India is just like Mary described it—hot and strange with colors so bright they almost hurt his eyes—but it’s more, too, because when she was here, Mary hadn’t yet learned to see the magic that suffuses the air. The others of his party don’t seem to notice, but he’s sure that it shimmers gold and blue just this side of sight and tastes like spices and history.

When he comes around the corner of the ruins of the ancient temple, ageless stone all tumbled over and garlanded with vines, he sees the young woman standing very, very still and staring at nothing with an old, mysterious look on her face, and he thinks, She can see it, too.