Kirah’s face contorted with horror.

“I’m half-ehru, Kirah.” The words came out as mangled as Enitawa’s branches. “Mother had three wishes; she gave one to me. I had to obey. I’ve resisted all this time, but she found me and I had to give in …” I shook my head. I sounded like a madwoman. But I had to make her understand. I couldn’t lose her, not Kirah.

And as for Sanjeet—

The phantom of his lips brushed against mine. How could that same mouth call me monster?

“I can explain,” I said, stretching out my hands again. “Please. Let me show you.”

Both of them were still. Sanjeet’s jaw hardened, and he placed a protective arm around Kirah.

“If we touch you, you could steal our memories,” he said. “Like you used to steal mine in the Children’s Palace.”

For a moment I floated above my body, watching the scene from above. The Crown Prince of Aritsar, barely breathing. Sanjeet and Kirah huddled together, shielding Dayo from the demon. The girl sniveling and stammering excuses. Even now, she was pretending to love them. Pretending to be sorry, to know what it meant to have a family. Looking in from the outside, I would have banished that girl to the traitor’s block in a heartbeat. My palms beaded with sweat. But I wasn’t pretending.

Was I?

Every mask, every Tarisai I had ever been scattered in the dark, puzzle pieces on a vast floor. The recluse of Bhekina House, willing to kill for her mother’s touch. The Prince’s Favorite, meddling in the minds of other candidates. The protector, carrying Dayo from the burning Children’s Palace. The High Lady Judge, making empty promises to Ye Eun. The lover, crossing a fiery pit for a brown-eyed boy.

They were all true. All of them. How could I pick which one to believe? I was a monster, yes—but I could not let that be all that I was. Not now.

I dried my hands on my wrapper. “I never stole your memories,” I corrected Sanjeet. “I only took your bad dreams.”

“You should have let me keep them,” he said. “You are the only nightmare.”

Kirah left Sanjeet’s side. She searched my face, looking for the Tarisai she knew: the girl who had giggled with her on the Children’s Palace rooftop. The girl who had cornrowed stories into her hair.

I’m still here, I Ray-spoke.

Kirah placed her cool, soft palm over my bloody one. She seized Sanjeet’s hand too, so he was forced to listen. My story poured into them both like rain, making up for lost time in rivers and floods. When they had seen all my memories—the ehru, The Lady’s murderous wish, my self-inflicted amnesia—Kirah was still frowning. But she didn’t stop holding my hand.

“Can you control it?” she asked. Bags puffed under her eyes, and her face was wan in the morning light. “Be honest, Tar. Can you keep yourself from making The Lady’s wish come true?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I could make myself forget again. But that only worked until Mother found me.” And she would find me again. She would always find me. My temples grew clammy as Melu’s voice echoed in the air: Until you grant her third wish, neither you nor I will be free.

Melu’s name jarred in my thoughts, awakening after so many years. My father, the ehru. Bound to that savannah until I killed Dayo.

“I have to go back to Swana,” I gasped.

“Why?” Kirah asked, frowning. “Won’t your mother find you there? Isn’t that where she lives?”

“Yes. But only Melu would know how to break the curse. He can’t free himself; he can’t leave that grassland. But maybe I could free us both.”

Kirah’s lips pressed together. “I’ll come with you.”

“You can’t. What if Dayo needs you to sing? He barely made it through the night.”

“Swana’s four lodestones away,” Kirah countered, “not including the time you’ll have to rest in between. You’ll be feverish with council sickness by then. Suppose you don’t make it back?”

“Then our problem’s solved.”

Kirah glared at me, bottom lip trembling. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare take the easy way out, Tar. What would Dayo do if you died?”

“Live,” I spat. “He would live!”

“No. You’d just be killing him another way.”

“I’ll go,” said Sanjeet.

Kirah and I turned to stare at him. He was expressionless, a soldier volunteering for a thankless duty. I could no longer envision the tenderness with which he had fastened a gift around my ankle. The cowrie shell still dangled against my foot, cold as bone.

“You don’t have to,” I said.

“I know,” he growled. “But I will. For his sake.”

He lifted Dayo onto his shoulders and disappeared down the passageway. Before they vanished, I memorized the curl of Dayo’s hair, the breadth of his nose, the slope of his narrow back.

“I may never see him again,” I whispered.

“Maybe not,” Kirah said. “But you aren’t a monster, Tarisai. No matter what Sanjeet says.”

I sobbed as she stroked my back, rearranging the heavy yarn braids that hid my face. “I don’t deserve you,” I said.

“Too bad.” Kirah gave a tired smile. “Because none of us will give you up without a fight. Dayo’s probably forgiven you already. He doesn’t know how to hate anyone. Not even a murderer.”

“But do you think the rest of our council will?”

She chewed her lip. “I think it would be best if they didn’t know. Not right away, anyway. But they’ll understand. Well, everyone except …” She looked wearily in the direction Sanjeet had gone. “You know what happened to Sendhil.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. Sanjeet had almost lost his little brother for good, again.

And it was all my fault.

DAWN BROKE, AND WE WASHED THE BLOOD from our clothes.

Dayo rested, feverish and delirious, in one of the keep’s rarely used bedrooms. “He was sleepwalking,” Kirah told our council siblings. “He took a fall.”

The keep servants fussed, bringing tea and poultices from the kitchens. Thaddace and Mbali did not send word to the emperor, because no one was afraid that Dayo would die. Raybearers were immune, after all, to everything.

Everything except me.

Kirah prevented servants from fetching healers from the capital. “We have it all under control,” she told them, smiling a little too brightly. A bandage hid the stab wound on Dayo’s side, which could not yet pass as a bruise from an innocent tumble.

I knew Kirah and Dayo would keep my secret, though Sanjeet was unpredictable. If the rest of my council siblings found out what I had done, I would lose everything. The council would side against me, and Kirah and Dayo would join them. They would have no choice.

I stayed far away from Dayo’s sleeping body, memorizing the silhouettes of my council brothers and sisters as they huddled together, lighting incense to Am for Dayo’s recovery. Without seeing them, I could summon their voices, their tics and mannerisms. Kameron’s tongue, lolling thoughtfully in his cheek. Ai Ling’s jaded, strident laughter. Umansa’s sleepy smile. Thérèse’s pale eyebrows, furrowed in meditation.

Why do you hate them so much, Mother? How could you take away the person they love most?

Melu was my only hope. But even if he broke my ehru curse, I might never earn my council’s trust back. Perhaps it was best if I never returned.

Unable to say goodbye, I stole away to my chamber. Clothes lay in piles from last evening, when my only anxiety had been impressing Sanjeet on Nu’ina Eve. None of my possessions seemed appropriate to pack for the journey ahead: rainbow wax-dyed wrappers, jeweled council regalia, High Judge case scrolls. I especially avoided touching the piles of handmade gifts from villagers. Every item held a story of sweat and sacrifice, of love I did not deserve. Biting my lip, I remembered the last gift I received.

“I’m sorry, Amah,” I whispered, and slipped the cowrie shell anklet from my foot.

The pallet in my chamber was dusty from neglect, since our council always slept together in the banquet hall. But I had not rested for two days, and sank gratefully onto the mudcloth blankets. The coarse cotton, dyed with earth-toned patterns of brown, black, and white, chafed my face. I counted them feverishly until sleep fell like a shadow. When I woke, I was still clutching the anklet.

“Time to go,” Sanjeet said. He stood in my doorframe and tossed a pile of leathery items on the floor. “Get dressed.”

I rubbed my stiff face and squinted at the pile. “Imperial Guard uniforms?” Sanjeet already wore the dark draping pants and protective padding strapped across his bare chest and arms. An oval shield leaned beside him in the doorway. I frowned. “Wouldn’t peasant clothes draw less attention?”

“Imperial Guard warriors patrol the valley, changing shifts every three hours. If The Lady is watching the keep, Guard uniforms allow us to leave undetected. We must conceal your absence from Yorua for as long as possible. If The Lady knows her weapon has been compromised, she may try to reclaim it.”

“Weapon,” I repeated. “Is that my name now?”