“I beg your pardon?”
“On a visit to Zaria.” She leans forward until the fat ruby hanging from her throat grazes the table. The garish jewel serves as a constant reminder that Oloye Ronke wasn’t born with a seat at our table. She bought her way in.
“We would be honored to have you stay at our manor.” She fingers the large red gem, lips curving as she catches me staring. “I’m sure we could even find a jewel like this for you as well.”
“How kind of you,” I stall, tracing the path from Lagos to Zaria in my mind. Far past the Olasimbo Range, Zaria sits on the northern end of Or?sha, kissing the Adetunji Sea. My pulse quickens as I imagine visiting the world beyond the palace walls.
“Thank you,” I finally speak. “I would be honored—”
“But unfortunately Amari cannot,” Mother cuts in, frowning without the slightest hint of sadness. “She is in the thick of her studies and she’s already fallen behind in arithmetic. It would be far too disruptive to stop now.”
The excitement growing in my chest deflates. I poke at the uneaten pie on my plate. Mother rarely allows me to leave the palace. I should have known better than to hope.
“Perhaps in the future,” I say quietly, praying this small indulgence will not incite Mother’s wrath. “You must love living there—having the sea at your feet and the mountains at your back.”
“It’s just rocks and water.” Samara, Oloye Ronke’s eldest daughter, wrinkles her wide-set nose. “Nothing compared to this magnificent palace.” She flashes a smile at Mother, but her sweetness disappears when she turns back to me. “Besides, Zaria’s overrun with div?ners. At least the maggots in Lagos know to stick to their slums.”
I tense at the cruelty of Samara’s words; they seem to hang above us in the air. I glance over my shoulder to see if Binta heard as well, but my oldest friend does not appear to be here. As the only div?ner working in the upper palace, my chambermaid has always stood out, a living shadow forever by my side. Even with the bonnet Binta secures over her white hair, she’s still isolated from the rest of the serving staff.
“May I assist you, Princess?”
I turn over my other shoulder to see a servant I don’t recognize: a girl with chestnut skin and large, round eyes. She takes my half-empty cup and replaces it with another. I glance at the amber tea; if Binta were here, she would’ve snuck a spoonful of sugar into my cup when Mother wasn’t looking.
“Have you seen Binta?”
The girl draws back suddenly; her lips press together.
“What is it?”
The girl opens her mouth, but her eyes dart around the women at the table. “Binta was summoned to the throne room, Your Highness. A few moments before the luncheon began.”
I frown and tilt my head. What could Father possibly want with Binta? Of all the servants in the palace, he never summons her. He rarely summons servants at all.
“Did she say why?” I ask.
The girl shakes her head and lowers her voice, choosing each word with care. “No. But guards escorted her there.”
A sour taste crawls onto my tongue, bitter and dark as it travels down my throat. The guards in this palace do not escort. They take.
They demand.
The girl looks desperate to say more, but Mother shoots her a glare. Mother’s cold grip pinches my knee under the table.
“Stop talking to the help.”
I snap around and look down, hiding from Mother’s gaze. She narrows her eyes like a red-breasted firehawk on the hunt, just waiting for me to embarrass her again. But despite her frustration, I cannot get the thought of Binta out of my head. Father knows of our closeness—if he required something from her, why wouldn’t he go through me instead?
I stare out the paneled windows at the royal gardens as my questions grow, ignoring the empty laughter of the oloyes around me. With a lurch, the palace doors fly open.
My brother strides through.
Inan stands tall, handsome in his uniform as he prepares to lead his first patrol through Lagos. He beams among his fellow guards, his decorated helmet reflecting his recent promotion to captain. Despite myself, I smile, wishing I could be a part of his special day. Everything he ever wanted. It’s all finally happening for him.
“Impressive, is he not?” Samara fixes her light brown eyes on my brother with a frightening lust. “Youngest captain in history. He will make an excellent king.”
“He will.” Mother glows, leaning in closer to the daughter she cannot wait to have. “Though I do wish the promotion was not accompanied by such violence. You never know what a desperate maggot might try with the crown prince.”
The oloyes nod and dispense useless opinions as I sip my tea in silence. They speak of our subjects with such levity, as if they were discussing the diamond-stitched geles sweeping Lagos’s fashion. I turn back to the servant who told me about Binta. Though she is far away from my table, a nervous tremble still rocks her hand.…
“Samara.” Mother’s voice breaks into my thoughts, pulling my focus back. “Have I mentioned how regal you look today?”
I bite my tongue and drain the rest of my tea. Though Mother says “regal,” the word “lighter” hides behind her lips. Like the regal oloyes who can proudly trace their lineage back to the royal families who first wore Or?sha’s crown.
Not common, like the farmers who toil the fields of Minna, or Lagos’s own merchants bartering their wares in the sun. Not unfortunate like me, the princess Mother is almost too ashamed to claim.
As I peek at Samara from behind my cup, I’m struck by her new, soft brown complexion. It was only a few luncheons ago she shared her mother’s mahogany coloring.
“You are too kind, Your Majesty.” Samara looks down at her dress in false modesty, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles.
“You must share your beauty regimen with Amari.” Mother places a cold hand on my shoulder, fingers light against my dark copper skin. “She lounges in the gardens so often she’s beginning to look like a farmhand.” Mother laughs, as if a horde of servants don’t cover me with sunshades whenever I step outside. Like she didn’t coat me with powder before this very luncheon began, cursing the way my complexion makes the nobility gossip that she slept with a servant.
“That is not necessary, Mother.” I cringe, remembering the sharp pain and the vinegar stench of her last cosmetic concoction.
“Oh, it would be my pleasure.” Samara beams.
“Yes, but—”
“Amari.” Mother cuts me off with a smile so tight it could split her skin. “She would love to, Samara, especially before courting begins.”
I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but the very act almost makes me choke. In that moment, the smell of vinegar becomes so strong I can already feel the searing on my skin.