“Of course, of course,” he said, patting my hand. “I understand completely.” But before my shoulders could sag with relief, the chief added, “I’ll summarize the texts for you. In particular, I think you’ll truly connect with Elenya the Acolyte’s musings on the nature of friendship and betrayal. I recall one passage in which she . . .”

My neck pricked with worry. Had I succeeded in giving my memories to Uriyah, only to be saddled with another arduous task? Would he need me to become an expert in philosophy before I could anoint him?

But over the next few days, as I fought to keep my eyelids open through lectures on royal virtue, I soon realized that the rate of my progress meant little to Chief Uriyah. It was my potential that enamored him—that chaotic canvas of my life’s mistakes, waiting to be molded into a work of art. This would have annoyed me more, if it weren’t for Uriyah’s boyish joy in teaching. He seemed to crave a project: a willing vessel for his years of pedantic study.

As my headaches progressed, and the chorus of ojiji grew louder in my head, a strange relief enveloped me as I sat in Uriyah’s dusty study. I nodded in the right places when he waxed philosophical, and watched his wrinkle-set eyes shine when I quoted a text correctly. Here was one person, at least, who I had not disappointed as an empress. Whose needs I could satisfy with nothing more than a listening ear—and a cup of honeybush tea, shared over the ramblings of dead philosophers.

I would never be as close to Uriyah as I was to Min Ja, or even to Ji Huan. But at the end of one lesson, when I Ray-spoke as an experiment, Pride is a stumbling block to the young ruler . . . and Uriyah absentmindedly Ray-spoke back, Rinel the Goatminder, treatise five, verse twenty—I was pleased to hear his voice in my head.

I woke hours before dawn, soothed by my Ray-synced breathing with Dayo. His familiar scent of shea butter and fresh linen made me sigh. Where he lay on my shoulder, a tiny pool of drool stained my nightshirt. I poked his nose fondly.

But as usual, peace lasted only a moment before the ojiji began their song in my head.

You’re struggling. You’re not enough of an empress. Not enough of a sister. It’s why people always leave you. Why Sanjeet left you. Make up for it. Do more. Do more. Should have saved us. Should have cared.

Fever flared between my temples. In my exhaustion, I had long ceased to try to separate the ojiji’s truth from their lies. Instead, I plunged into what shut their grating voices up, if only for a while: my work.

I wriggled from Dayo’s embrace and padded into the salon, rifling through the chests for a pen and ink. Then I plopped down at my kneeling desk, scribbling furiously. I didn’t realize I was talking to myself until a hand pressed my shoulder.