“He could have stopped us if he wanted to. Besides, Mama says Dhyrmish people are like rabid dogs. I’m not going near him.” She refilled my goblet from a pitcher—Mama says sick children ought to drink lots—patted my arm, then hurried from the room.

I watched the figure in the far corner, unnerved by how still he was. He hadn’t budged even when the bedroom doors slammed behind Kirah. But I lay quietly, afraid of spooking him.

Then pressure weighed on my bladder. I winced; I hadn’t relieved myself for hours. Come to think of it, I was hungry too. I wriggled from the pile of panther skins and stood. The pressure intensified. After a fruitless glance around the room, I cleared my throat.

“E-excuse me,” I said. “Do you ever … I mean … Do you know where they keep the chamber pots?” My face heated. The figure tensed, as though surprised I had addressed him. “Never mind,” I mumbled. “I’ll just—”

“The pots are kept in the corner.”

I froze in surprise. The boy had not moved, but his voice filled the room, soft and implausibly deep.

“Put it back when you’re done. Servants take them away in the morning.”

“Oh. Thank you.” I crept to a corner and retrieved a brightly painted clay pot. I paused again. “Are the privy screens outside?”

The boy made a growling sound, almost a laugh. “Privacy is illegal here, new girl. Council members aren’t allowed to have secrets. Most candidates relieve themselves in the morning or late at night, when the gender screen is still drawn.” His Dhyrmish accent slid in a musical scale. Plosive consonants skipped across the boy’s tongue, like stones on a pond. He added, “Don’t worry. I won’t look.”

I did the deed as quickly as possible, stashing the pot in one of the window alcoves. My stomach gurgled. I remembered the feast I had seen in the dining hall earlier, and asked, “Where can I find food?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the boy replied. “I missed dinner hours ago.”

“My servants tied me up like you once,” I blurted awkwardly. “They were afraid I would steal their memories while they slept. I always give memories back after I take them. But they didn’t trust me.”

For the first time, the Dhyrmish boy turned.

Due to his size, I had expected him to look older, but a startlingly young face flickered in the candlelight, with a heavy jawline, reddish-brown skin, and steeply slanted eyebrows. His ears stuck out, as though he’d yet to grow into them, though the idea of him growing more was hard to imagine. “Stealing memories,” he said. “That’s your Hallow?”

I nodded. “Like this.” Feeling a strange urge to impress him, I placed a hand on Dayo’s dais. The marble groaned as my mind invaded its pores. The stone remembered a boy who had slept there decades ago. Over and over, he had rasped into the blankets: The Lady … The Lady … The Lady.

I snatched my hand from the dais as if it had burned me.

The Dhyrmish boy raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

“Emperor Olugbade slept here before Dayo,” I explained. “When the emperor was young, he had bad dreams. I think Dayo gets bad dreams here too.”

“You see all that?” asked the Dhyrmish boy. “Just by touching things?”

“People leave stories everywhere. It’s easier to take them from living things. Trees, soil. Objects and dead things don’t have very clear memories.”

The boy ran a hand through large, soft curls. “When you take memories, could you take them for good?” The chain on his arm rattled. “Could you make someone’s memories disappear forever?”

“No!” I said. “I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never tried that before.” To my surprise, the boy looked disappointed. “My name’s Tarisai of Swana,” I said. “What’s yours?”

“Sanjeet of Dhyrma.” He tensed when I came near, hiding his shackled arm. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Should I be?”

“You heard the Blessid girl,” he said dryly. “I’m the ‘Prince’s Bear.’”

I looked down, sheepish that he had overheard us. “Kirah said you were able to connect with Dayo’s Ray. That means you love him. So you can’t be all bad.”

“Bears are dangerous, even if they don’t want to be.” He stared hard at his calloused hands. “It’s in their blood.”

I remembered what Nawusi had said about me: Murder is in that child’s blood.

“Nobody has to hurt people if they don’t want to,” I snapped. “Nobody. They can’t make us.”

“Of course they can,” Sanjeet said evenly. “If we’re anointed, we serve at the pleasure of Prince Ekundayo. It’s the council vow: We shine as moonlight; we reflect the morning star.”

I frowned. “Why would anyone want to be moonlight? It’s white and cold. I’d much rather be sunshine.”

For the first time, Sanjeet’s lips twitched in a smile. His eyes, I noticed, were the color of long-steeped almond tea. Curiosity crept into his gaze, and I returned it.

“Kirah says you’ve lived here for ages. Can you find us food? Can’t you break that chain on your arm?”

“If I could,” he said dourly, “then I wouldn’t be here, sunshine girl. I’m not that strong.” He gestured to the shadowy ground. “The candidates tossed the key down there.”

Thinking quickly, I dropped to my knees and pressed my ear to the floor. Memories echoed across the stone. Children’s feet. The clink of a key skipping across the floor’s surface and stopping beneath a sleeping mat. I groped in the dark until my fingers closed around something metal.

“Got it.”

I rose and took Sanjeet’s arm. He stiffened beneath my touch, then relaxed, watching me closely as I unlocked the iron cuff.

“Come on,” I said, feeling suddenly shy. I turned and headed for the door. “I saw a room with dining tables. There might be food left.”

He followed, hunching his towering shoulders. He looked uncomfortable with the space he consumed, as if his presence were a greedy imposition.

“So if you’re not that strong,” I asked, “what is your Hallow?”

Sanjeet stared down at me through long, thick lashes. “Now would be a good time for me to lie.”

“Why?”

“Because friends can’t be afraid of each other,” he said bluntly. “And I want to be your friend.”

I assessed him. “I don’t think you’d be very good at lying.”

“I’m not.” He smiled. “And you’d find out my Hallow anyway; there are no secrets in the Children’s Palace.” He sighed, scanned my body, and rattled off a list in a monotone. “You twisted your ankle months ago. It healed stiffly, so you’re easy to trip. There’s a knot between your neck and your left shoulder. Your reflexes will be slower on that side. When you blink, your right eye closes faster. It causes a blind spot …” He trailed off, shifting his feet. “I see weakness. Bones, muscles, ruptures. They sing to me, tell me all their secrets. That’s why Father put me in death matches. With my Hallow, I never lost a fight.” His face hardened, and then grew soft. “Amah … my mother made me come here. She thought if I joined the council, I could help people. Become a doctor, or a priest. I’d like that.”

“Then why did you say no when Dayo offered to anoint you?”

He swallowed. “Because if I join, I can never see Amah again.” His expression grew hunted. “She would be stuck with Father forever.”

Before we left the chamber, I looked back at the serene rows of sleeping mats, dappled with sconce light. Had Mbali slept here once too, like Olugbade? And Thaddace, and Nawusi? In this room, how many future rulers had dreamed away their childhood?

“Friends for life,” I murmured, remembering Dayo’s promise. I glanced again at Sanjeet. “Do you really think that will happen? If we’re anointed, do you think we’ll—love each other?”

“Of course, sunshine girl.” Sanjeet stared quietly at the window, where the moon glowed through whispering curtains. “We won’t have any choice.”

AT BHEKINA HOUSE, THERE HAD BEEN NO rhythm to waiting.

No pulse made the hours pass faster, like the thrum of rain on a mud-thatch roof. Questions trickled into the ground: Will I be touched today? Will I be loved today? Will Mother come? Why … why doesn’t she come?

But at the Children’s Palace, there was no time for questions. Routine oiled the wheels of every hour, so that before I could blink, years had passed. My body had changed. Muscles curved where timid limbs used to be, and my wide, love-starved eyes had grown hooded, hiding their hunger. I learned to drawl with an Oluwani accent, rehearsing my smiles and frowns in the mirrored palace ceilings. I donned masks until they felt like my face. The Lady’s voice grew faint in my mind. I burrowed into the love of my friends—the love of Dayo, Kirah, and Sanjeet—and I almost forgot that I was made to be a killer.