I had not been sure I believed them, but the idea of being forever parted from The Lady had dampened my curiosity. I had never lingered near the servants’ wing again.
Woo In led us down the plain corridor, and after several yards—just far enough to be out of earshot of the main house—the hall turned sharply, and my feet passed from stone tile onto lush carpet.
The perfume hit me first. My heart reacted to the smell of jasmine as it always had, with terror and longing. Expensive mudcloths dyed with indigo patterns swathed the walls. Woo In fumbled with a shimmering lock, on a wooden door inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “It takes a singing password,” he said, scowling as he tried to remember. “You know the one. ‘Me … mine …’”
“She’s me and she is mine,” I finished, my voice a whisper, and the door clicked open.
We entered a small apartment of rooms. Jasmine seeped from every futon, every wax-dyed drape and tasseled pillow. A creeping sense of betrayal quickened my pulse, but I smothered it.
“Is this where she slept when … when she visited?”
“The Lady did not visit, Tarisai.” Woo In’s tone was patient. “She lived here.”
“No.” I shook my head. “She knew how much I missed her. How I cried for her every single night. She couldn’t have been here. She wouldn’t. She—”
A hand mirror glinted on a kneeling desk, making the words die in my throat. The reflection wasn’t right—it should have shown the smooth plaster ceiling of the apartment. Instead it showed a moving face. Knees suddenly weak, I sank down to the desk and grasped the bone-handled mirror.
Woo In’s reflection stared back at me. “I’m sorry,” it said.
I whirled around. Woo In was holding the carving, looking bleakly into its face. He turned the carving toward the desk—and then the mirror displayed me, seated on the floor cushions in The Lady’s apartment.
“The whole time,” I breathed. “She was watching.”
Paper covered the desk: notes in an even, elegant hand. The first I picked up was dated a year prior.
Sometimes I still look in the enchanted glass. It is folly, I know. She will not appear. But seeing that empty study, the table where she used to sit frowning over her genealogy scrolls … It reminds me of the old days, when I was her world. My sweet, adoring girl! When I pretended to come home after a long journey, her face would glow. Such joy. Such longing.
I am sure Olugbade’s brat never looks at him like that.
Was hiding my presence cruel? But suppose I had commanded her by accident? Threw away my last wish—our only chance at victory? No. Regret is folly. The guilt will pass. It always does.
Bile rose in my throat. I swallowed and seized another paper. This one was dated only a month ago.
Still no word of her progress. She has chosen to forget me. The festival on Nu’ina Eve is my best chance. I shall make her remember. I shall make us one again.
Older notes had been bound into a calfskin journal. I stole a moment of its story, and shivered. The calloused grip of my mother’s hands pressed into the leather spine. The first page was dated almost sixteen years ago, on my first birthday.
She’s walking. My girl—my Made-of-Me—is walking! A tutor said her name, and she stumbled toward him. Clever, wondrous creature. Just like her mother.
I wish that she had walked to me instead, but I was afraid of commanding her.
Would “Come here, daughter” count as my third wish? Melu refuses to tell me.
I visited her tonight, as I always do. I kiss her brow as she sleeps, and sing our special song. I tell her all the realms we shall rule together. My girl smells of violets, of honey and grass.
She smells—to be honest—too much of the wild, sun-soaked savannah. I tried to give her my smell, to bathe her in jasmine oil, but she sprouted a rash. Ah, well. I will see she grows out of it.
I could not resist picking her up tonight. She woke and fussed, but quieted when I pressed her to my breast. Such a bright child—already she knows that all objects have names. Genius simmered in her large dark eyes as she tried to remember the word for me.
“Lady,” she said.
“No,” I told her, kissing that bed of soft, perfect curls. “Not Lady. To you, I am—I will always be—Mother.”