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essential to surviving in a new country each year. In Phuket, there were sunset volleyball games on the beach. In Marrakech, nightly drumming and dancing in the square. Here in Aix, there are my daily, tiny, sugary espressos at Café Cerise in the Place de la Mairie. Today, over my espresso, I’m reading more of the poetry book Jean-Claude lent me. I find myself glancing up from time to time, looking for Illusion.
    Instead of Illusion, I catch a glimpse of Layla heading my way. She’s absorbed in conversation with a woman carrying a stringed wooden instrument unlike any I’ve seen before. It looks like a small harp, adorned with intricate carvings of Celtic knots. The woman is wearing a long tunic of red cloth, obviously hand-dyed and sewn with coarse, uneven stitches. Leather strings attached to homemade sandals climb her ankles like vines. A brass snake winds around her upper arm. From a cord at her neck hangs a brass pendant of three interconnected spirals.
    In a city where nearly every woman is ultrachic, straight outof
Vogue
, dressed all in white or black or pale yellow or gray, Layla
would
find the one who treats life as a costume party.
    She announces, “This is Sirona!”
    “
Enchantée,
” I say. “I’m Zeeta.”
    “
Enchantée.
” Her hand feels solid, with callouses at the fingertips. I have no idea how old she is. One moment she looks thirty, younger than Layla, the next she looks old enough to be Layla’s mom. Tiny laugh lines fan out from the corners of her eyes. I can tell right away she’s one of those people who always seems to be smiling.
    Layla kisses my cheek and plops down. “Hello, love!” She turns to the woman. “Sit, sit, Sirona!” She waves her arm at the waiter, who rushes over. Layla has that effect on men. It took him ten whole minutes to notice me. This is why, with Layla around, it’s hard to determine whether my
fantôme
could be out there—because a half dozen men’s eyes are glued to our table. And she does look especially stunning today in a dress of raw pink silk from Thailand and a wreath of daisies on her head.
    Layla beams at the woman in the odd tunic and says, “Sirona plays the lyre!”
    “
Hyper cool,
” I say. It doesn’t take Layla long to sniff out the fringe elements in a new place. The only thing missing now is a clown boyfriend. Of the dozens, possibly hundreds, of boyfriends she’s been through, most have been travelers like us—bards, gyspies, troubadours—mostly penniless, usually musicians, artists, clowns, or some combination thereof. Layla’s a clown magnet. Someday I’d like to know how manyclowns there are in the world, because chances are, Layla’s had flings with the majority.
    She drapes her arm over Sirona’s shoulder. “And Sirona’s named after a goddess of the hot springs in southern France!”
    No wonder they’ve become instant friends. Layla has some kind of sacred water goddess radar that beeps in her head when she encounters a like-minded soul.
    “Sirona knows everything about the history of this place.” Layla’s flushed pink with the elation that comes with making a new best friend in a new country. “Tell her, Sirona!”
    “
Eh bien,
” Sirona begins. Her voice is low and calm, soothing to the ear. “Aix. It’s a sort of nickname for Aquae Sextius. Sextius was a Roman general.” She shudders. “Terrible man. Until him, a couple thousand years ago, the Celtic tribes in this area were holding their own against the Greeks and Romans. But he sweeps in and sets up an army camp and claims these springs are his. The Celts were fantastic warriors, but Sextius defeated us, the little worm.”
    “You’re Celtic?” I ask, glancing up from my notebook, where I’m scribbling notes.
    “My ancestors were the Salluvii—a Celtic Ligurian tribe that lived around here. Sextius and his warriors slaughtered our men. To escape slavery, the women killed their children, and then, themselves.” She winces and lowers her gaze to the