When Wale woke, his mother's lap had been replaced by a feather pillow.

Her lap, he found, had been considerably more comfortable.

He rose, yawned, stretched, and got to his feet.

The shirtless man passed through the courtyard, meeting servants with hakf-averted gazes, stopping briefly when he reached the tall iroko tree. He plucked a leaf, sniffed it, and went on.

He ate.

Then he bathed.

Afterwards, he sat for his daily hair-twisting routine.

He was especially meticulous when it came to his hair.

Fisayo understood that better than anyone.

The governor's son's personal hair maker had one job and one job only.

The girl stood beneath the iroko tree every morning to tend to her master's hair.

“How would you like it today, my lord?” the hair maker asked, offering him a wooden chair.

Her hair, like his, had been twisted into locks. Hers were gathered into an elaborate crown, tinged with strands of red and brown.

He lowered himself into the chair.

“Just work your magic. Whatever you do always comes out beautiful.”

Fisayo blushed.

“As my lord instructs.”

She carefully drew each loc between her deft fingers and moistened them with oil.

“Why don't you let them loose today?”

The smile was still plastered upon her face.

“You think so?”

“I do, my lord.”

“Then do as you please.”

“Then I shall proceed with the beads.”

Fisayo picked a fistful of beads from a bowl.

She followed each dangling lock, embellishing each one with a bead. To some, she added cowrie shells.

She was an artist, and his hair was her canvas.

Meticulously, she checked her work, removing a bead here, replacing a cowrie shell there, correcting anything she considered a flaw.

At last, she was done.

She handed him a mirror, but he did not bother looking.

“I'm sure it looks good, Fifi.”

Fifi smiled and lowered her gaze to the ground.

“Th... Thank you, my lord.”

Wale rose to his feet.

The jingle of beads was always soothing to his ears.

“Bear with me for always taking your time every day.”

“No... no, my lord. It is always a pleasure.”

“I'll be off now.”

He waved.

He had barely begun walking when a voice called after him.

“Adewale.”

The voice was his mother's.

“Where are you off to?”

Wale paused.

He turned and flashed a mischievous smile towards his mother.

“To see her.”

His mother smiled.

The carriage or just the horse? The question met him outside.

Wale stroked his chin.

The young stable boy and the elderly carriage driver stood before him, bickering.

The stable boy had already drawn one of Wale's stallions from the stable.

A large black beast with a mane flowing down its neck, it bore an ornate saddle with an iroko tree blazoned in gold thread.

He held it by the reins.

The carriage driver had already tethered four horses to the carriage—a small but intricately embellished mass of iron, its edges veined with gold, an iroko tree carved into its side.

He gestured towards the entrance.

“Please... you may climb, my lord,” said the stable boy, rubbing the horse's swollen stomach.

“Please enter, my lord,” said the carriage driver, dusting the side of the carriage.

Wale scratched his dreads.

Which was he to choose?

Wale enjoyed quite an abundance of luxuries.

The best clothes.

The best food.

A personal hair maker.

A stable full of horses.

A carriage.

Farmland.

A reserve of gold and jewels.

A mountain which was actually a hill.

And even a beast of war.

His father had made that a mission.

His way of amending past wounds.

“What is one horse to four?” said the carriage driver, pointing towards the horses tied to his carriage.

“You know that carriage needs no more than two horses,” the boy replied.

“The more, the merrier,” said the old man.

Wale laughed.

“My mind is made.”

The two servants looked at him wide-eyed.

Anticipation.

“I'll take the horse.”

“As it pleases my lord.”

He was making faces at the defeated old man.

Wale mounted the horse and took the reins.

*TITILAYO*

Bisi did not know much about the Karnakians. All she knew about them was their ancient sovereignty over the world and the great beasts with which they achieved it.

She cared very little for history outside of Walia.

She was only ever attentive when Iya Bisi taught them about the history of Wazobia.

But Wazobian history was Walian history.

Titilayo was trying to persuade her to study the works of Adrian Philippe on Karnakian history.

“I have nothing to learn from milk men,” said Bisi.

“I thought your mother said not to refer to the Westanians as milk men.”

“But... the image is accurate, is it not?”

She peeled an orange.

“Their skin is the colour of milk.”

Titi glanced down at her own hands.

Bisi noticed.

For the briefest moment, neither girl spoke.

“I mean the Westanians,” Bisi said.

“I know what you mean.”

“Of course you do.”

Bisi took another slice of orange

“Besides, I don't imagine they are any more respectful when they describe us. Charcoal-skinned Wazobians.”

She popped a slice of orange into her mouth.

“It isn't too difficult to imagine those blue-eyed folk saying that. Do I lie?”

Titi could offer no rebuttal.

She could neither refute nor affirm Bisi's words.

She gave up her pursuit of learning and left with the book.

She dropped Adrian Philippe's _'The Beasts that Conquered the World'_alongside the other books.

Then she jumped onto her bed.

And Horse Boy—who was now Lord Adewale Akinṣọlá—made his appearance in her mind, as he had done every moment since he had taken her up his mountain.

His words.

His face.

It was as though she could still see him, hear him, reach for him.

She had tried.

Tried to stop herself from thinking of him.

Tried to keep her thoughts in check.

But the more she tried, the harder it became.

She pulled a feather pillow over her pale face and let out a silent scream.

Why did he have to be betrothed to her sister?

She did not like her sister.

Neither was her sister affectionate towards her.

But her sister was still her sister.

She would not be an obstacle in the way of her sister's happiness.

_But..._

_I deserve to be happy too._

A tear gathered in her eye.

Before it could fall, Titi was startled by a knock at her window.

She turned.

“Hey...”

Adewale whispered.

Titi's eyes sparkled, then settled into confusion.

“What... what are you doing here?”

“Is your mother at home?” Wale asked, still in a whisper.

“I don't know... I left her house after the feast that day.”

Wale shook his head.

“I didn't mean the woman who gave birth to you.”

He smiled.

“I meant your... other mother.”

The  sentiment made her skip a beat.

She smiled.

“Iya Bisi is out. She has gone to see the Alaafin to discuss progress in translating texts into our Walian tongue.”

“I see.”

He nodded.

“The Custodian of the House of Orunmila is quite the busy woman. Even the Bashorun seems to have his own tasks for her.”

“Indeed. She is an earnest and hardworking woman.”

“Well, I'm glad she's not here.”

He glanced towards the window.

“Hold on. I'm coming in.”

“Wai... what are you—”

Wale ignored her protests and lifted himself through the window.

Titi quickly got to her feet.

Her head turned frantically from side to side.

“Bi... Bisi is at home,” she stuttered. “She might see you.”

Wale was inattentive.

Instead, he studied her room.

A heap of manuscripts and texts littered every corner.

“What a mess,” Wale laughed.

A now self-conscious Titi quickly bent down, gathering the nearest pile of books.

Wale laughed.

The black beads in his hair jingled.

“Quite the messy witch we have here.”

He waved a hand dismissively.

“Don't worry. I'm not the neatest person myself.”

Titi rose, leaving a neat pile behind.

She fiddled with her hair, then her clothes, averting her gaze from him.

Her eyes seemed to lack the courage to meet his.

“You shouldn't be here,” Titi finally said.

“Bi... Bisi might see you.”

Wale took a step.

Then another.

And another.

He stopped when he stood directly before her.

“Then come with me.”