worth much after all?

What keeps her moving each day is the prospect of meeting her mentor soon—even if Lenore Phoenix hasn’t mentioned the event once in her letters. The image of their clasped hands, the thought of what she’ll say, lull Muna to sleep.

She dreams of campfires and shadowy figures holding court over an eager audience. She strains to catch the tale being told but hears not a word.

• • • •

Muna is returning from a laborious discussion with the carpenters—they’d made another error on the throne for Lenore Phoenix, its design lifted straight out of the Halfborn series—when she spots Karabel wearing ochre robes, a luminous contrast against her dark skin, talking to Arethor.

“. . . a good turnout. We are hoping she can do signings.”

Muna slips behind the counter, her voice filled with enthusiasm. “You came!”

“You sold the place so well, I couldn’t resist.” Karabel has deep dimples when she smiles.

“I’ve taught my protégé well,” Arethor says and ruffles her hair. His hand knocks against Muna’s horn—she stiffens—but he doesn’t notice. “Let us know if you’d like tea. Mimi’s boy comes around with refreshments and treats every so often.”

“Sounds delightful.” Karabel’s smile doesn’t waver. “It’s lovely to see you two so close. From my understanding, Nehiri don’t let anyone touch their horns; to do so without permission is a grave offence.”

Arethor frowns, and his drumming fingers still. Muna’s face pricks with heat. From the corner of her eyes, she glimpses a hardness to his mouth. “How observant of you. I took in young Muna when no one else would. We are family here.”

Muna lowers her gaze even as Arethor leaves. It’s only when Karabel places her hand on the counter next to hers that she glances up. “I apologise if I spoke out of turn. You looked . . . unhappy.”

“No,” Muna murmurs, “Thank you. I don’t know how to say—only my sister and Ma—if they knew.” She swallows. “I thought Arethor wasn’t aware . . .”

“You don’t have to explain. I know how it is to seek out the best in someone’s intentions; thinking otherwise makes living hard indeed. Especially when it concerns those we deem to be family.”

When Arethor first called her family, Muna thought her chest would burst with pride. But in the past few months, every time Arethor uses the term, Muna feels—subdued. She hasn’t dwelled on this before, but as Karabel speaks, she thinks of Arethor asking her to do tiresome unpleasant things, beyond her agreed working hours, saying, “I knew I could rely on you.” Muna is proud of her ability to muck in, to keep going without sleep or food or complaints. Yet, the unease contained in these memories, the prickly feeling of Arethor touching her horns, stick to her mind.

Karabel says with gentleness, “Even as a stranger, I could read your body language perfectly well.”

Muna looks up and nods slowly. She knows she needs time to let this all sink in.

• • • •

That night when Muna, eyes drooping, abandons a stocking project midway and heads to bed, she returns to her earlier conversations with Karabel. To the discussion they had about the new bestseller, hailed as the voice of their generation.

“The novel, its perspective, seem a bit limited,” Karabel said.

“Because it’s only set in Barish?”

“Hm, not quite. It’s set in this city, but did you see anything of your own life in it?”

Muna had inhaled the book, enjoying its humour, the boisterous camaraderie in its pages, but it was true she’d not felt the same closeness she had to Nuala. Rainer, the protagonist, mingled only with wealthy students like himself. His world was inside university walls. The jealousies and joys, romance and subterfuge contained within had no resemblance to Muna’s every day.

“So it’s interesting that it’s claimed to be the voice of this generation—it seems that ‘this generation’ doesn’t include lives like yours and mine.” Karabel’s smile had been wry.

When Arethor had bustled around to offer elk pie to Muna, rather loudly and showily she thought, Karabel had raised her eyebrows. After, Muna had confessed that she rarely ate meat though it made a large part of a Nehiri diet back home—partly because the only kind freely offered to her here was what Arethor offered—and immediately Karabel said she would take Muna to a soup kitchen on the other side of the city that sold tasty pies, stews, and soups for very little. It was the first time in Barish, Muna realised, that she had received such a thoughtful response, the first time she didn’t have to explain herself or justify the relationship between Nehiris and horned meat, their customs and beliefs.

Muna relishes her conversations with Karabel, how comfortable they are, how they lead her to consider things from another angle, even if it happens to be knotty and difficult. It’s the same kind of feeling she gets with Lenore Phoenix’s letters. How starved Muna has been of sympathetic conversationalists! To speak with someone who understands intimately the things you’ve only felt stirrings of, that was the like-minded friendships Muna hoped she would find in Barish. She thinks of Renuka after many days. That’s what she, and Renuka, are missing: companionship, empathy.

She drifts to sleep, shoulders loosened, the possibility of a budding friendship held close.

• • • •

A few days before the event, Muna is spooning onion soup into her mouth, rereading the third book of the Halfborn series. She’s at the scene where Nuala is confronting the beloved friend who betrayed her—when Muna looks up from the page, she finds Arethor standing in her room. He hadn’t knocked. She hadn’t heard him enter. She puts the spoon down, swallowing hard. Her room has never been large, but she is acutely aware of the squashed space.

There’s a peculiar expression on his face.

“That time,” He hesitates and makes as if to lean forward. Muna’s stomach sinks but he remains where he is. “What that Senai said about your horns.”

She doesn’t like the inflection when he says that Senai. The old Muna is in there somewhere, ready to barrel forth. Muna is surprised by how vividly she feels her in this moment.

“I know the custom, but I didn’t once imagine you felt that way. I mulled over it for days. I thought to myself if Muna minded, why wouldn’t she say something?”

“You knew?”

“Everyone knows about Nehiri horns.”

Then why did you touch mine? Old Muna is screaming.

Arethor clears his throat after too many beats of silence. “I apologise if you felt offence.”

He is looking at her, waiting. All she can do is nod. Then feeling that she has been too cold, she says, “They shouldn’t be touched without permission. Whatever the intention.”

“Does everyone need permission?” There is a strain of hurt in his words. Muna is about to tell him that Ma and Kusum are exceptions when he adds, “Even me?”

Something inside her freezes. And she realises the question is not quite what she thought it was.

“I just . . .” Arethor steps forward. Her body tenses. But he shakes his head and leaves. Muna lets out a shuddering breath. She is clutching the book too hard. Her eyes are hot and she wonders why, even with his apology, she feels worse than ever.

• • • •

Muna is polishing and buffing every nook and cranny of the bookshop till it shines for Lenore Phoenix.

“What is it?” she asks when Karabel’s robes, a blushing shade of rose, peek into her line of vision. Having Karabel around the shop these past weeks has been a boon, especially as she’s tried her best to keep a distance from Arethor. Karabel has been there to whisk her away for a walk and fresh air on Muna’s breaks, to the soup kitchen for supper after closing time—even during work hours, Karabel spreads out her rolls of paper on one of the round tables tucked away in the shop, always nearby to chat as Muna shelves and unshelves books, dusts old stock, and audits at the counter. Muna hadn’t said anything directly to Karabel about Arethor again, but she gets the sense that Karabel understands.

“About tomorrow,” Karabel says. She is twisting the sleeves of her robes, the tips of her ears twitching.

Muna stands and says brightly, “Have you lost your ticket? I’ll be there, so it’s no problem.”

The words spill out as if they’ve been waiting on Karabel’s tongue for days, “I work for Lenore Phoenix.”

A beat of silence as the information sinks in and then Muna lets out a screech of surprise. “Seriously?”

Karabel nods, face strangely solemn.

“Gods, I must’ve seemed a fool babbling about how much I adore her. Why didn’t you tell me? Were you worried I’d demand her secrets?”

Karabel doesn’t return her laugh. “It takes up so much of my time. Sometimes, I just want to be me.”

Muna is marvelling at this serendipity, her two cherished people being connected with her in this trinity. She can’t help the questions, “How long have you worked for her? What do you do?”

“Oh,” Karabel’s eyes dart around, “research, correspondence, event management, stock replenishing, pretty much everything.”

“Do you get to accompany her to events?”

Karabel laughs but there is no joy in the sound. “I have to, I’m her shadow. I feel like a ghost some days.”

Something about these words niggle at Muna. They are an echo in her mind. What could it be? Karabel is looking at her and she realises she’s missed whatever’s been said. “Yes?”

“Lenore gets a lot of correspondence, fans from everywhere, she won’t have a lot of time to chat tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Muna says, still puzzling out the niggling feeling. When she turns to ask another question, Karabel has disappeared.

• • • •

The next day, Arethor sends her out on tedious packaging and posting errands that must be finished today. Why hadn’t he asked her earlier this week? When she hurries back, her tunic is drenched with sweat and guests are trickling in, which means Lenore Phoenix has arrived and been greeted by someone else. Muna swallows back her disappointment.

From her post at the door, Muna steals glances at Lenore Phoenix. Honey coloured hair waves softly around her face; her robes look like spun gold in shadow, and underneath, she wears a dark velvet dress. Both have long slits up to the thighs. Muna hasn’t seen anything like it. Arethor is refilling her goblet with Mimi’s special mead, the smell of cinnamon and cloves warm and festive. Lenore Phoenix takes a sip and Muna notices her long nails sharpened to points. Muna glances at the bluntness of her own. Arethor makes her saw them down every two weeks: “You work with precious books, Muna, we can’t afford accidents.” He wouldn’t know that Nehiris are skilled with their nails, that it is a sign of their identity. “Customers will not like it—animals have claws, not people.”

It’s strange to see Lenore Phoenix sporting these nails, painted with a deep crimson Kusum would’ve loved. Her sister always insisted on matching the colour of their nails. With a pang, Muna realises how much she’s missed that.

How odd to think that this is the woman who writes Muna letters brimming with wisdom and kindness; that this woman, decked in riches Muna could never imagine touching, has understood Muna more than any other creature. But Muna knows that everyone has an inside and outside persona. Lenore Phoenix is who she needs to be at this event.

She hasn’t spotted Karabel yet, which is surprising because her colourful robes usually stand out in any crowd. Muna slips into the back of the room and listens to Lenore Phoenix discuss how she built the character of Nuala, modelled on Senai culture. Her words are measured and intelligent—Muna could listen to her all day.

During the question and answer portion, a Senai that Muna hadn’t spotted before raises her hand. Her hair is wrapped up in bright patterned cloth, and her body seems to thrum with taut energy.

“Ms. Phoenix, do you think it right a lady like yourself is writing—and profiting—off Senais like myself?”

Lenore Phoenix smiles. “I’m not sure I understand. I see it our duty as word-weavers to bring stories from the farthest reaches of the world to those who may not experience it or understand it otherwise.”

“Would it not fit your sense of duty to instead create opportunities for Senais to learn word-weaving and write their own stories? I see I’m the only Senai in the audience today and I wonder who this is helping and who is profiting?”

“Oh, but I do, look at my apprentice, young Karabel there is learning her craft from me.” She points to the back as a wave of applause ripples through.

Muna spots Karabel, clad today in dull robes that seem to absorb light, hair pulled into a tight bun. Her gaze is downturned, fingers laced tight, ears quivering. Muna begins to move to her, sensing that something is not quite right with her friend, but Karabel turns and vanishes into the crowds. The guests frown at Muna as she tries to get past them, their lips curling at her and her obtrusive horns.

A flurry of movement overwhelms her route to Karabel. The talk wraps up and everyone surges up to talk to Lenore Phoenix. Arethor comes into view, signalling to her. Muna looks at the door one last time and grabs the mead. Mimi’s boys lay out tiny pies and sausages, tea cakes studded with currants, sugar sprinkled biscuits, and frosted cakes. Muna is caught up refilling everyone’s goblets. It’s only when guests trickle out that she sees Lenore Phoenix is also preparing to leave. She rushes there without a thought, but when she gets to where the word-weaver is speaking to Arethor she hangs back, hesitant, shy.

“Oh, sorry honey, I’d love to stay and chat but I’m exhausted.” Lenore Phoenix says when she spots Muna after long minutes. “Thank you for your work. Arethor tells me you’re a big fan.”

Muna feels flushed, tongue tied in knots, and before she can say You’re welcome or thank you for your letters or they mean so much, Lenore Phoenix winks and leaves.

Muna must believe the wink is a message, that their correspondence is secret and safe, but for the rest of the night, the coldest feeling sinks into her.

• • • •

“What a graceful woman. She handled the questions well, don’t you think? Pity she can’t write.”

Early next morning, Muna is stacking chairs for the carpenter’s apprentices who are due to arrive soon. She hadn’t heard Arethor come up behind her. She’s weary from the running around yesterday, the anticipation, the strange sense of emptiness, the swirling thoughts that refused to settle through the night. She turns around, putting a stack of chairs between them, before frowning at Arethor. “What do you mean?”

One of her first discussions with Arethor had been about how they both gulped down the Halfborn series in feverish states. They’ve talked at length about its clever structure, the rise and fall of action, the quiet scenes that packed a punch. A few weeks ago, before his proximity made Muna feel cold and stiff, they’d stayed up writing complex questions to plant among the audience for the event.

“I don’t mean the Halfborn series—as you know, the writer is skilled.”

“The writer?”

Arethor is giving her the same look he does when explaining that things just happen to work the way they do, like the Guild’s steep membership fee. “The ghostwriter who does the word-weaving.”

Her silence conveys her confusion. Arethor lets out a bark of laughter. “I forget how naïve and country you can be. You didn’t think Lenore Phoenix sat there penning her own novels? She rebranded herself, had a dowdy name like Janet Smith before. Her florid romances were a flop even when romances were the rage because her characters were flat like an iron skillet and her word-weaving appalling. It’s a well-kept secret in certain circles.”

“But . . .” Muna thinks of the advice contained in all those letters. How could those words come from a woman who didn’t write Nuala?

“I thought you knew because you’re friendly with the Senai.”

“Karabel?” she says, distracted but still noting with bristling displeasure the way Arethor said Senai. “She doesn’t speak much of Ms. Phoenix.”

“If I was Lenore Phoenix’s ghost, I’d find a way to slip it into every conversation.” Arethor laughs, not very kindly, and the words run through her like a current.

Karabel?

Lenore Phoenix’s ghost?

Karabel’s words echo in Muna’s mind: Sometimes I feel like a ghost. That niggling feeling unknots itself. It’s the same thing Nuala says in the Halfborn series. Why had Muna not made the connection before?

But the letters . . .

The letter she’s pored over and knows by heart: I am looking at the mirror but there’s no reflection.

Muna feels the air whoosh out of her.

Why hadn’t Karabel told her?

• • • •

That afternoon, Muna receives her first missive, delivered by a panting apprentice. He doesn’t pause for the refreshments she offers, just shoots off.

Please meet me at Rendezvous Teashop at six. K.

• • • •

When Muna manages to slip away, telling Arethor firmly that she must visit the herbwoman when he tries to get her to stay beyond working hours with a promise of mead and imported delicacies, it’s already after six.

There’s a tightness inside her. It reminds her of the day she was out in the fields and her father was rushed home after a harvesting accident; despite their ferocious arguments, she’d sprinted back, afraid something was slipping out of her grasp.

When Muna pushes open the door of the teashop, the first thing her eyes land on is Karabel, looking out of a window, the sunset burnishing her face. Karabel turns towards the door when it closes, its tiny bells tinkling to announce a new customer.

A rush of something—relief?—overtakes Muna as their eyes meet. She finds herself trembling as she walks over.

“You came,” Karabel says, face soft.

If this were a scene in Muna’s story, there would be a fight perhaps, anger, a misplaced sense of betrayal. But these past few hours, Muna’s been thinking about the letters, what they’ve meant to her, about the Halfborn world, how she’s escaped into it again and again, especially when Barish was too much, when being next to Arethor was too much. About the first time Karabel came by the shop, how she spoke words that Muna was too scared to even think; how Karabel saw her, treated her like someone whose thoughts and actions and beliefs had worth.

Muna has thought of Lenore Phoenix too—the woman at the event—what she said to the Senai in the audience, how she brandished Karabel like a trophy, all the things she hadn’t said to Muna, all the things that instead Karabel has been saying to her.

So when Muna lowers herself into the wooden chair, what she says is: “I know.”

A sudden burst of joy on Karabel’s face, then it smooths over. “What do you know?”

Muna looks around before lowering her voice, unsure who she is protecting, “I know you’re Lenore Phoenix’s ghost. Arethor told me.”

Karabel is perfectly still, a heartbeat, another.

Muna murmurs, “And I suspect it is you who has written to me all this while.”

A faint smile appears on Karabel’s lips. “My contract binds me in many ways. It forbids me from speaking about the true nature of my work.” She chooses her words carefully, as if any wrong ones could be vanished from her mouth. Muna nods, a grim expression on her face, knowing too well the silencing power of labour contracts. “It forbids me from actions that might reveal certain truths. It doesn’t, of course, prevent people knowing these truths by other means.” Karabel leans forward. Now, her words rush out, flushed and intimate, “Forgive me for not letting you know somehow.”

Muna shakes her head, placing her hand beside Karabel’s on the table, the same gesture of kinship and empathy Karabel had extended to her at the shop. Something dawns on her. “That must be why there was no character study with your last letter!”

“Drat, I suspected that would happen—but I wanted to honour our relationship by at least trying,” Karabel smiles at Muna’s surprise. “So much of what I cherish about writing is being able to share ideas, to help nurture a writing partner’s growth just as they help mine. I wasn’t able to offer you all of that as her.”

“Writing partner,” Muna says slowly, secretly thrilled with the idea.

“Of course, that’s what you’ve been to me, and if you’re willing, I would love for us to continue.”

“I’m a beginner though, I need to apprentice,” Muna looks up, shy, “Perhaps you will let me trial with you?”

“No chance.”

Muna’s stomach drops.

Karabel laughs, then sobers up. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, but your face! No chance because technically I’m not a fully-fledged word-weaver yet.”

“But you wrote the Halfborn series!”

Karabel shrugs but Muna sees the stiffening of her shoulders and mouth. “You know the rules. Need to complete a certain number of hours and words with a word-weaver of a certain standing . . .” She perks up, “My contract is almost over though! I won’t be fully-fledged but a writing partnership I can definitely offer.”

Muna blinks back sudden tears. Karabel had kept Muna’s dreams of word-weaving alive when Barish almost crushed it. Now, she is singlehandedly reincarnating the dream into something tangible. When Karabel pauses to look at her, Muna can only nod.

“Once my contract is up, I’ll be running as far as I can from her. Room prices are ghastly though, so I’ll be looking for someone to share the burden with. I’ve found a sub-let by the tailor’s market. Mimi—you know Mimi, right?—has a sister who rents out tiny unpleasant rooms to working girls.”

“Oh,” Muna says, surreptitiously wiping her cheeks, “I don’t know many people, but we can flier the bookshop and I’ll spread the word among customers . . .”

Karabel is shaking her head, that familiar tilt of lips that pulls Muna’s own into a smile even when she doesn’t know the reason.

“Why would we have to scout?” Karabel is looking at her pointedly as she takes a sip of her tea.

“Oh,” Muna says after a few beats, “You mean me.”

“Of course, dear Muna, who else? It’s high time you found a place out beneath Arethor’s boots. What say you?”

Muna finds herself mirroring Karabel’s grin. She looks towards the deepening sky, eyes and chest brimming with warmth, the sun’s glow soft on her face.