Dayo’s large black eyes widened in horror. “I don’t blame you, Tarisai.”

“I know. But you should.” The words stuck in my throat. “If I hadn’t told The Lady about Mbali and Thaddace, she never would have had the leverage. Your father would still be alive. So would Thaddace. And—”

I looked away in embarrassment as tears pooled in my eyes, making streaks in my intricate face paint and highlighted cheekbones.

“Your beauticians are going to throw a fit,” Ai Ling tutted, coming to dab at my face with her flowing peach hanfu sleeves. Then she stood back as I sniffled, cocking her head. “You know, less makeup might actually be the look we want. Vulnerability could prove useful. After all”—she winked at me—“tonight’s about falling in love.”

“And convincing them I’m not a cold-blooded murderer.”

She only shrugged. “It’s like I said before, darling—fear is a tool.”

People had been afraid of me my whole life. I had never tried to make it an asset before.

Ai Ling straightened the cowrie shell necklaces festooning my shoulders and adjusted the ivory adornments in my hair. Elaborate braided knots crowned my hairline, while the rest of my coils floated in a black halo. “You know,” she mused, “there are limits to my Hallow, but I could—well—encourage the continent rulers to join your council. I can’t exactly make them love you. But I can make them want to try. They’ll resist me at first, but they can’t keep their mental guards up forever. And once they get to know you—”

“No.” I shook my head. “If I’m going to have my own council, I want it to be like ours. A life we chose.” I exchanged a look with Dayo. “A family.”

“Families aren’t usually chosen,” Ai Ling pointed out. “We just got lucky.” She shot an inscrutably affectionate glance at Dayo, and her words rang ominously as drumbeats vibrated the ground.

I glanced at my multiple reflections in the mirrored hall ceiling. Arit courtiers wore garments that honored their home kingdoms, and my attendants and beauticians had dressed me in a diplomatic balance between Oluwan and Swana. The clothing was purposely outdated, a tribute to the traditional garb of each realm. I wore nothing on top but a wide, tiered necklace of gold-encrusted cowrie shells, secured with cords at my neck and back. Even this was a modern concession—ancient Oluwani women hadn’t covered their breasts at all. A skirt of ashoke, the luxury textile of Oluwan, hugged my curves in a woven sheath, dusky indigo shot with threads of gold and white. The fabric stopped at my knees, and on each leg I wore tassels of dried grass, hanging in a layered fringe to my ankles: a tribute to the fashions of Swana.

Beyond the Imperial Hall doors, the banquet opening ceremonies were building to a frenzy.

“Funny,” I observed absently. “In two years, I’ll throw myself into the Oruku Breach to enter the Underworld. But this feels like the scary part.” I smirked. “After this party, dying will be easy.”