“Now, that is the fastest I have ever made myself look presentable, so I expect your gratitude, Simti.”

Nanaea approached, enveloping all of us in the scent of her rose oil. She draped one arm around my shoulders, and another around Simti, pulling the four of us into a tight, humid huddle.

“My family, this is a day to be joyful. We’ve certainly earned it.”

We all squeezed one another, tears sparking in our eyes, connecting as friends who’ve found sisters outside of blood can. As sisters who have escaped death a time or two can. All we were missing was Arwia, who was no doubt somewhere outside the tent, making sure everything was perfect for Simti.

Savoring our sisterhood, I smiled at each one in turn. Our climb from the tomb was wasted—wasted—if a young woman struggling to heal wouldn’t leave my thoughts long enough to enjoy this night. After a moment, I kissed Nanaea’s cheek.

“You’re absolutely right, Nanaea. Let’s go to a wedding and celebrate.”

We all cheered and went in for another hug, squealing and dancing around in a circle. My heart beat with butterfly’s wings, certain I might burst from nerves or happiness or both.

“Come on!” Kasha held open the flaps of the tent, so we followed him into the dusk, toward a wedding that would be filled with love and promise and joy.

To be followed by a life of more of the same.

The sun dipped low, hovering above the horizon, casting a pink glow over the olive grove. Tents dotted the courtyard, ringed by torches scented with frankincense. Wooden tables full of Manzazu food—syrupy fruits, fish poached in oil, fire-roasted vegetables—were nestled inside each.

People sipped chilled sweetwine, and swayed to the lyres on either side of the path that led to the dais where the ceremony would take place. Kasha horsed around with a group of boys poking each other and making googly eyes. Dagan stood in the center of the platform with Ilu, Simti’s bridegroom. He and his parents had become a sort of family to us, and we were repaying the favor by standing up in support of their union.

My heart thrumming madly, I lined up with Nanaea, Iltani, Simti, while we all whispered encouragement and final instructions to one another as the musicians played.

Simti, the bride, was first. She beamed as she turned toward her husband-to-be and began to dance down the narrow path toward him. Her red tunic flowed over her curves as she clapped her hands and swayed. The crowd tossed flower petals into the air and knocked their cups together to toast her health.

Nanaea went next, gracefully twisting and whirling to the rhythm, until she reached the platform and climbed the stairs to join Simti. Iltani downed the rest of her sweetwine and gyrated down the aisle after her, wobbly on her bare feet, doing her own version of Nanaea’s dance with much less grace and a lot more leg.