“And what did you tell him?”
“What do you think I told him? Told him to take a hike,” Casiopea said.
She kept walking in circles, sick with worry. Hun-Kamé, on the other hand, was leaning back in a plush chair. Nice suit, black hair slicked back, he looked more bored than anything else.
“Doesn’t it bother you? Your brother has tracked us down,” she said.
“I imagined he’d track us down, sooner or later. I’m glad you did not agree to speak to him, though,” he replied. “Nothing good would come of it.”
“He tried to explain that I’d be welcome back at home. As if that might ever happen. Oh, why are you looking so calm?”
Because he did look far too calm. Carved in stone. Apparently, he did not wish to partake in her agitation, which disturbed her even more. It was as if a mirror refused to give back her reflection.
“Would it please you if I ran around like a headless chicken, as you do?” he inquired.
He seemed to be fond of comparing her to animals. She wondered what he’d come up with next. A turtle? A cat? She might be an entire zoo to him, both funny monkey and pretty bird.
“You are scared of what, precisely?” he asked her before she could become properly incensed by the comment.
“Well, I’m…I’m scared of your brother, of course. He’s found us.”
“I do not think it is what frightens you. Is it your cousin that has you in such a state?”
Casiopea stopped moving for a second, her hands clasped under her breast. Although she wished to tell him that no, Martín had nothing to do with this, the truth was he had everything to do with her current agitation. But it wasn’t him. When she reached deep into herself, she found a slightly different answer.
“I don’t want to go back to Uukumil,” she whispered.
She missed her mother, she felt unsure of herself outside of the safety of her town, and she had no idea where their adventure would eventually lead them, but she did not wish to turn back, for turning away from a quest felt to her akin to sacrilege.
“When I saw him…for a moment, I thought he’d make me go back. He always gets his way and I have to do as he says. And I keep thinking…” She trailed off. She did not understand herself.
“What if you are shackled to the loser in this contest?” Hun-Kamé said, his voice dry. “What if your cousin is the smarter one, sitting in the victor’s corner.”
“What if I’m only free for a few days?” she replied, the disquiet of a butterfly fearing it will be trampled.
Hun-Kamé had been looking around the room, distracted. Now he gazed at her. The god’s age was unknowable; it eluded a specific bracket. He was not old, yet he did not give the appearance of youth. One may count the rings of trees to know the time of their birth, but there were no lines on his face to offer such clues. There was a sense of permanence in him that rendered such inquiries null.
When he looked at her, however, Casiopea noticed he was boyish, which she’d never realized before. Of course, this was because he had never been young before. But in that moment he reflected her, sympathy and the same apprehension masking him. Somehow this capacity to understand her also brought forth the strange change in his countenance. No longer ageless, he was a young man. Twenty-one, twenty, a passerby would have guessed.
“I ask myself the same question,” he told her, and his voice was equally young, jade-green, the color of the ceiba tree before it reaches maturity.
As soon as he’d spoken, the youth dissipated, as if he’d remembered his full nature and the extent of his roots. Hun-Kamé’s face grew still, whatever ripple that had stirred it fading. He was again ageless, polished like a dark mirror. The change was so startling and so quick, Casiopea was not certain it had taken place.
Hun-Kamé turned his head again, looking in the direction of the window. The wind was stirring the curtains.
“We need to speak to Xtabay,” he said, smoothing his hair and standing up. He reached for the box with the necklace, which he’d left atop a coffee table.
“I’ve heard she is a demoness,” Casiopea said, glad to change the topic. Ghosts that devour people and monsters of smoke were much easier for her to consider than her family and the fears knotted under her skin.
“Not a demoness. Who said that to you? Your town’s priest?” he asked.
The stories had not come from the priest, but from the gossip of the servants. The priest would not have abided such talk, complaining as he did about the Yucatec propensity for superstition, magic, and legends, the peasants whispering about the aluxo’ob while they learned their catechism.
Xtabay was a figure she had discovered with the assistance of the cooks and pot scrubbers, intently listening to their tales. Like all legends, the stories contradicted themselves, and it was hard to know who was wrong and who was right. Some said Xtabay was a mortal woman who, due to her cruelty and indifference, returned to the land of the living to steal men’s souls. Others claimed she was a demoness. She lived near the ceiba tree, no, in the cenotes. She would appear in the middle of the jungle, and run away when a man approached her, luring him until he was forever lost. But other stories said she tossed them into cenotes, where they drowned. And yet others insisted she strangled the men or ate their hearts. They said she used her beautiful singing voice to ensnare them, while the cook had told Casiopea it was her sheer beauty that served as the lure, and there were those who said it was her hair, which she combed with a magical comb, that attracted her victims. The Xtabay seduced, she lied, she tempted, peeking through the leaves of the trees and smiling her red smile.
Since she was no man and thus immune to her spell, Casiopea did not fear the tales.
“I don’t remember,” Casiopea said, shrugging.
“She is a spirit. You’ve met a demon already. They are not the same.”
“What is the difference?”
“She was human and was altered. A hungry ghost who grew more powerful and became something new. Spirits, unlike ghosts, may travel the roads instead of being nailed to a single spot.”
“Then she is a type of ghost. But I thought men could sleep with her, how—” Casiopea blurted out and was instantly mortified by her frank comment.
It was wrong, outright wrong, to discuss whatever went on between men and women in bed. The priest had drummed into the young girls of Uukumil the importance of chastity. Despite this, Casiopea had witnessed secret kisses between the servants. On one occasion, a traveling troupe had come to town with a film projector. Against a white sheet, Casiopea had had the chance to gaze at Ramón Novarro, the “Latin lover” who had Hollywood agog, and watched him embrace a gorgeous woman, promising her his undying affection. And there were books too, which her grandfather never cared much to read, but which she had perused. Poetry speaking of love and fleeting desire.
This knowledge was forbidden and was never to be spoken of.
“As I said, she is something else, alive and not, a creature of flesh who may also be unfleshed,” he replied. “A seductress who consumes men.”
Of course, once he said “flesh” and “seductress,” her mind, instead of drifting toward less profane matters, immediately focused on the amorous pursuits of supernatural beings. If spirits could lie with men, she wondered what that meant when it came to demons. Or…gods, since the Mamlab clearly had no problem chasing after women. The legends were of no assistance in this matter—the Hero Twins were the product of a virgin birth, and not denizens of the shadows—but Casiopea had read enough Roman and Greek mythology to recall that Hades had indulged in these pursuits, snatching Persephone and seducing her with bits of pomegranate. Zeus enjoyed the company of nymphs and goddesses alike. And then there were all those mortal women, not goddesses. Leda, supine, with the swan against her breast, an illustration that she’d found rather absorbing.
She considered this in an abstract way. Gods and goddesses. Gods and mortals. However, with a god standing in front of Casiopea it was impossible that her mind not make another leap and connect Hun-Kamé to the matter of these pairings.
It was immoral to even think it, to stare at him and wonder…well. Did he ever seduce a woman, tempt her with pomegranate seeds? Ridiculous question! As if there were any pomegranates nearby. Although that was not the point, the point was—
The point was her cheeks were burning, and Casiopea had the good sense to bite her tongue back and not voice such an impudent train of thought.
“You seem upset,” he said.
Casiopea shook her head, evasively, unwilling to commit to words. This had the unexpected effect of making him move closer to her, as if to get a better look at her, like a physician who must examine the patient. Casiopea wanted nothing more than to shrink against the wallpaper and disappear. She couldn’t look him in the eye for fear he’d guess what she’d been wondering about.
And what would she say if he guessed? Pardon me, but you are handsome, and if you are handsome, then I assume you must have chased spirits of your own near the waterholes.
She did not want to know the answer, did not want to know a single thing right now, and this was precisely why the priest admonished them to keep their thoughts on the works of Christ and the saints who judge everyone from the heavens. If she’d done that, she wouldn’t be dying of mortification, but she knew more names of stars than names of saints.
“What is the matter with you?” he asked, frowning.
The words were green once more. He was young for the span of a moment. Fortunately, this deepened his confusion, made it a different sort of puzzlement, and it threw him off.
Casiopea regained her composure. She decided she was being ridiculous. Enough was enough.
“We shouldn’t waste any time,” she said. “Let’s go meet Xtabay.”
He nodded, himself again, and Casiopea had no idea where they were headed, but she led the way out of the room and out of the hotel because it had become too stuffy in there. The dirty city air never felt so refreshing. She practically sprinted across the street.
When they reached the corner, Hun-Kamé placed a hand on her arm and steered her in the right direction, which turned out to be toward a taxi. They headed to the Condesa.
“You’ll have to get us in to see her,” Hun-Kamé said as the taxi rolled down the street.
“Me?”
“The handmaiden provides the introductions and delivers the gifts.”
“What kind of introductions?”
“It does not matter as long as we are allowed in,” he said.
On her lap Casiopea carried the box with the necklace. She rested her fingers on its lid and nodded.
The Condesa was in motion, was modern, was being filled with Art Deco buildings. The neighborhood had been part of a vast hacienda that had belonged to the Countess of Miravalle. There the Porfirian elite held horse races on a vast track. Now, a delightfully modern park was rising in its heart. There were no haphazard alleys and tenements in this colonia but a perfectly orchestrated collection of boulevards and trees.
The houses and apartment buildings in the Condesa were of sturdy concrete, sharp geometric patterns decorating their façades, tribute to the “primitivism” that was in vogue. Zigzags evoked notions of Africa, while certain colorful tiles tried to paint a fantasy image of Middle Eastern mosaics.
It was hip, the Condesa, the place to be for the young and the rising stars. An urban triumph, the architects told themselves, even if the colonia was not quite finished, structures half completed, lots empty. It was like watching cocoons that have yet to reveal butterflies.
Hun-Kamé and Casiopea headed toward one of these newer structures, a four-story building with stained double-glass doors depicting sunflowers. Hun-Kamé unlocked the door, and they walked through a lobby filled with potted plants. They boarded a cage elevator, very grand, all glinting copper, with geometrical motifs and flowers running up and along its sides. Hun-Kamé pressed the button for the top floor and up they went.
Hun-Kamé slid the door open with a rattle of metal and they stepped out. The elevator opened onto a well-lit hallway.
A single knock on a sturdy door, and a severe man immediately greeted them.
“We bring a gift for the lady of the house, and we are hoping for an audience,” Casiopea said. She’d had time to prepare a speech while riding in the taxi.
“Has the lady said you might visit today?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow at her.
“No, but she will be pleased to see my lord.”
“She is busy,” the man said and would have closed the door in their faces, but Casiopea would not allow it; she shoved the door open, making the man’s eyebrows go up even higher. She had not rehearsed this, but she was quick to improvise.
“If you do not obey me or make us wait, you will regret it very much. My lord is a great lord and very kind, but trust me, you would not want to sour his day,” she said. “Now, let’s try this again. We bring a gift; take it to her.”
Casiopea bowed and extended the box with the necklace toward the man, who snatched it from her hands and wordlessly walked away, leaving them to wait at the threshold.
“I suppose that is one way to get someone’s attention,” Hun-Kamé mused.
“It’s the kind of thing you would say,” Casiopea replied.
“It is indeed,” he replied, sounding pleased.
The man came back, guiding them to a room that might have been best fit for a Hollywood fantasy. The floor was checkered, black-and-white, like a chessboard; gauzy burgundy curtains fluttered slightly, teased by a gentle breeze, revealing colored windowpanes. Potted plants and vases with flowers were profusely set upon any available surface—multiple coffee tables, side tables, cabinets, all made of fashionable Bakelite. Dwarf palm trees were arranged against a wall, enormous black pots held luxuriant plants, and baskets with ferns dangled from the ceiling, as if the owner of this apartment meant to snatch a piece of the jungle and toss it between four walls.
In a corner a parrot rested inside a circular chrome cage, which dangled from a thin metal stand. It eyed them as they walked in. The parrot in Uukumil was mean, and Casiopea regarded this bird as a bad omen.
In the center of the room there was a burgundy couch that matched the curtains. On it lay a woman in an elegant white satin dress, so fine and delicate each curve of her body was visible under the material. Her neck was adorned with a long strand of pearls, which dipped between her breasts. Her nails were red, as were her lips, and her dark hair was swept back with a silver-and-ruby embroidered headband. She looked like a movie star rather than a dangerous spirit.
“Let me speak,” Hun-Kamé told Casiopea. “There, stand there.”
Hun-Kamé motioned for Casiopea to stand close to the entrance, next to a row of potted plants, while he approached the woman. Xtabay held in her right hand the necklace they’d brought, idly, her eyes falling on Casiopea for a second and fixing on the god.
“Greetings, Lady Xtabay,” he said.
“My, but could it be the lord Hun-Kamé? Without a proper retinue and only one handmaiden at your side?” the woman said, making Casiopea wonder if in Xibalba he was followed by a dozen royal guards and servants holding parasols. And she thought, yes, that must be the case.
“And yet I found a proper gift.”
“Thank you for the pretty trinket, but it might have been even better if you’d told me you were coming. Unannounced visits can be such a hassle.”
Her voice was very beautiful, as was her face. It was not human beauty, every angle, every feature, too flawless, too polished. The room had an artificial quality and so did she. She had the allure of the snake, of the jaguar, and she was also every stray fantasy men have ever dreamed. Prismatic, she changed. From one angle her lips were full and her face rounded, yet from another that face became thin, the cheekbones sharp, as if she sought to please any and every onlooker.
It was easy to imagine how many men had been lured by her into the jungle, striving to catch a strand of her hair between their hands, only to drown in a waterhole instead. Casiopea touched the leaves of a large potted plant. She was nervous. If he’d assigned her a proper role—to guard the door, for example—she would have felt better, but to merely stand there seemed silly. Yet back in his palace he might have a multitude of people to do precisely that: handmaidens to stand behind him, servants to line up in front of him for no good reason, like decorative items. And women as attractive as this one to speak to. It was only because he’d been brought low that he now traveled in the company of a single, bumbling mortal girl.
Casiopea let go of the leaf and frowned.
“I am certain I was expected,” Hun-Kamé replied.
The woman smiled, placing the gold necklace she had been holding on the couch. She sat up, resting a hand against the hollow of her throat. Her movements and her voice were practiced, reinforcing the idea this was an actress often on display.
“Your brother might have hinted you’d be here,” she admitted.
“You know why I have come.”
“Of course. To intimidate me. To force me to surrender that precious piece of your essence that you must regain. But, dearest Hun-Kamé, we all know one thing: you are not quite yourself right now. I’m not afraid.”
The woman smiled at him. Her teeth were flawless, the smile most delightful. But sharp too, the smile of a predator, the allure of the carnivorous flower. By the couch lay a zebra skin, serving as a rug, and the woman ran a naked foot across the black-and-white stripes. Back and forth she moved her foot, her eyes on the god.
“I thought you’d be wise,” he replied.
“I am. And it would be unwise to surrender to you.”
“My brother must have made you an offer.”
“Which you cannot match,” Xtabay said.
“What is the offer?”
Xtabay stood up and shrugged. She circled Hun-Kamé, brushing a hand across his back as she did, the other hand busy touching her strand of pearls, as if she meant to count them. She sighed.
“A place beside his throne. I am to be his consort.”
“He cannot raise you to godhood.”
“You are very misinformed and out of date. The world is changing.”
“You’ve fallen for Vucub-Kamé’s dream? His ridiculous notions of power?”
Xtabay laughed. Her pretty voice had a musical quality to it, but the laughter was not pleasant. Hollow. As polished as the rest of her, as shiny as the metal and Bakelite furniture adorning the room. She pressed her hands together. She wore rings on many fingers; her bracelets clinked. And when she shook her head, there was the flash of expensive earrings. It must be nice, Casiopea thought, to wear such finery every day and have the constant favor of gods.
“You have been quite ridiculous too, Hun-Kamé. Existing so quietly in your kingdom of shadows, happy to think of former glories. You are like a dog eager to eat scraps,” she said languidly, managing to make the insult sound impersonal.
“Everything has its time. The gods do not walk the land for a reason,” he said, his voice subdued. The insult had not stirred him.
“The chu’lel can be harnessed.”
The dress swished as Xtabay walked in front of him. The white satin rippled, and Xtabay stretched out a hand, brushing Hun-Kamé’s face as her dress brushed the cool checkered floor. Knots of power, invisible, tied themselves around the god. Casiopea could not possibly see them, but a shiver went down her spine and the plants around her shivered too, making a low, low sound.
“Ah, Hun-Kamé, do not be upset with me, I couldn’t bear it. You know I have always been fond of you. You are so much more intelligent than your brother, so much stronger and more handsome,” the woman declared.
“You say that only because it is me standing before you, and not him, right this instant,” he told her, but his voice was odd, he slurred his words.
Casiopea noticed that Hun-Kamé had closed his eye and his shoulders drooped. She knew the legends of the Xtabay but had not thought she could affect him. Ordinarily, Casiopea would have been correct in her assessment: Xtabay could have no power over a god. Then again, Hun-Kamé was not exactly a god at this time, his immortal essence mixed with Casiopea’s human self. He was vulnerable.
Casiopea watched him carefully. She did not know about magic, but she did know about bad feelings, and she was certain now that the parrot had indeed been a terrible omen.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, and she wondered whether she should approach them. Last time she had not followed his instructions a ghost had almost snacked on her bones. Did she interrupt them? Would that make things worse?
Behind her there was a soft rustling, but she was too worried trying to listen to the conversation to pay it heed.
“I would much rather sit by your side than his. Wouldn’t that please you? It would not be too difficult to manage,” Xtabay said.
“I…can see your point.”
Each word the woman spoke made Hun-Kamé drowsier. Xtabay moved closer to him, placing her hands on his chest.
The rustling continued. Casiopea looked behind her, annoyed. One of the potted plants had extended long tendrils, reaching toward her. Before Casiopea could flinch, it wrapped itself around her legs. Another tendril whipped her in the face with such ferocity she stumbled back. One quick tug and she fell down. Hun-Kamé had noticed nothing. He was still speaking with Xtabay while Casiopea tried to pull the tendrils off her. They were as tough as ropes, and more slippery.
“I have the precious item you seek. The index finger from your left hand. Let me return it to you, and that portion of your power, but assure me you’ll crown me as your own queen. Assure me with a kiss,” Xtabay was telling Hun-Kamé.
A couple of paces from Casiopea there was a side table, crystal vases crammed with flowers set upon it. She scrambled up and reached for one of the vases while a third tendril wrapped itself around her midsection, squeezing her tight and digging into her flesh. Casiopea smashed the vase against the floor, shards bouncing around her. She picked up one piece of sharp glass and cut the tendril wrapped around her mouth. The plant let out an unpleasant hiss, uncoiling from her.
Xtabay, in turn, let out a gasp and touched her arm, where a scratch had suddenly materialized. She glared at the girl.
“Be care—”
Casiopea’s words were muffled by yet another tendril, which struck her and began knotting itself around her head. Xtabay clearly did not wish for her to speak, or maybe she just wanted to suffocate Casiopea. Either way, this was not good, and she pulled at the tendril, pulled with all her might.
Meanwhile, Xtabay kept speaking to the god. She raised a hand, as if to touch Hun-Kamé’s face, and Casiopea realized there were vicious thorns running along the woman’s arm. She meant to kiss and simultaneously scratch Hun-Kamé with the thorns.
Casiopea tugged at the tendril around her head and the plant shivered, but it would not relent. In fact, Casiopea felt that it was laughing quietly.
It made her boiling mad. She bit down on it as hard as she could. The plant hissed again in anger—and Xtabay hissed in equal anger, clutching her hand, the marks of teeth showing on her unblemished skin. Casiopea managed to peel the tendril off her face.
“Hun-Kamé!” she yelled. “Don’t listen to her!”
When the name escaped Casiopea’s lips, Hun-Kamé turned his head to look at her. He had heard nothing of the commotion happening in a corner of the room, but Casiopea’s voice sliced through the magic Xtabay had been weaving, as if a hand had shoved away a cobweb. The knots of power, which had remained invisible, glowed blue for a second before being extinguished. This minor act of destruction also had the effect of knocking Xtabay down. She lay on her knees on the zebra rug, stunned.
Hun-Kamé straightened himself up and walked to Casiopea’s side. The plant had slackened its grip on her, but when the god approached, it blackened and recoiled entirely, as if it could not withstand the anger of the Death Lord. And angry he did look, eye as dark as coal, brushing off a stray leaf that had caught in Casiopea’s hair. He offered her his left hand, so that she might find purchase on him and stand up.
“Are you injured?” she asked. “Do you need me to help you?”
“Perfectly fine,” he said. “Although I was about to ask that question.”
“Oh. Nothing is broken,” she assured him.
“I see. Just a scratch here,” he said, touching her forehead for a second, wiping away the mark like he’d wiped away the stray leaf, “and gone again.”
By the couch Xtabay, head down, spoke words of power, but they fizzled, a fire without tinder, impossible to spark.
“Your trickery won’t work with me,” Hun-Kamé told her, but he did not bother even glancing at the woman.
“It almost did,” Xtabay said, her voice now a venomous hiss, no sweetness to it. She nursed her injured hand, the red, angry mark of Casiopea’s teeth stark upon it.
“Return my property,” Hun-Kamé replied coolly.
“It will not change anything,” Xtabay told him.
Nevertheless, she complied, walking toward a bookcase where she kept a black box with two green jade lines running down its sides. Xtabay opened the box and offered it to Hun-Kamé, kneeling down before him, in what Casiopea thought was a clear display of mockery.
“For the Lord Hun-Kamé,” Xtabay said, as she threw the lid of the box open, “from his humble servant.”
Cushioned in black velvet rested the finger. Just like the ear, it was well preserved, as if it had been cut off a few minutes ago. Hun-Kamé pressed the digit against his hand, and it fused with his flesh. Then he motioned for Xtabay to stand up. She did.
“Who has the next piece of this puzzle?” he asked.
“You think I know?”
“My brother wishes to crown you, Xtabay. I think he would have told you.”
“You cannot make me speak the answer.”
“I have undone your spell,” Hun-Kamé said.
“No, not you, you vain and naïve lord, the girl. Did you lose one eye or go entirely blind?” Xtabay said, mocking him. “You did nothing.”
True, he had not. It had been Casiopea’s voice that quenched the spell, an act of will, though her essence mixed with that of a god, and thus it was partly his magic that had given her the ability to perform the task. Partly, but not wholly.
“Then give me the answer,” Casiopea said, feeling tired, the beginning of a headache drumming inside her skull. She wanted this matter over. She pressed forward to stand inches before the woman.
“You undo one spell and you think you can command me?” the woman said, scoffing.
“I’m suspecting that’s the way it works. And if it’s not the way, then I’ll start smashing all your plants and flowers to bits until you are nicer to me. I think you wouldn’t like that,” Casiopea said.
“You would not dare.”
“I would very much dare,” Casiopea said.
“She is a savage,” the woman told Hun-Kamé.
“The Lady Tun has a very distinctive personality, but I would not go as far as that,” Hun-Kamé said. “And she makes a fine point: do you want us to smash a few things around your home? Burn these flowers and plants?”
“Of course not, my lord,” Xtabay said, lowering her head and clutching her injured hand. “There is an uay in El Paso, the Uay Chivo. He serves Vucub-Kamé.”
Hun-Kamé turned as if to leave, motioning for Casiopea to walk with him, but Xtabay spoke again, her hard eyes watching them intently. She looked as beautiful as she had when they had entered the room and yet she was also diminished.
“You should let it be, Hun-Kamé,” the woman said, and she sounded empty now. “Forget about the throne and disappear. Vucub-Kamé will kill you.”
“Gods may not die.”
“Yes,” Xtabay said with a nod. “Gods may not. Look at your reflection in a mirror.”
Hun-Kamé grabbed Casiopea’s hand and pulled her out of the room. When they reached the elevator he dragged the metal door closed with a loud clang.
Downstairs, as he opened one of the double glass doors, Hun-Kamé glanced at his reflection. He saw nothing in the dim outline of his face to cause alarm.
Had he been holding a hand mirror he might have spotted the telltale detail that Xtabay had noticed. His eye, so dark it was like flint, reflected nothing, since it was not human. But the eye had now changed. The pupil, like a black mirror, caught reflections. The street, the cars going down the boulevards, and his young companion. She was rendered in most vivid colors.
Yes, the unweaving of the spell had been partly caused by the god’s immortal essence that lay inside Casiopea, giving her the ability to crumple Xtabay’s magic with the power of the Underworld. But the other part, the other reason Xtabay’s spell had failed—and which Casiopea and Hun-Kamé didn’t grasp—was a simpler truth: his vision was already too clouded by Casiopea. When she’d spoken and he’d turned his head, his pupil reflected her and washed away the rest of the room.
Such incidents are not uncommon between young mortals who believe they exist on a deserted island where no one else may step foot.
Hun-Kamé? He was not young, born centuries and centuries before.
And yet he was, upon stepping out of that building in the Condesa, a man of Casiopea’s age, his wisdom washing off his skin. Of course Casiopea could not notice this, as she had not noticed how he had no age when they met. He became young and that was that, as if someone had stripped off the dark, coarse bark from a tree, showing the pale core of it.