hand. He gently uncurled my fingers and turned my palm toward him. I opened my mouth to say, “Oh, yeah, that thing Nasiha and Tarik do.” But the words died on my tongue. First he simply touched his fingertips to mine, which was pleasant enough. Then he lightly traced the length of my fingers, moving slowly, a low hum of sensation for the front of my hand, a warm tingle for the back. Finally, he set his palm to mine. “Ohh!” I exclaimed, enlightened and entranced. It felt like warm, golden light—not the muted gold of late afternoon but something more sharply metallic, conducting its own
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