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I’ve planted moon orchids over where she rests. Seventeen flowers have bloomed, one for every year she lived. The number is the same every day, but I count them anyway.

“I missed your birthday once, sister,” I murmur, keeping a respectful distance. “I’ll never forget another.”

Each day, I speak the words. Each day, they hurt just as much. I will never stop wishing that I had brought her an orchid for her last birthday. It is a small thing, but it will haunt me for years.

I crouch, sinking my knuckles into the earth. Ants crawl between my fingers, but I ignore them. I’m concentrating.

The pearl inside me stirs to life. I can feel it spinning as its power intensifies, and my skin prickles with a now-familiar pain. I cover my face with my hands, cupping away the light. It’s taken time, but I am learning to control it. The pearl’s power comes naturally, a realization that is both exhilarating and terrifying.

When my light recedes, the pond beside me ripples with a shadow of silver. And I look within the water.

“Hello, Channari,” I murmur.

Yellow eyes stare back at me, and all is as it was: the narrow slits of my pupils, the ridges between my ears and neck, that pale streak of hair Angma once marked me with. The only difference is the color of my scales. They are white, the color of loss.

The spell won’t last long, but it is necessary. I will not visit Vanna while wearing her face.

With a deep breath, I move forward to the orchids.

This is the hardest part of my day—finding the words to greet my sister. Sometimes I cannot even muster a hello. Sometimes I release a waterfall of regrets. Sometimes I simply weep.

Today, I turn to the butterflies fluttering about the flowers. They are always here, as constant as the air and the trees, and the ache in my heart swells. They know Vanna, the way the snakes know me.

I bow to them, deeply. Thank you for keeping her company when I cannot.

Then I kneel beside my sister.

“I got a letter yesterday,” I begin. “From Nakri—she’s invited me to become her apprentice. She thinks I need to leave Sundau, but I don’t want to. What do you think?”

Of course, there’s no reply. I falter at the silence, nearly ready to leave, when two of the butterflies land on my knuckles. Their wings, beautiful and bright, open as if to say, Go on.

And so I do. I tell my sister everything, from Lintang’s new gray hairs to the serpents from Yappang that have come to swear fealty to Ukar, to Mama’s cakes, which I’ve started to make again. An hour slips away, and I do not hear the footsteps behind me.

“Channari?”

I freeze.

“It is you.”

When I turn, I wear Vanna’s face once more. “You are mistaken. And you will forget whatever you—”

“Stop.” Oshli shakes his ritual staff at me. “Have some respect. I’ve known the truth for a while. I guessed it soon after you woke as…as her.”

I spare the shaman a dispassionate glance. “And so you’ve confirmed what you already know. Now leave. I wish to be left alone.”

“Your stepmother came to see me at the temple,” he says, ignoring my command. “She’s worried about you. She says you haven’t smiled in weeks, that you won’t speak to her or your father. That you disappear into the jungle every morning.”

I make a mental note to confront Lintang when I go home.

“For weeks I’ve tried to come see you,” he goes on. “But every time I near your house, my mind descends into a fog and I forget why I am there.”

I’m silent. This is by design, but Oshli shouldn’t be aware of it. No one else is.

He lowers his staff. Two lanterns hang from the top, both unlit. “You cannot hide from the world forever, Channari,” he says quietly. “You haven’t asked me why I’m here. It’s because I made a promise. To your sister.”

My eyes fly up. I look Oshli up and down. His hair is uncut, and he’s wearing his shaman’s robes and his orange scarf instead of mourning white. Yet any fool can see he is grieving. It’s in the harsh lines on his face, the hollows under his eyes, even the way his feet fall on the earth, heavy and final.

“What promise?”