Page 52 of A Forgery of Fate

But Shani had disappeared, and in her place came Mama, carrying a basket and a wooden comb. There were oil stains on her sleeve, and the smell of salt and fried dough tickled my nostrils.

“How many times have I told you not to sleep with your hair wet, Truyan?” Mama said, looking scandalized. “You ought to know better. And on the night before your wedding! You’ll wash away your luck and get a headache.”

“I didn’t—”

“Come, let me dry it for you.”

Before I could protest, Mama sat on my bed, patting my hair dry with a towel. When she was finished, she picked up the wooden comb and set it on her lap.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

Mama took a sudden interest in her hands; she looked nervous. “It’s a Balardan tradition for a mother to comb her daughter’s hair the night before her wedding.”

There came a hiccup in my heart. Over the years, my sisters and I had been desperate for anything to do with Baba’s heritage, and while Mama didn’t speak or read Balardan, she did her best to teach us what she knew. Tonight she had brought a piece of him with her—for me.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Gently Mama threaded the comb through my hair and brushed it down my back, as if whisking through custard. “Mailoh did a good job with your hair,” she said. “You look…”

“Tolerable?”

“Beautiful.” Mama let the word hang between us beforeshe set down the comb and reached into her basket. “This is for you.”

It was a fried cruller. I hadn’t had one in years.

“Don’t show your sisters—this is the only one that didn’t burn. Eat it while it’s hot.”

I broke the cruller in two and offered her the bigger half. Together we bit down at the same time. The familiar crunch made my heart pinch with nostalgia.

“They’re not as good as they used to be,” Mama admitted. “It’s been too long since I’ve made them.”

“They’re your best yet.”

Mama swept her hand over my face, her fingers landing on the mole by my mouth. “You remember when I used to tell fortunes? I told you this mole was lucky, and it’d earn you coin. Wasn’t I right?”

I humored her with a smile. “You were right.”

“I used to think I knew everything about my daughters, but how you’ve all grown.”

“Mama…”

“I wish the visions hadn’t come to you, Tru, but the gods never give us more than we can handle. You must have questions. Tell me.”

I hesitated. “Do you…?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not me. Your grandmother.”

“Grandmother?”

Mama pulled some blanket over her legs. “I wish you could have met her. She could see someone’s face and know their future. Almost like you.”

I thought of the tingle that crept down my fingers, how it turned into a burning itch and made my arm feel as heavy as lead. I thought of how every time my attention drifted frommy work, I’d fall into a vision I never meant to foresee. “Did she learn to control it?”

“It depends on what you mean. She told me she learned to see years ahead of her. Sometimes she could even see the future’s multiple possibilities, like tangled threads yet to be unspun. But two things never changed: She could never predict when her visions would come true. And she could never stop one from happening.”

My shoulders fell. I could hear pain in Mama’s voice, and I reached for her hand. “What did she say to you?”

“That I’d choose poorly. She never approved of your baba, said he’d break my heart one day. I married him anyway to prove her wrong.” Mama forced a smile. “I was stubborn and rash, like you.” She paused. “A jumper, like you.”

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