“LOOK WHO FINALLY ESCAPED,” KIRAH GREETED me when I arrived in the garden. She patted the cushion next to her and scooted me a chalice of palm wine. The grass was littered with pillows and cosmetic bottles, and the smell of olive oil hung in the air. My council sisters chattered in a circle as braiders sat above them on stools, working fastidiously.
“We thought Thunderbrow Thad would keep you forever,” Mayazatyl put in. “Wait—are those court cases?”
“I had to bring them.” I clutched Thaddace’s assignments sheepishly as I sank onto a cushion. “He thinks I’m behind. I know, I know—” I shielded my face as Kirah, Mayazatyl, Thérèse, Ai Ling, and Emeronya pelted me with figs.
Braiding parties were sacred: No studying was allowed. Once a month, the strict security of Yorua Keep lifted for beauty artisans to visit from the palace. Their deft fingers would comb away our weeks’ worth of tangles, styling our hair in the Oluwan court fashion: hundreds of braids, interwoven with soft wool yarn and burned at the ends so the plaits wouldn’t unravel. The style took hours to complete and lasted for weeks. I sat submissively as my braider tugged and raked my coils with a wide-toothed wooden comb, laying out lengths of richly dyed dark yarn that matched my hair.
“Besides the figs, we’ve got fried chin chin dough. And palm wine,” Ai Ling said, pointing to each platter and smiling mischievously. “I managed to smooth talk the cook. He was saving it for the festival tonight.”
“I do not think the revelers will miss it,” Thérèse said with mock gravity as an artisan braided white yarn into her pale tresses. “Some treats are more intoxicating than palm wine.”
Mayazatyl spit out her drink, chortling. “Twelve realms, Reesy! I’d never expect to hear that from you—”
“I may have been sheltered,” Thérèse said mildly, “but I was not born yesterday. In Nontes, we have Nu’ina Eve festivals too, though we call it Fête du Feu there. I knew what happened when a lady found a rosebud in her wine.”
“In Oluwan, it’s not a rosebud,” said Kirah. “It’s a cowrie shell. Am’s Story, I hope I don’t find one.” She wrinkled her nose. “What would I trade it for?”
“A kiss.” Mayazatyl grinned. “Or something naughty. It’s up to you, priestess.”
Kirah turned pink. Emeronya’s features bent in a confused frown. “You are talking of sex,” she said in her blunt, deadpan way. She was the youngest of our council, barely thirteen. “Is that what Nu’ina Eve is like in Oluwan? A night for being drunk and making babies?”
Ai Ling laughed, patting Emeronya’s knee. “Not just that. Poor Em. Don’t they have holy festivals in Biraslov?”
Emeronya scowled, as she always did at the slightest hint of condescension. “In Biraslov,” she said with a sniff, “People of the Wing celebrate Nu’ina Eve with fasting and a vigil. Am’s gift to Queen Earth was a sacrifice, not a party.”
“Then I’m glad I was born in Quetzala,” snorted Mayazatyl. “People of the Well know how to relax.”
“So do People of the Wing,” retorted Kirah, who belonged to the same religious sect as Emeronya. She added, turning an even deeper shade of pink, “Though I’m not going to kiss anyone.” Which of course made Ai Ling and Mayazatyl tease her more.
“The wine at the festival is filled with tokens,” I told Emeronya, knowing what it was like to feel left out. Catching up to the countless opulent traditions of Oluwan life had taken me years. “The tokens are shells, bits of bone, things like that. Some are bad, some are good. If you find a good token, you can trade it. A cowrie shell is worth … a favor.”
“From a lover?” Emeronya asked.
“From anyone you like.” I matched her deadpan tone, wiggling my eyebrows. In spite of herself, Emeronya laughed.
“I wouldn’t trade with a boy,” she said. “Girls are prettier. Except maybe Theo.”
“Theo wouldn’t kiss you,” Ai Ling informed her. “Last time I checked, he was still writing sappy love poems to farm boys in Yorua Village. Besides, council members can’t trade our cowrie shells. We’re not allowed to fall in love.”
“Speak for yourself,” crowed Mayazatyl. “Though what Kameron and I did last Nu’ina Eve wasn’t love exactly …”
“Maya,” I hissed in warning, glancing up at the braiders.
Their expressions remained placid, and hardened yellow wax glistened on their earlobes. Any commoner who waited on the Prince’s Eleven was required to seal their ears so our affairs would remain private.