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I have forgotten that every word we say is witnessed. I have forgotten all but the mirror. We make Tata fish the magical papyrus of Hermas of Ephesus out of her basket, though Salome has to yank on it before Tata lets it go.
    “What shall we do for eye paint and the water of a shipwreck?” ask I.
    “Words carry more power than any of these things,” answers Salome.
    I nod—of course! Perhaps no magician would agree, but we have come to think it is not the trappings of magic that make magic but rather the
intent
to make magic that makes magic. But there must be power behind the intent. And it must be done in perfect confidence. Others might believe that this power comes in the form of demons, or from gods. Others might think one must allow a demon to enter one’s body, to take on its power, but we do not believe this. We believe power comes from our own intent.
    Salome and I quickly speak the words on the papyrus, not taking our eyes from the shape in the mirror, and I see that it responds to us—it responds! But Addai has stepped forward, he has taken the mirror from us, uttering two very foreign words, words that sound as the ripping of cloth. And with that, the mirror is clear. He says, “From this day on, if allowed, I shall care for these two prophets as if they were my own beloved daughters.”
    I stare at Addai. Salome glares at him. But Heli smiles. “They have endured enough of us,” he says. “Take these children home.”
    As Rhoda ushers us away, as Tata follows a pace behind, I hear Addai speaking to Ananias. “You have spoken truly, my friend, these are indeed
bat qol.
Go. Tell our friends. Have our friends tell friends. But shun the collaborators. Shun even the Poor who await the fall of the Kittim.”
    I know who the Kittim are; they are the Romans. The Poor are surely those Father made such good fun of at table the night we met Ananias. But I am not sure whom he means by the collaborators. Does he mean Father and Father’s friends? I think he does.
    Just as we would step through the door, Heli stops us, saying, “Let me show you something.” At this, he pulls back a woven cloth that hides the entryway into another room. “Behold,” he says. And we do. We see a treasure of books such as we have never seen in one place. “When you return,” he says, “you may read as many as you wish.”
    Return? We shall return?
    On the way back to Father’s house, I walk on air at the thought of so many books.
    Eventually, I ask Salome why she would lead us to Heli bar Nehushtan’s house. She answers, “I have no answer, Mariamne.”
             
    And so it begins, our new life. Not that we know it is our new life. What we think, Salome and I, is that it is a grand adventure, and that like all childhood’s adventures, it shall pass and we will remain where we are and who we are: young females waiting for the day Father arranges our futures by arranging our marriages.
    From this day forward, we pester Ananias to take us to Heli bar Nehushtan’s as often as he can. Because we are so often disregarded in my father’s huge house, it is as easy to do this as Salome once said it would be. And if Ananias cannot take us, then Tata does. Through Heli and Dinah’s wonderful home come men of learning, the educated of all nations, men who teach philosophies, men who write poetry, men who wonder at the sun and the moon and the stars and who question the nature of the gods. And there are women! These are not many, but they talk as the men, debate as the men, teach and write as the men. My head spins with the thought of being a woman like these.
    We escape Father’s white marble house in the Upper City of Zion whenever we can. How exciting to bind our hair, to dress as boys, to follow Tata’s instructions in how to move, how to lower our voices, how not to lower our eyes. I need no longer envy Salome her treasures. Tata binds them tight, tight enough to make Salome wince. We do all this so that we may go