There is no night in Oluwan, nse, nse
The sky is bright in Swana—awaken, bata-bata.
They lie awake in Moreyao; nse, nse
They sing in Nontes and Biraslov; snow melting, gun-godo.
Djbanti and Nyamba rise, tada-ka, tada-ka
Look, their children never sleep! Eyes open, bata-bata!

Why, you ask? Why?
The Pelican has spoken.

A sun for the morning, a sun for the evening,
And moons for years to come.

Dhyrma, Blessid Valley, nse, nse
Sparti’s tears have all dried up; tada-ka, tada-ka
Quetzala grins and shields its eyes; nse, nse!
Mewe will shed its heavy skins; gun-godo, gun-godo

Why, you ask? Why?
The Pelican has spoken!

Tarisai for the morning!
Ekundayo for the evening!
And peace for moons to come.

“Do you think they mean it?” I whispered. “That they’ve accepted me already?”

Dayo grinned up at the high-rise buildings. They twinkled like beacons over the empty, mist-filled streets, and the vibrations of drums and voices shook the earth beneath us. “Sure sounds like it,” he said.

When I didn’t look reassured, he checked to make sure the guards were out of earshot, then turned me to face him.

“You’re meant to be here, Tar,” he whispered, pouring his kind black eyes into mine. “I’m more certain of that than I’ve ever been of anything.”

My heart raced. Then it slowed, as if the Ray had crept between us unbidden, matching my pulse to his. His dark features eased into a smile: the same one I had seen my first day in the Children’s Palace, square and radiant. The smile that had convinced me to stay.

Dayo’s lean chest rose and fell. His breath synced with mine, and an urge blossomed inside me, seizing control. I slid my hands to Dayo’s shoulders and pressed my lips to his cheek. The kiss was shy. Nothing like the deep, core-shaking ones I gave Sanjeet.

But I still winced when I stepped back, dry-mouthed and mortified.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I should have asked. I . . . I know you don’t like . . .”

“Kisses are fine,” he said slowly. His features wrinkled with confusion. “Tar—is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

“Yes. No. I’m sorry, it’s just—” I shook my head, trying to make sense of the fog. “Dayo . . . ever since I was little, there’s always been this dread. This haunting thought that I’m doing something wrong. That I am wrong, that I’ll always be alone, that everyone will always leave me. I never even realized the voice was there . . . not until I met you, and it was gone. I don’t feel that way with anyone else. Not with Kirah. Not even with Jeet. Just you.” I bit my lip, hiding my face in my hands. “I’m sorry. I’m not making sense.”

“Of course you are.”

I peeked up at him. “I am?”

He gave a lopsided smile, using his thumb to wipe my cheek. I must have smudged my body paint when I’d kissed him.