Fatma blinked away the sparks dancing in her vision. When she could see again, the air about them had changed, bathed in iridescent swaths that vibrated and hummed. Beside her, Hadia was a silhouette of shifting colors in the shape of a woman. Then with a suddenness everything snapped back to normal.
Dr. Hoda tapped a pen to her chin before scribbling in a notebook. When she finished, she stripped off the contraption about her head, replacing it with a pair of regular glasses. Her eyelids fluttered as she took them in, brown skin wrinkling about prominent cheekbones.
“Agent Fatma. Haven’t seen you in my lab in a while.”
“Good morning, Dr. Hoda. Thought I’d make a personal visit. This is Agent Hadia.”
Dr. Hoda’s black eyes glittered. “A new woman agent? I hadn’t even heard. I should get out more, I suppose. Is that the right thing to say?” She shook Hadia’s hand enthusiastically. “When are they going to see about getting me a woman in here? They keep sending me more men. Pretty little things, but I’ve got maybe five more good years in me before retiring, and I want to leave my lab in capable hands!”
Fatma suspected the doctor was going to be here much longer than five years. They’d probably be wheeling her from the lab straight to her own funeral. “You’ll have to take that up with Director Amir. He seems keen on getting more women into Cairo headquarters.”
“I’ll have a talk with that young man, then.” Dr. Hoda nodded.
Oh, Amir was going to love that. “Agent Hadia dropped off some specimens last night. Hoping you’ve had a chance to look at them?”
Dr. Hoda’s eyes widened, and she hopped up from her chair. “Yes! Yes! You left me quite a project. Come.” She led them out and into another room. Inside was a table atop which sat two familiar items. One was the gold mask. A jagged crack extended where Fatma had struck it, though the etchings still slithered across its surface. The other was the lock of black hair she’d sliced away, its wiry fibers binding it together.
“What do you see?” Dr. Hoda asked.
“A mask?” Fatma answered.
The doctor returned a flat stare. “I’m going to need you to be a bit more observant.”
“A gold mask. With etchings that move across it. Some kind of magic.”
“Better. A gold mask with magic etchings. Pick it up. How does it feel?”
Fatma sighed inwardly and picked up the mask. Was it too much to get a straight answer for once? “A bit heavy. Smooth. Except for this crack running—” She stopped, frowning as her fingers traced the fracture.
“Is there a problem, agent?”
“I used a gun to hit a gold mask, and it cracked. Gold shouldn’t crack that easy.”
“Very good,” Dr. Hoda commended. “Look back at the mask.”
Fatma did, and almost dropped it. The crack was gone. The mask’s surface was unblemished—except for a slight dent where the fracture had been.
“What’s going on?” Hadia asked, equally stunned.
Dr. Hoda chuckled. “Denting a gold mask seems more reasonable, doesn’t it? Lay the mask flat on the table. Good. Now, I don’t believe this is gold. I’m going to show you. When I do, you won’t believe it’s gold either.” She took a small hammer from a set of nearby tools and, with a firm swing, brought it down on the edge of the mask. A piece broke away, and she followed up by smashing it to gold dust.
“That’s impossible,” Hadia breathed.
“That’s an illusion,” Fatma rejoined, understanding dawning.
“An illusion,” Dr. Hoda agreed. “Whose magic works by getting you to play a part in your own deception. When you first struck the mask, you probably weren’t consciously thinking of it being gold and all the properties that should entail. So it cracked. However, I asked you to identify it as gold. That even made it feel heavy like gold. When you realized that cracking a solid gold mask was unlikely, the illusion rearranged into a dent to make more sense in your mind. Now, I’ve sowed new doubts, breaking off a section of a supposedly gold mask and grinding it to dust.” She leaned forward, tapping a forefinger beneath one eye. “Do you still believe it’s gold that you’re looking at?”
Fatma shook her head. “It can’t be. So why do I still see gold?”
“Because you’re stubborn,” Dr. Hoda snapped. “Keep telling the mask what it should be and it will keep trying to meet your expectations. Stop expecting anything. Just let it be what it really is.”
Fatma looked at the mask. Let it be what it really is. How exactly was she supposed to do that? She stared at it for a long while. Nothing. She scowled at it. Still nothing. She picked the mask up. Still heavy. No, gold felt heavy. Only this wasn’t gold. It was just a mask. That’s all she really knew. It could be made of anything. It was just a mask.
The change happened quickly.
One second, she was holding a broken gold mask. The next, something else—dull and gray, with the crack again running along its length. Hadia’s gasp told her she saw it too.
Dr. Hoda whooped a triumphant laugh. She took the mask from Fatma and turned it over, running careful fingers along its underside. “Clay.” She gestured to the table, where the gold dust had turned into bits of broken earth. “It’s just clay.”
Fatma stared in disbelief. “Did you know all along?”
“Not exactly. When I saw the crack, I knew it couldn’t be gold. But it wouldn’t change for me. This illusion appeared attuned to you—making your perception the focal point. Perhaps because you were the last to see it woven around the person meant to be concealed.”
“But the mask appeared as gold to us as well,” Hadia put in. “You’re saying that’s because Fatma believed it was gold?”
“Illusion magic often works by creating a mass shared delusion,” the doctor
