“I have not seen something like that happen in a very long time,” he whispered, and I gulped.

“Should I choose something else?”

“Of course not,” he said, sucking in a breath. “My child, if there was ever a sign you were made for an outfit . . . that was it.”

We paid the head tailor, who promised to visit the palace with my completed garment within the week. Then I turned hopefully to Kwasi. “Well?” I said. “Will you receive my Ray now?”

He gave a sly grin. “Not until we’ve found you some accessories. A silk sash, perhaps. Or some beaded tassels.”

So our Ileyaso odyssey continued, Imperial Guard warriors following patiently behind with our purchases as we shopped our way through the district. When we came to an open-air luxury market of panther and donkey hides, Kwasi stopped to admire a dove-gray pelt, exclaiming at its quality.

Several hides hung on clotheslines between stalls and high-rise buildings. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a flash of dark green amidst the motley rows of animal skin. I squinted. Was someone standing on a window ledge?

“Marvelous. Just marvelous,” Kwasi gushed, examining a pelt with dappled white spots. “Tarisai, wouldn’t this be just the thing for your adinkra?”

I was barely listening. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Heart racing, I swiveled to check on our guards. They stood nearby, armed and calmly scanning the area.

“. . . as a trim,” Kwasi was saying. “Or a mantle, draped over one shoulder . . .”

I was barely listening. When had I felt this cold foreboding before? A song from a harrowing, moonlit night stole into my memory:

Why, you ask? Why?

The Pelican has spoken.

“Get down,” I roared at Kwasi, right before a mob of masked, mounted warriors clattered into the marketplace. Merchants shouted and scrambled for cover, and the Imperial Guards leapt to form a wall around me and Kwasi. But instead of whizzing arrows or slashing spears, I heard only the din of overturned carts and stalls, and the screams of confused shoppers, some of whom were pointing overhead.

High above, hazy through the smoke of street fires and rows of hanging pelts, a man stood on a window ledge, his green, tooth-encrusted mask glinting in the sunlight.

The Crocodile.

“Having fun shopping, Oluwanis?” he boomed at the crowd in a strident tenor that sent a thrill up my spine. Scaly leather bands glinted on his arms. “My, what a wealth of bargains! Aheh: The stalls are just brimming with good deals today! Some of you could buy this whole market, and your purses would not feel the difference.” He laughed, a thundercrack that echoed through the stone square. “Well—how is this for a price? The lives of men, women, and innocent children worked to death in tanneries and textile mills throughout the empire!”

The crowd chattered objections, but the Crocodile talked over them.

“Try to forget it! Pretend that it isn’t true. Pretend you don’t know what it means when pelts run cheap, or when furs sell for a song. Go on—drape your grand mantles! Clothe your bodies with a child’s suffering!” His last words were guttural, as if growled through his teeth. “But if you will wear the fruits of poverty and greed . . . at least show the world what it truly costs.” Then he leapt from the ledge, disappearing from sight, and the sound of metal creaking echoed overhead.