She took a deep breath and started over. Slowly. Gently. She let the fabric find its own shape. She smoothed it over her chest, letting the ends fall long. She used two pins this time, securing it not too tight, not too loose, just right. She let one tiny curl escape by her ear—a small rebellion she decided she would keep forever.

The first try was a disaster. A lump bulged at the back of her neck. The pin pricked her finger, and a tiny bead of blood bloomed like a ruby. She hissed in frustration.

The scent of cardamom and rain clung to the narrow alley. Rarah, twelve years old and fiercely curious, pressed her back against the cool stone wall of her grandmother’s house in the old city of Fez. In her hand, she clutched a small, rectangular mirror.