Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,116

and stare as she passes, pointing and whispering about us because she’s holding my hand. Usually I hate when others stare, but today I find myself reveling in it. It’s not like the guards or kosidán, who want me to disappear. The divîners’ gazes hold a reverence, a new kind of respect.

“Here’s the best part.” Zu gestures to a large clearing being decorated with painted lanterns and colorful sheets. “This is where the opening procession will take place. Zélie, you must be in it!”

“Oh, you don’t want that.” I shake my head fervently, but I laugh when Zu grabs my wrist and jumps up and down. Her joy is contagious; even Inan can’t help but smile.

“You would be so great!” Her eyes go wide. “We don’t have a Reaper yet, and Oya’s attire would fit you perfectly. It has this long red skirt and golden top—Inan! Don’t you think she would look incredible?”

Inan’s eyes widen and he stammers, looking between me and Zu as if one of us will release him from answering.

“Zu, it’s fine.” I wave her off. “I’m sure you can find someone else.”

“Probably be for the best.” Inan recovers his voice. His eyes drift to me for a moment, before looking away. “But yes, I think Zélie would look beautiful.”

My face heats, growing warmer when Amari studies us. I turn away and focus my attention elsewhere, trying to ignore the way Inan’s answer makes something inside me tingle. Once again the way he carried me into the camp forces itself back into my mind.

“Zu, what’s that?” I point to a black cart with a long line of divîners.

“That’s where Folake’s painting the clan baajis.” Zu’s eyes light up. “You have to get one!”

“Baajis?” Amari’s nose scrunches in confusion.

Zu gestures to the symbol painted on her neck. She grabs Inan and Amari by the hands and pulls, running ahead. “They’re lovely. Come on, you have to see it now!”

Zu moves fast, leading them farther through the crowd. I consider a brisker pace, but there’s something about walking through this camp that makes me want to slow down. Each time I pass a new divîner, my mind runs wild imagining all the different types of maji they could become. There could be future Winders on my left, or Seers on my right. With ten clans, there’s even a chance a future Reaper is right in front of m—

A stranger bumps into me, clad in red and black. He grips my waist, steadying me before I tumble back.

“Apologies.” He smiles. “My feet have a nasty habit of following my heart.”

“It’s fi…” My voice trails off. The stranger looks like no one I’ve ever seen, no descendant of Orïshan blood. His complexion is like sandstone, rich with copper undertones. Unlike the round eyes of Orïshans, his are angular and hooded, highlighting his stormy gray eyes.

“Roën.” He smiles again. “It’s a delight. I hope you can find the heart to forgive my clumsiness.” His accent clips the t’s and rolls the r’s in his speech. He has to be a merchant, some trader from another land.

Finally.

I look the young man up and down. Tzain’s told me about meeting the occasional foreigner while traveling Orïsha for his agbön matches, but I’ve never met one myself. Over the years I’ve heard descriptions of unique traders in crowded markets and travelers passing through Orïsha’s busiest cities. I always hoped one would come to Ilorin, but they never make it all the way to our eastern coast.

Questions fill my mind, but then I realize his hand is still on the small of my back. My cheeks warm as I slide away from his touch. I shouldn’t stare, but from the smirk on Roën’s lips, I can almost guarantee he likes it.

“Till we meet again.” He winks and struts off, holding my gaze. But before he can take another step, Inan reappears and grabs his arm.

The smile fades from Roën’s eyes as he glances at Inan’s grip. “I don’t know your intention, brother. But that’s a good way to lose a hand.”

“So is pickpocketing.” Inan sets his jaw. “Give it back.”

The gray-eyed stranger glances at me; with a sheepish shrug he removes a compacted staff from the pocket of his draped pants. My eyes widen as I reach for my empty waistband.

“How the hell did you do that?” I swipe back the staff. Mama Agba’s trained us to feel a thief’s touch. I should’ve sensed his hand.

“First bump.”

“Then why’d you linger?” I ask. “If you’re that smooth,