“Your plan.” Djola beamed at her. He’d get over being mad at her deceit. “Council agreed to listen to transgressor witnesses. The People have gathered to hear you too.” He was warmth and love, as sentimental as Yari—what Father couldn’t manage and Mother had been denied. Djola reached his bare lethal hand toward her, touching a cheek. His fingers were cool and tingled like the gates. “Xhalan Xhala. Your tomorrow is so bright … I can’t see it.” He brushed his lips over the palm of her burnt hand while touching her forehead, a sign of respect to a great griot. “A mountain is either being worn down or rising up.”

Awa sputtered at praise for an Iyalawo wise woman. Death was near and she should take care with last words. It had been easier singing with the trees and talking to Fannie. “We’ll speak the change-spell together.” She pressed her forehead to Djola’s, like a daughter. “I feel light and full.”

“Everyone is in position.” Bal dropped from a branch in front of them.

Still holding Awa’s hand, Djola pressed his forehead to Bal’s. “Whatever happens, I leave you a legacy of love. Share my memory.” Bal was thrilled at his somber words. Djola was the story vie had longed for. Awa hugged them both, and then Djola hobbled away.

“Djola loves the world again.” Bal watched him and Mango head to Council. Djola would help Bal with grief. “But he loves you most of all.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Awa pressed her body against Bal’s, feeling taut muscles, soft skin at vie’s neck, and sharp bones at the collar. She drew in Bal’s sweaty, spicy scent and wanted to do things she’d seen Smokeland lovers do in the treehouses. Instead, she kissed vie wherever she could find bare skin. “It’s you who loves me most of all.” An old woman clown leered at them from a branch and sang a bawdy melody. Others added harmony. Bal’s lips and tongue made Awa tingle, cold conjure on her hot skin. Back from the bushes, Meera giggled at their moans and squeals. Awa pulled away. “I’d love to grab Mango and the horses, escape to Kyrie’s mountain, and make good stories together, but—” She held up Djola’s conjure bag.

Bal threw it over her strong arm. “What are you doing tomorrow?” Vie stuffed Awa’s unruly hair under the head wrap. “And the next day?”

“Tomorrow is a mystery,” Awa replied. “So is the day after.”

“I love mystery.” Bal grinned, as cheeky and arrogant as Djola. Soft, wet lips traced Awa’s collarbone, tickling the hollow above her breasts.

Awa lifted Bal’s chin, savoring the prickles and heat. “Any more and I won’t be able to do what we have to do.”

Bal nipped her nose. “So, later then.”

“We should go,” Meera said.