Alice and Benyamin and Oliver were all so certain of their imminent success that Laylee couldn’t bring herself to poke holes in their happiness. Besides, she was tired of being cynical; tonight Laylee would keep her worries to herself and, for the first time in a long time, allow herself to act her age. The three friends had been carrying an unwieldy stack of presents when they’d appeared at her door, and Laylee now sat in front of the fire, smiled a brilliant smile at her friends, and began to open the brightly wrapped cadeaux. The gifts were the handiwork of Benyamin’s mother, who believed with every bit of her heart that a few home-cooked treats could heal even the harshest wounds.

Reader, Benyamin’s mother was rarely wrong.

These last few days Laylee had been subsisting on eggplant soup and a few overripe beets, and so it was with a pure, childlike glee that she ripped open her presents, gasping aloud as she unearthed tins of buttery pistachio brittle; slim strips of chewy, rose-petal nougat; and clear mason jars packed with pomegranate seeds. She nearly cried over the diamonds of cardamom pudding and their daintily slivered almonds; she jumped to her feet as she uncovered the dishes of warm, creamy halva with their flourishes of cinnamon; she very nearly lost her mind over the boxes of cakes, fresh cream puffs, and Persian baklava. She’d already been fighting back tears when Benyamin pointed out that she’d yet to see the bowls of slippery glass noodles (sweetened with rosewater) and the large tubs of saffron ice cream.

Laylee had been rendered speechless.

It was a veritable feast unlike any she’d ever enjoyed, and she was so overwhelmed by the gesture—so very overcome by the company—that she couldn’t help stumbling as she tried to say thank you.

Laylee, Alice, Benyamin, and Oliver camped out in her living room that night. They needn’t worry about any wayward spirits now that Laylee’s home had been magically sterilized for ghosts, and they stayed up until dawn drinking tea, telling stories, and discussing the many details of nothing and everything. Their conversations were interrupted only by pauses to stuff their mouths with buttery candies and creamy ice cream, and finally, after the clocks themselves grew tired of ticking, Laylee fell into a deep, heavenly sleep and dreamed of a world where she would always have her friends by her side.

The thing that no one had been expecting, of course, was that the ghosts would get loose again.

There were only six of them this time, but, as I mentioned some pages ago, it had been a very long time since anyone had respected mordeshoors, so even the Elders had underestimated the power of Laylee’s magic. The moment she was hauled by her handcuffs through the doors of the city courthouse, the spirits could no longer be contained. Laylee was now closer than she’d ever been to these fresh phantoms, and sensing her nearness, they were bolstered by a connection far more powerful than the simple magical bind the Elders had used to subdue them.

And so it was amid a sudden, disturbing rush of noise, exclamation, riot, and chaos, that Whichwood’s town magistrate attempted to call their day into order. The problem was, no one could understand what was happening. Luckily, the ghosts were still too fresh to be interested in stealing skins just yet, but their newness to the world meant that they were only interested in making trouble. Young ghosts (no matter their human age) were preoccupied only by the need to make a fuss when they first arrive. It’s a fairly intolerable period—one that Laylee never cared for—but now, as she sat in her seat and watched the spirits wreak havoc upon the composures of the most esteemed members of her community, she had to fight back a smile. Ghosts rushed by, upending stacks of paperwork, blowing out all the lanterns, and knocking over ladies’ hats. They spun around Laylee’s head, shouting any number of things at her—

“Mordeshoor! Mordeshoor!” This, from a tiny little girl. “Can we please go home now?”

“I don’t like it here at all,” said a curly-haired woman who’d just knocked over a samovar.

“Neither do I,” said an elderly gentleman who was trying and failing to pull down people’s trousers. “Why are we here? Why don’t we leave, Mordeshoor?”

Laylee sent them pleading looks and pressed a single finger to her lips, hoping they would calm down.

“Ooooooh,” said a pimply teenage boy, “I think she’s in trouble.”

“What do you mean, in trouble?” said the tiny girl. She flew up to the ceiling and sat upside down. “How can a mordeshoor be in trouble?”

Just then, one of the older ghosts rattled a window so hard it shattered; splintered glass rained into the room, eliciting startled cries and screams from the jury. No one seemed able to make sense of the nonsense, and Laylee was surprised by their ignorance. But Laylee knew she’d be found out eventually, and she figured she’d better get these ghosts in line before they ruined her chances today. She could’ve easily said something to them. She felt her fingers twitch as they reached for the whip that hung from the tool belt she wore around her waist.

Still, she hesitated.

For so long, this had been Laylee’s greatest secret: that she could see and speak with the ghosts. She’d always worried that outing herself as a direct liaison between human and spirit would only make her job more burdensome; she worried the people would pester her for communications from the dead, for last words from their loved ones—and she’d wanted nothing to do with it. But now she wondered whether it was still a secret worth keeping. Wouldn’t it lend credibility to her profession if her people knew she could actually see the spirit emerge as the body failed? Could this not help her, somehow?