Chills prickled Sami’s spine as she walked deeper. The water felt cooler and somehow lighter than in the Actual World. For Teta, she told herself. She held tightly to Dorsom and Natala, until she was up to her waist. Slowly, she let her eyelids lift. Just beyond the Flickers, a great pair of bronze kneecaps rose out of the ocean and soared into thighs, with the dark bell of the statue’s skirt forty-five feet over their heads. Now Sami could make out purple barnacles and seaweed on the metallic surface, covering its cold features—its chiseled brow, curling lips, and hard, blank eyes. It looked cruel and beautiful. “Is—is—that her?” she asked. “What the Nixie looks like?”

Dorsom shaded his eyes and looked up. “No knowing. No Flicker’s ever seen the actual her.”

Natala looked up as well. “There’s no telling her native form. Shadows are remarkable shape-shifters.”

Sami thought of Lamida in her Shadow form, yet covered in so much jewelry and so many scarves, as if to define her form for the Flickers. She remembered the depthless Shadow full of stars she’d seen bowing before the Rotifer—lovely yet somehow amorphous—like the cosmos itself, capable of becoming anything at any time.

The ocean water swelled and surged around them, knocking them back and forth. Stumbling, Sami couldn’t help stealing glances at the statue’s cold facade, its swirling hair and outstretched fingers. Suddenly, she thought she saw the thing’s mouth curve into a smile and a voice like a lullaby rang through her head: Come to me!

Sami cried out, frozen in fear. The two Flickers swiveled toward her as she realized the ocean water had turned gray. It looked to her as if their lower halves had been sheared away by a gray mirror. In an instant, all the whispering questions were back, battering at her mind. “No, no.” She released their hands in terror, lurching backward, staggering in the water.

“Don’t let them in!” Natala cried.

It was too late. Sami twisted, looking for the beach, but it wasn’t there. No matter which way she looked, all she saw was inky water.

“It’s an illusion,” Dorsom said, coming toward her. “Don’t believe it.”

Voices hissed through her mind. Now they were asking: How can you stand this? What are you doing? Why are you here? She felt things brushing against her legs—it felt like hands, fingers feathering, curling against her, and she shrieked, flailing and trying to pull away.

“Attend me, Sami!” Dorsom commanded. He grabbed her arms and moved directly in front of her. “You can do this. You must. We’re halfway there. Keep your eyes to mine. Don’t look away. Don’t look at or listen to anything but me. Do you understand?”

She was gasping and trembling from the invisible hands, but Dorsom laced his fingers with hers and she managed to nod.

“Come, then! Step upon step. Steady yourself. Breathe. You are fine. Most excellent.”

She nodded again and dared a step, though it was like walking into a thicket of sweeping touches. Again Sami gasped, but she didn’t look away from Dorsom. She lifted her hands and took hold of his elbows as he held her upper arms. It was a tense dance, moving in a slow line, wobbling through the waves. Gradually, her awareness of the world around her began to diminish. She barely registered when they passed under the cold shadow of the statue’s legs. The water crept up to her waist, then her shoulders, but she kept her focus locked on Dorsom.

Staring into his eyes was like looking into one of those images of mirrors inside mirrors. Sami had a vague sense of falling forward and of being drawn forward. He kept murmuring to her and to Sami it felt as if her anxiety were gradually being pulled from her chest—a long rope attached to the string of his voice. For Teta, she reminded herself again. This is for her. She imagined her brave twelve-year-old grandmother standing up to the desert raiders, bringing them to a halt with a single spell.

Another memory came to her at that moment, of being the smallest child, sitting at the table with her mother, brother, father, grandmother. The world complete at their round table. She knew, though, there was a sadness in her mother. None of the others seemed to notice—at least not her father or brother—Alia was very good at hiding it even from herself. But Sami noticed—every time she complained about the cold climate of New York State, America’s lack of sophistication, the fact that no one read, that families split apart, that people spoke only one language. Once, after cracking some eggs for breakfast, Alia shook her head and murmured, “The yolks here are so pale.”

Sami knew—her mother compared it all, unfavorably, eternally, to Lebanon.

Yet she rarely spoke of her home country. It was like the most beautiful secret that belonged only to her. Like, if she talked about it too much, it might dissolve and blow away.

Sami used to wish it would.

Now, though, standing waist-deep, facing her greatest fear, Sami realized her mother had also gone on a journey she hadn’t planned on—a rather scary and unexpected adventure. She loved her young husband, but she missed her home country so much, and the fighting in Beirut made it seem impossible to return. And now Sami too had, perhaps, a taste of what that might have been like. It was terrible. Shocking. And yet, as she walked through the mysterious waters under the statue, she thought of something Teta had liked to tell her: Don’t let your fears run your life. Don’t let them make it smaller.

Gradually, the hissing voices started to subside. Sami felt the water grow warmer and calmer as they approached a new shore. She let herself dare break eye contact with Dorsom and glanced back at the statue. Its perfect silhouette, carved right out of the sky, seemed to be holding its breath.

The only way out, she reminded herself, is through.