Excerpt from When the Moon Is Low by Nadia Hashimi, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

As if popular superstitions weren't enough, KokoGul created plenty of her own. Two birds flying overhead meant she would get into an argument with a close friend. If her onions burned on the fire, someone was bad-mouthing her cooking, and if she sneezed more than twice, evil spirits were toying with her. Padar-jan said nothing to KokoGul but would quietly tell us which interpretations she had invented so that we wouldn't share them with others. He shouldn't have bothered. KokoGul wasn't the type to keep her thoughts to herself, and all the neighbors were familiar with her fantastic theories.

In one corner of our orchard stood a cluster of striking mulberry trees, their overgrown branches draped down, bringing tiny fruits within arm's reach. The trees were mature with heavy, rooted trunks. One tree in the center of the group had bark so knotted and gnarled that KokoGul swore she could make out the face of an evil spirit in its woody convolutions. She was petrified of the bark-carved face but loved the mulberries that came from the branches above. Whenever KokoGul fancied mulberries, she would summon me.

"Fereiba-jan," she would call sweetly, pulling a ceramic bowl from the cupboard. "I need you to fetch some berries from the orchard. You know no one else can pluck those little fruits as delicately as you. I'll get nothing but jam if I send anyone else to pick them."

Her cajoling was unnecessary, but knowing KokoGul was too frightened to come out herself made me smile. As a skinny, stringy-haired twelve-year- old, I feared KokoGul more than the mysterious maze of trees in the orchard. In fact, in the light of day, when the house was full of people and demands, the orchard was my refuge.

One weekday night, with my sisters hunched over homework assignments, KokoGul was struck with a craving for mulberries. Obediently, I crept out the back door with an empty bowl and made my way to the familiar tree, the twisted bark snarling in the amber moonlight. Without daylight to help me, I let my fingers float through the leaves and guide me to the berries. I'd plucked no more than two or three when I felt a soft breeze behind me, as gentle as a whisper.

I turned around to see a luminous figure, a man, standing behind me. I dared not breathe as he placed his hand on my shoulder, so lightly that I hardly felt his touch.

I followed his long tapered fingers to his arm until I could take in all of him. He was old; a short, white beard covered his chin and crisscrossed wrinkles lined his face. Thick, white brows hung heavily, leaving just slits of his blue-gray eyes. He was a friend, I knew instantly. My racing heart slowed at the tender sound of his voice.

"Fereiba-jan. In the darkness, when you cannot see the ground under your feet and when your fingers touch nothing but night, you are not alone. I will stay with you as moonlight stays on water."

I blinked and he was gone. I looked around, expecting to see him walking away through the trees, but there was nothing. I replayed his words in my mind, hearing his voice echo. I whispered them to myself to make them linger. Seldom had my name been said so lovingly.

"Fereiba!" KokoGul called out to me from the house. She had grown impatient.

Hastily, I grabbed as many mulberries as I could, my fingers purple with their ripe juice. I scurried back to the house, shooting an occasional glance over my shoulder lest the old man reappear. My hands trembled as I put the bowl down in front of KokoGul, who sat overseeing my sisters as they worked diligently in their notebooks. She started on her snack. I stood before her, unmoved.

"What is it? What's happened to you?" she snapped.

"Madar-jan, I was outside—under the mulberry tree."

"And?"

"It's that, while I was there . . . I saw an old man. He came from light, from roshanee. He said my name and he told me that I was not alone. He said he would stay with me." As I said the words, I could hear his voice in my head.

Excerpted from When the Moon Is Low by Nadia Hashimi. Copyright © 2015 by Nadia Hashimi. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.