“It’s just rocks and water.” Samara, Oloye Ronke’s eldest daughter, wrinkles her wide-set nose. “Nothing compared to this magnificent palace.” She flashes a smile at Mother, but her sweetness disappears when she turns back to me. “Besides, Zaria’s overrun with divîners. At least the maggots in Lagos know to stick to their slums.”
I tense at the cruelty of Samara’s words; they seem to hang above us in the air. I glance over my shoulder to see if Binta heard as well, but my oldest friend does not appear to be here. As the only divîner working in the upper palace, my chambermaid has always stood out, a living shadow forever by my side. Even with the bonnet Binta secures over her white hair, she’s still isolated from the rest of the serving staff.
“May I assist you, Princess?”
I turn over my other shoulder to see a servant I don’t recognize: a girl with chestnut skin and large, round eyes. She takes my half-empty cup and replaces it with another. I glance at the amber tea; if Binta were here, she would’ve snuck a spoonful of sugar into my cup when Mother wasn’t looking.
“Have you seen Binta?”
The girl draws back suddenly; her lips press together.
“What is it?”
The girl opens her mouth, but her eyes dart around the women at the table. “Binta was summoned to the throne room, Your Highness. A few moments before the luncheon began.”
I frown and tilt my head. What could Father possibly want with Binta? Of all the servants in the palace, he never summons her. He rarely summons servants at all.
“Did she say why?” I ask.
The girl shakes her head and lowers her voice, choosing each word with care. “No. But guards escorted her there.”
A sour taste crawls onto my tongue, bitter and dark as it travels down my throat. The guards in this palace do not escort. They take.
They demand.
The girl looks desperate to say more, but Mother shoots her a glare. Mother’s cold grip pinches my knee under the table.
“Stop talking to the help.”
I snap around and look down, hiding from Mother’s gaze. She narrows her eyes like a red-breasted firehawk on the hunt, just waiting for me to embarrass her again. But despite her frustration, I cannot get the thought of Binta out of my head. Father knows of our closeness—if he required something from her, why wouldn’t he go through me instead?
I stare out the paneled windows at the royal gardens as my questions grow, ignoring the empty laughter of the oloyes around me. With a lurch, the palace doors fly open.
My brother strides through.
Inan stands tall, handsome in his uniform as he prepares to lead his first patrol through Lagos. He beams among his fellow guards, his decorated helmet reflecting his recent promotion to captain. Despite myself, I smile, wishing I could be a part of his special day. Everything he ever wanted. It’s all finally happening for him.
“Impressive, is he not?” Samara fixes her light brown eyes on my brother with a frightening lust. “Youngest captain in history. He will make an excellent king.”
“He will.” Mother glows, leaning in closer to the daughter she cannot wait to have. “Though I do wish the promotion was not accompanied by such violence. You never know what a desperate maggot might try with the crown prince.”
The oloyes nod and dispense useless opinions as I sip my tea in silence. They speak of our subjects with such levity, as if they were discussing the diamond-stitched geles sweeping Lagos’s fashion. I turn back to the servant who told me about Binta. Though she is far away from my table, a nervous tremble still rocks her hand.…
“Samara.” Mother’s voice breaks into my thoughts, pulling my focus back. “Have I mentioned how regal you look today?”
I bite my tongue and drain the rest of my tea. Though Mother says “regal,” the word “lighter” hides behind her lips. Like the regal oloyes who can proudly trace their lineage back to the royal families who first wore Orïsha’s crown.
Not common, like the farmers who toil the fields of Minna, or Lagos’s own merchants bartering their wares in the sun. Not unfortunate like me, the princess Mother is almost too ashamed to claim.
As I peek at Samara from behind my cup, I’m struck by her new, soft brown complexion. It was only a few luncheons ago she shared her mother’s mahogany coloring.
“You are too kind, Your Majesty.” Samara looks down at her dress in false modesty, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles.
“You must share your beauty regimen with Amari.” Mother places a cold hand on my shoulder, fingers light against my dark copper skin. “She lounges in the gardens so often she’s beginning to look like a farmhand.” Mother laughs, as if a horde of servants don’t cover me with sunshades whenever I step outside. Like she didn’t coat me with powder before this very luncheon began, cursing the way my complexion makes the nobility gossip that she slept with a servant.
“That is not necessary, Mother.” I cringe, remembering the sharp pain and the vinegar stench of her last cosmetic concoction.
“Oh, it would be my pleasure.” Samara beams.
“Yes, but—”
“Amari.” Mother cuts me off with a smile so tight it could split her skin. “She would love to, Samara, especially before courting begins.”
I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but the very act almost makes me choke. In that moment, the smell of vinegar becomes so strong I can already feel the searing on my skin.
“Do not worry.” Samara grips my hand in her own, misreading my distress. “You will grow to love courting. It really is quite fun.”
I force a smile and try to pull my hand away, but Samara tightens her hold, as if I am not allowed to let go. Her gold rings press into my skin, each band set with a special stone. One ring feeds into a delicate chain, connecting to a bangle adorned with our monarchy’s seal: a diamond-studded snow leopanaire.
Samara wears the bangle with pride. No doubt a gift from Mother. In spite of myself, I admire its beauty. It has even more diamonds than min—
Skies …
Not mine. Not anymore.
Panic floods me as I remember what happened to my own bangle. The one I gave to Binta.
She did not want to take it; she feared the price of a gift from the throne. But Father raised the divîner taxes. If she didn’t sell my bangle, she and her family would’ve lost their home.
They must have found out, I realize. They must think Binta is a thief. That’s why she’s been summoned to the throne room. That’s why she needed to be escorted.
I jump out of my seat. The legs of my chair screech against the tiled floor. I can already see the guards holding out Binta’s delicate hands.
I can see Father swinging down his sword.
“Pardon me,” I say as I step back.
“Amari, sit down.”
“Mother, I—”
“Amari—”
“Mother, please!”
Too loud.
I know it the instant the words leave my mouth. My shrill voice bounces along the tearoom’s walls, quieting all conversation.
“M-my apologies,” I sputter. “I feel ill.”
With all eyes burning into my back, I scurry toward the door. I can feel the heat of Mother’s coming wrath, but I do not have time for that now. The moment the door shuts, I take off, hiking up my heavy gown. My heeled slippers clack against the tiled floors as I sprint through the halls.