“Who would be able to create that type of illusion?” Hadia asked.
“Why, only a djinn. This imposter has djinn allies, I hear.”
More likely under his control, Fatma corrected quietly. “Could an Illusion djinn do this?”
The doctor pondered the question. “Unlikely,” she concluded. “Illusion djinn are able to change their appearance or that of a place they inhabit—where they’re strongest. They’re likely behind stories of thirsty people seeing water in the desert that isn’t there. Or the man granted riches, only to later find the glittering jewels are rocks. Notorious tricksters. Their illusions vanish as soon as they’re no longer in proximity.” She gestured at the clay mask. “This illusion carried on long after it was separated from its weaver. That’s potent magic—beyond an Illusion djinn.”
Fatma shared a disappointed look with Hadia. Not Siwa, then. “What about an Ifrit?”
Dr. Hoda’s eyes widened. “Oh yes! Fire magic! Very potent!”
It made sense, Fatma reasoned. If you could control djinn, go with the more powerful. She turned to the lock of hair. “What about this? Can I try what I did with the mask? Maybe it’s an illusion too.”
“Definitely an illusion,” the doctor confirmed. “I put it under spectral analysis. It’s drenched in djinn magic. But a mask is one thing—a created object. Hair is a different matter. It belongs to this imposter, a part of him. He’s woven that illusion tightest of all. You’ll have to try very hard.”
She did. A few times. But the hair remained as it was.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Dr. Hoda soothed. “We’re dealing with very strong illusion magic. Your mind doesn’t have the first hint on how to see past it. I can use an alchemical treatment to make it easier for you.”
“How long will that take?” Fatma asked.
Dr. Hoda bent to scrutinize the piece of hair. “Days. Weeks.”
“We don’t have that. We need it done immediately.”
“Winds often blow against the way ships want!” the doctor snapped, sounding uncannily like Fatma’s mother. “The solution to loosen up magical bonds could also dissolve the hair itself. Go too fast, and you’ll end up with nothing.” Seeing Fatma’s insistent stare she rolled her eyes. “I think I can make something that speeds up the rate of magical decay but won’t cause physical erosion. That will still take many, many hours.”
“How many hours is that exactly?”
“‘Many’ means ‘many,’” Dr. Hoda reiterated testily. “It’s your illusion. If you want to unravel it sooner, find a way for your mind to see past it. Go hunt some clues or something. Isn’t that what you do?”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Fatma said appreciatively, knowing well enough when not to push.
They left the lab, letting the doctor get on with her work. Boarding the elevator, Fatma gave an order she hadn’t in a very long time. “Floor Zero.”
When the doors opened again, it was to a hallway lined with arched wooden doors inscribed with red calligraphy. Floor Zero was the official designation for the Ministry’s holding cells, created with the help of djinn. There were no guards here; the calligraphic inscriptions served as wards against even the most powerful magic. Today there was only one occupant. She stopped at a door and fished out a gold key, fitting it into the lock.
“You sure about this?” Hadia asked. “What if he’s still … how he was?”
“I don’t think it works that way. The control wears off once the imposter’s gone.”
“Let’s be on the safe side.” She unhooked a black truncheon hanging from the wall, priming the lever until the bulbous end crackled. Fatma couldn’t begrudge her caution. She turned the key, pushing the door open.
Zagros sat on a cot that looked far too small for his bulk. The djinn librarian was dressed in his usual long-sleeved khalat, his back to them. He faced a blank wall, not bothering to move at hearing the door. A bowl of uneaten food sat in the corner, alongside a jug of water.
“Good morning, Zagros.”
The djinn stiffened at Fatma’s voice. His horned head turned slowly about, golden eyes taking her in from behind silver spectacles. There was nothing dead in that gaze now. Just resignation. Neither had seen the other since the day of the attack. This first meeting was as awkward as expected. His stare lingered awhile before returning to the wall.
“I’m sorry for what happened,” he rumbled, the bells on his ivory tusks tingling.
At least he was talking.
“Why don’t we discuss that.” Fatma pulled up a stool and sat. Hadia shadowed her, eyes wary and black truncheon at the ready. “You’re facing serious charges. Besides trying to kill me, the Ministry thinks you helped break into the vault. That you’re in league with the imposter.”
Zagros gave no response. He’d gone still again, a rock carved in the shape of a djinn.
“But we know that’s not true, is it?” Fatma asked. “So why do you let people believe that? Why not defend yourself?”
More silence.
“The Ministry could keep you here for a long time. With nothing to do but stare at that wall. Probably hire someone else for the library. Let them rearrange all your books. Maybe create an entirely new ordering system.”
Her words elicited the smallest tremor, but the djinn returned to his stoic pose.
Fatma frowned. He must really be far gone to shrug that one off. Might as well lay her cards on the table. “I know about the voice. The one in your head. That made you want to kill me. I know how you heard it not just in your ears but everywhere.” That certainly got his attention. He turned back to her, eyes rounding. She went on, remembering Siti’s description. “I know when you tried to kill me, it wasn’t really you. That the real you was buried somewhere deep inside. That you had to watch yourself do all those things, helpless to stop it.”
Zagros’s jaws went slack. A thousand questions seemed
