Excerpt from The Map of Salt and Stars by Zeyn Joukhadar, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Huda jerks her thumb toward the kitchen. "There's a bowl of lamb with your name on it," she says to Zahra, "if you don't want to run errands."

Zahra rolls her eyes to the ceiling and follows us out.

Mama calls to us as we pass by. "I want you on your best behavior tonight—all of you." She tilts her chin down, eyeing Zahra. She pushes cilantro into the lamb, breaking the meat apart. "And here—in my pocket." She motions to Huda, holding up her oily hands. "A little extra, in case the price is up again."

Huda sighs and tugs a few coins from the pocket of Mama's skirt. "I'm sure it won't be that much."

"Don't argue." Mama turns back to the lamb. "All the prices have gone up in the last month. Bread, tahina, the cost of life itself. And listen—watch your steps. No crowds, none of this crazy business. You go to the shop and then directly home."

"Mama." Huda picks at dried flour paste on the countertop. "We won't have any part in that."

"Good." Mama glances at Huda. "But today is Friday. It will be worse."

"We'll be careful." Huda leans an elbow against the counter and looks up from under her thick eyebrows, beading with sweat. She shuffles her feet, setting the hem of her gauzy skirt rippling. "Really."

For the last two months, Mama's always told us to avoid crowds. It seems like they pop up everywhere—crowds of boys protesting, people protesting the protests, rumors of fighting between the two. The last few weeks, they've gotten so loud and angry you can hear their singing and megaphones all through the neighborhood. Mama's said for months that being in the wrong place at the wrong time can get you arrested—or worse. But just like in New York, keeping to yourself doesn't always keep rouble from finding you.

I close my eyes and try to think about something else. I take in all the spice smells in the kitchen, so deep I feel the colors in my chest. "Gold and yellow," I say. "Oil dough. I knew it was sfiha."

"That's my Nour, in her world of color." Mama smiles into the lamb, sweat shimmering at her hairline. "Shapes and colors for smells, sounds, and letters. I wish I could see it."

Huda tightens her shoelaces. "They say synesthesia is tied to memory. Photographic memory, you know? Where you can go back and see things in your mind's eye. So your synesthesia is like a superpower, Nour."

Zahra snickers. "More like a mental disorder."

"Stop your tongue." Mama scrubs her hands. "And get going, for heaven's sake. It's nearly five." She shakes the water from her fingers before drying them. "If the power goes out again today, we'll have to eat cold lamb and rice."

Zahra heads for the door. "Good memory, huh? Is that why Nour has to tell Baba's al-Idrisi story a hundred times?"

"Shut up, Zahra." Without waiting for an answer, I slip my sandals back on and open the front door. I swipe the curtain of fig branches out of my face. Dappled shadows shift on Mama's maps. Past our little alley, blue marbles of conversation roll in to us. A car swishes by, its tires making a gray hiss. A breeze rustles white on chestnut leaves.

I walk in the shadow of the building next door, shuffling my feet while I wait for Huda and Zahra to tie their shoes. I want to press my face back into the salty garden dirt, but I poke the corners of Mama's canvases with my toe instead. "Why does she leave all these out here?"

Huda comes out. She glances at the painted maps, stacked to dry like dominoes against the wall. "There are too many to keep them in the house," she says. "They dry faster outside."

"The maps don't sell like they did when we first moved," Zahra says, wiping sweat off the side of her face. "Have you noticed?"

"Nothing is selling," Huda says. She takes my hand. "Yalla. Let's get moving."

Excerpted from The Map of Salt and Stars by Jennifer Zeynab Joukhadar. Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Zeynab Joukhadar. Excerpted by permission of Touchstone. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.