The Candle and the Flame: Prologue–Chapter 3

In the moment before she transforms from a being of smokeless fire to a being of flesh and blood, Ghazala often thinks she can hear the land's lament.

Ghazala walks down the sand dune she appeared on, her pace slow and her direction arbitrary.

The stench of freshly spilled blood permeates the air and prepares her for the sight that awaits her at the bottom of the dune.

In fact—Ghazala straightens when a frisson of danger dances down her spine—this looks very much like the work of the Shayateen.

Shayateen have never made forays into the human world as far as she knows.

The idea that they could be lurking nearby doesn't scare her; in fact, she would welcome the chance to give action to her burgeoning anger.

He twists his smoky body to face Ghazala and beseeches her. "Her name is Fatima. Save her, daughter of Ifrit, I beg you."

Malice emanates from them, malodorous and corrosive.

She moves swiftly out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, where she performs wudu in front of the shaky but clean sink. Her ablutions complete, she leaves the apartment with a dupatta on her head, a lamp in her hand, and a prayer mat under her arm for the open rooftop of the building in which she lives.

After the prayer, which culminates in a dua, she gathers her belongings and returns to the apartment, where Sunaina is still sleeping.

With her eyes kohled and a red ambi-patterned turban wrapped around her head, she can pass for an affluent young scholar from Shams Gali.

The sizable amount of foot traffic on the streets belies the early hour.

From the melodic Urdu to the breathy Nihon-go, the cadence of a thousand different languages fills the air.

She walks quickly, cleaving to the shadows, not wanting to be recognized by friends or drawn into conversations by acquaintances.

Fatima follows a haphazard path through the row of houses and ends up in Chameli Baag, named for the flowers that no longer grow there.

Gardens on the forest side of Noor City are explosions of green, embarrassingly lush after the dearth of natural bounty on the desert side.

At other times, her work takes her into courtyards spilling over with trailing vines and other wanton greenery.

Aftab Mahal, the palace shared by the royal family, the Emir, and the human and Djinn armies is located in the middle of the city on a tract of land separated from the rest of the city by the two distributaries.

A muted shout from a man piloting a wayward boat reminds Fatima of her errand.

Fatima looks at the flowers on offer and is, as always, taken aback by the opulence of the blooms.

There are coy nargis, delicate lilies, jewel-colored gladiolas, and haughty orchids.

Fatima knows she is in trouble when Sunaina turns stormy eyes her way and stands with her arms crossed. Her short stature takes nothing away from her imposing presence.

Sunaina had walked away from the hair accessory, judging it too expensive, too frivolous, too everything that she couldn't have and shouldn't want.

They spend a few more minutes with Laali, fussing over the old woman, making her laugh, and plying her with Deepavali sweets.

She showed people that business acumen is not solely the purview of men.

She showed people that business acumen is not solely the purview of men.

Bijli Bazaar is located in the center of Northern Noor and is purported to be the oldest market in the entire city.

In fact, Fatima has heard rumors contend that Noor was built around the market.

The market expanded outward in twists and turns until it resembled nothing so much as a rabbit warren.

Deeper into the market are the more esoteric stores such as apothecaries, chemists, candle makers, perfumeries, and rug sellers.

A hundred scents compete for attention, as interspersed among the stores are food vendors who sell everything from kebabs to pani puri, spicy noodles and fried dumplings, lassi and coconut milk.

What sets Firdaus's bookstore apart from the rest of its ilk is its business practices.

"I thought I heard you."
"Assalaam wa alaikum, baba," Fatima says with a little chagrin.

She peruses the titles, picking up a book here and there to read more.

“The classics are singular narratives focusing on those privileged enough to know how to read and write," Fatima retorts.
“But surely you cannot deny the beauty of the rhetoric?"

“You taught me not to trust that beauty."
“Indeed I did. But I did not intend for you to eschew the great literary works in favor of—"

Works by the common people? These works may not have wondrous prose, baba, but the experiences they write about are theirs, which makes their stories so much better than those who live in gilded cages and write about the world outside.

These writers don't have the luxury of ennui, you see.

His shaggy brows draw together as if captive to some particularly trenchant thought.

The first one urges her to flee: some innate instinct warning her that this Ifrit has the ability to hurt her in ways people don't usually recover from.