“It’s two thousand, one hundred and twenty-nine years since Ptolemy died,” he said. “He was fourteen. Eight world empires have risen up and fallen away since that day, and I still carry his face. Who do you think’s the lucky one?” Kitty made no answer. At length she asked, “Why do you do it? Take on his shape, I mean.” “Because I promised myself,” the djinni said. “I’m showing him how he was. Before he changed.”
Before Nathaniel changed
