She looked closer at the object she’d mistaken for a bookmark—a length of metallic silver tinged with hints of bright mandarin. She picked it up, holding it aloft as it glinted in the gas lamps’ glare. Aasim cursed, his voice going hoarse. “Is that what I think it is?” Fatma nodded. It was a metallic feather, as long as her forearm. Along its surface, faint lines of fiery script moved and writhed about as if alive. “Holy tongue,” Aasim breathed. “Holy tongue,” she confirmed. “But that means it belongs to…” “An angel, ” Fatma finished for him.
