“I’m going to plant rain daisies in the morning.” I bite my lip. “Like back home.”
When I say back home, my father’s face lights up. There’s nostalgia in his eyes, and a longing that breaks my heart. “They should do well here if we keep them watered.” I brush my fingers across the soil, remembering another garden and another time. “Even if the air’s dry.”
My father rubs his chin. “Yes, I think so . . .”
“Under the nehet tree will make a good spot.” I bite the inside of my cheek.
Some part of him must know that something—everything—is wrong, but he can’t make sense of his thoughts. Since we’ve been in Kefu, he’s less and less himself. He rarely tries to make conversation, let alone tell stories. Arti is always too busy scheming with Efiya to notice. “They would do better by the pond, where they can get more sunlight. You should know that, Little Priestess.”
“You’re right,” I admit after an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll dig new holes tomorrow. I’m tired.”
“I’ll go to the market in the morning and get some milk candy.” His voice is full of excitement. “We’ll work in the gardens together, like we used to. It’s been far too long, and I miss spending time with you. You’re growing up so fast.”
I smile, my heart collapsing in my chest. I want so badly to go back to those times. “What do you think of your other daughter? Has she not grown up even faster?”
Oshhe never talks to Efiya. With the way time passes in Kefu, he hasn’t gotten the chance to know her. She doesn’t share the bond that I have with him. I can’t help but think if our father had been himself, he could’ve helped me sway her.
“She has.” Oshhe smiles. “You both have grown up so fast. My two little priestesses.”
“She’s not a little priestess.” I grit my teeth. “She’s a damn demon.”
“Would you like to hear a story now?” Oshhe asks, not listening to me.
“Not now, Father.” I cringe. “Tomorrow when we’re planting the daisies.”
“Good.” Oshhe claps once. “I’ll tell you a story about one of my ancestors.”
He smiles, but he doesn’t tarry much longer. I turn the ground belly-up beneath three separate nehet trees before I find the bones. Sweat trickles down my back, and my fingertips are raw from digging. The moonlight shimmers in the soil and my mind turns to Koré. I haven’t seen her since the day I broke Arti’s curse.
Once I have the bones, I steep half the iboga bark in mint and ginger tea and wedge the other piece under my tongue. It tastes nutty at first but turns sour after a while. By the time the brew is ready, my mouth is numb and my tongue feels fat and useless. Once Efiya’s presence wafts around the villa again, I go back to my room to begin the final stages of the ritual.
I sit in front of the mirror in my room, threading Efiya’s hair around the bones. Every nerve in my body pushes me to hurry, but rituals take time, even in this place where time has no meaning. I must be patient. Ancestor magic demands respect. It’s the same as respecting one’s elders. The bones are so small it takes me several tries to get it right. Finally, I grease the bones with palm oil and secure them to my left hand with a piece of cloth. I drink the mint and ginger tea and wait.
I am Arrah.
Hear my voice, great ancestors.
Hear my plea.
Answer my need.
Bless me with your presence.
With my Tamaran accent the Aatiri words are rough on my tongue—I’ve been practicing them only in my head for so long. Now the wait begins. Time passes with the drumming of my heartbeat, the rise and fall of my breaths. So much time that doubt crawls into my mind. The demons in the walls whisper that I won’t have enough years to trade for another ritual. The longer I wait for the magic to come, the more I fear they’re right. I repeat the words again, slower, drawing out each syllable. This time, sparks of magic drift through the walls and the ceiling. I hold my breath as it floats in the air, still deciding if it wants to answer my call. Instead of lighting on my skin, it forms a circle around me.
Fire tears through my muscles. I clench my jaw tight to keep from passing out, and soon the pain fades—quicker than it has before. My gums ache, and when I poke around my mouth with my tongue, one of my back teeth shakes free. I reach up with a trembling hand, desperate to put it back in place, foolish to think that I can. When I finally give up, I hold the tooth in my palm—it’s riddled with black rot. Magic takes of you what it will, my father said. It could take a little or all your years. By some small grace, this time, it hasn’t crippled me. A tooth is a small price to pay.
Fog creeps from the bones and obscures my view, but only in the mirror. My bedroom remains unchanged. My eyes ache from staring too long and I blink. In my reflection, three women appear behind me. My heart races against my chest. Even though I hoped that the ritual would work, it still catches me off guard.
When I look over my shoulder, there’s no one. The three great Aatiri ancestors are with me only in spirit. Their eyes are white and their faces blank. I go to my knees and rest my hands flat on my thighs to show respect.
I’m not to speak before they do, so I wait again. They blink and their eyes change from all white to all black. The one in the middle, who reminds me of Grandmother, speaks first. Her voice is hoarse and commanding.
“Who are you to call upon us?” she asks.
For the magic to work, I must convince them of my worth and learn their names. “I’m Arrah,” I answer, “daughter of Oshhe, who is son of Mnekka, the great Aatiri chieftain.”
The woman smiles. “Mnekka was my favorite granddaughter.”
“And I’m her favorite.” At least I hope I am.
The woman nods. “I’m Nyarri.”
I wait again.
The other two women seem inclined to make me wait longer.
I itch to say something first, but still my tongue.
My fists clenched against my lap begin to tremble. Please. Please. Please. I need them to concede their names and agree to help me kill Efiya. I can’t do it on my own. “Please,” I whisper.
“Begging will not work,” hisses the woman to Nyarri’s right. “You’re not a true Aatiri, girl. Mulani blood runs through your veins.”
“You do not speak our language well,” adds the woman to Nyarri’s left, her voice cold. “How dare you call upon us if you do not know our customs?”
I squeeze my fists so hard that my fingernails dig into my flesh. “I have Mulani blood, yes. Yet I’m still of you, too. Am I not worthy of your help because I’m different? Am I not worthy because I didn’t grow up in Tribe Aatiri and I don’t speak your language? Judge my worth on who I am, not what I’m not. I’m still of your flesh. Answer my call, ancestors, and hear my plea. I need your help.”
“Spoken like a true Aatiri.” The ancestor on the left nods approvingly. “I’m Ouula.”
The ancestor on the right scoffs at me and waves her hand. She acts like I’ve done some trick to win over the other two. She doesn’t wear her hair in the braids that are common among the Aatiri. Her coils are loose about her head and stick up every which way, like my hair when I don’t braid it. Even though I look like my mother, I have this ancestor’s deep-set eyes.