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

"An old man? So where did he go?" KokoGul squinted and leaned forward pointedly.

"He disappeared. He came so suddenly; I felt his hand on my shoulder. As soon as he finished what he had to say, he disappeared. I didn't see where he went—he just vanished! I don't know who he was." I was breathless but not frightened. I waited for KokoGul to interpret what I'd seen.

"B'isme-Allah!" KokoGul exclaimed, praising God. "You have seen an angel! That's who he was, you simpleminded girl! Oh, not to recognize an angel when he taps you on the shoulder and promises to watch over you!"

An angel? Could it be? Grandfather had told us stories about angels and their celestial powers when he recited suras with us. How blind I had been not to recognize an angel before me! KokoGul went on, ranting that I did not appreciate this unearthly encounter. My sisters looked on wide-eyed.

Her sharp voice faded as the angel's words echoed in my mind.

He would watch over me. My guardian angel would bring roshanee to the path ahead. I would never be alone.

The following Jumaa, Friday, we waited for my father to return from the masjid. KokoGul had instructed my father to pray that she and her daughters would also receive a visit from a guardian angel. My father hadn't said much about my encounter. I didn't know what or how much he believed.

KokoGul and I believed together. In this, we were united. She saw small changes in me, and I saw what those changes did to her. I walked taller. I followed her instructions but didn't quiver before her as I once had. I wandered in and out of the orchard boldly, day and night. I half expected my angel to reappear and offer soft words of comfort.

KokoGul was beside herself. To her friends, she boasted that I, her daughter, had been visited by an angel. The visit was a herald of good fortune, and she hoped to absorb some of that light. She began to examine her dreams with more diligence, looking for clues that the heavens were communicating with her too. I heard her newly charged supplications when she prayed at home. She spoke to me a little more sweetly, with a gentle hand stroking my hair.

My sisters were curious about the whole matter but unable to grasp KokoGul's yearning to meet the man I'd seen in the orchard. Najiba, closest to me in age, was most puzzled by KokoGul's reactions.

"What did the angel look like, Fereiba? Were you scared of him?" she asked curiously. We were sitting cross-legged on the floor, shelling peas from their pods.

"He just looked like an old man, like somebody's grandfather." My words felt far too simple, but I didn't know how else to answer.

"Whose grandfather? Our grandfather?"

"No, not anyone we know. Just a grandfather," I paused, wanting to do him justice. "He glowed and he knew my name." I tossed a handful of peas into the bowl between us.

Najiba was quiet, considering my explanation. "Well, I'm glad I didn't see him. I think I would have been scared."

I might have said the same had I not been there to see his blue-gray eyes. His gentle voice had filled the darkness and left no room for fear. Still, Najiba made me feel brave.

KokoGul didn't quite see it the same. She began to absorb my encounter as her own, vicarious experience. I heard her talking to two friends over tea one day.

"And then he disappeared? Just like that?" "Did you expect a horse and carriage would come and carry him off?" KokoGul said in her trademark snappish way. Unless they were the target of the sarcasm, her friends were typically entertained by it.

"God must be watching over her to have sent an angel to her," said one.

"You know, the poor thing, her mother's spirit in heaven watches over her. Must have had something to do with it," said the other sympathetically.

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.