The woman held out a hennaed hand. “Come my child, we will visit someone and return before your mother comes back.” The children of this poor, parched town weren’t used to unexpected invitations. Exhilarated, Maral took her aunt’s hand and together they ran back to the psychic’s house. He was still on the same divan when they arrived, his back against the wall and a fresh glass of tea next to him. The room was dim and comfortably cool after the heat outside. The old man kept squinting at Maral without saying a word. The girl tried to hide behind her aunt’s legs. Like any other child in town, she was terrified of this ancient man with half-blind eyes and craters in his old face. The man gestured at a silver bowl full of water on the floor. The young woman pushed Maral forwards and told her to sit. The wood creaked as she did so. “We were all born from water,” the psychic’s ancient voice rang in the room. “You have the Cup of Jamshid in front of you, child. If you have a pure heart, the water spirit will speak to you. She will honor you with the truth.” The words fell on Maral like little loose rocks from a hill. She tore her eyes away from the bowl and looked up. An old blanket was descending over her.