“I cannot possibly love a person until I have seen them select a wardrobe,” he had said, and then laughed as though he were joking, though I highly suspected he wasn’t.

All the center realms—Oluwan, Swana, Djbanti, and Nyamba—were known for beautiful clothing, but Nyamba took the crown. I’d heard of Nyamban lords going bankrupt trying to follow their country’s ever-revolving fashions, and of weavers with divine gifts, like Umansa and his prophetic tapestries.

I had grown fond of Kwasi. His boyish, good-natured absentmindedness was how I imagined Dayo as an old man, though Dayo barely noticed the clothing on his own back, let alone anyone else’s.

“Have I worn you out, child?” Kwasi asked, with real concern. All of a sudden, the shop had gone quiet. The head tailor and her attendants were staring at me on the pedestal, fidgeting with worry.

Then, as though having an out-of-body experience, I realized that I was doubled over, massaging both my temples and moaning.

“Someone fetch a healer,” fretted the head tailor.

“No,” I insisted. “It’ll pass. I’ll be fine.”

The dressmakers gasped as the Redemptor marks on my skin began to pulse and shift, glowing with blue malevolent light.

A filthy child had appeared in the corner of the shop. I barely jumped—by now, I was used to the apparitions. But the ojiji’s visions were growing more intense. They would not let me rest—would never let me be complacent.

Do more, the child repeated. Justice for us all. Pay the price. This one appeared to be from Songland, dirt streaking its transparent face.

Guilt weighed like lead in my stomach. I hissed under my breath, “Can’t you see I’m trying?”

The child shrugged and disappeared. The marks on my body faded, dull and still again.

I’m crazy, I thought calmly. I am very, very ill. Part of me knew I should tell someone. Perhaps write to Kirah, or confess my visions to Dayo, who grew increasingly worried. But what could they do? And really . . . what did it matter? Once I stepped into the Breach, I would soon cease to feel anything, let alone pain.

I revoked the thought immediately, shocked at myself. I planned to come back from the Underworld. Woo In had managed it, so had Ye Eun. And I had promised Dayo, promised everyone that I would try. Yet the thought remained.

You will almost certainly die.

Over the past few months, I had developed a sinister suspicion about what the ojiji truly wanted. Why they were never satisfied. Why there was always more to do, more to pay for their lives.

Deep down, I knew they wanted more than justice. They wanted revenge: recompense for the lives already lost—the blood already shed. And the worst part was . . . I didn’t blame them.

I wasn’t even sure if they were wrong.

Kwasi placed a soothing hand on my arm, rheumy eyes scanning my face. “It’s that nasty council sickness, isn’t it?”

“No. I don’t get the sickness anymore.”