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“My marriage to your stepmother was not a love match, but we were friends. Seeing my children take to her, and her to them, eased some of the pain of losing your mother. It helped your stepmother as well.”

“She was grieving, too,” I murmured. “For her sister.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes, before she died,” I said thickly. “Didn’t you find it odd that she never spoke of her past, that she didn’t even have a name?”

“She had a name when I met her, but she wanted to forget it. Her life back home wasn’t a happy one. I met her only because her father was trying to marry her off in a—”

“A selection ceremony,” I murmured.

“Yes.” Father looked surprised that I knew, and I averted my eyes as he continued. “Kings and princes who had heard of her beauty gathered in Tambu with offerings of jewels and gold. Initially, I went too. I’d heard she was kind and compassionate, and I’d hoped to find a new mother for you. But I was unsettled by the contest, so I left.”

“Then how did she come to marry you?” I asked.

“It is a long story,” replied Father. “The contest lasted many months, causing strife between the suitors. One of Tambu’s great kings feared a war would break out. He asked that I return to aid her in making a decision.

“When I met her again, she was in mourning for her sister. The poor girl died not long after the selection began.”

I lifted my head, my breath going shallow. “Did you ever meet her?”

“Once,” said Father. “But I don’t remember it well. Your stepmother never liked to talk about the past. Especially not about her sister.”

I retreated, sensing Raikama had something to do with the gaps in Father’s memory. But then he spoke again.

“What I do remember is that she had the loneliest eyes I had ever seen.” Father’s voice drifted, as if skimming off memories. “And she had a snake at her side. I always supposed that was why your stepmother found solace in snakes. Because they reminded her of her sister.”

My chest hurt, and I had to look away, pretending to be fixated on a honeybee flitting from flower to flower. There was so much about Raikama that Father didn’t know. One day, perhaps, I would tell him that she had been a powerful sorceress, that she had been the one to send my brothers and me away to protect us from Lord Yuji and Bandur—but I would never tell him the whole truth. The last of my stepmother’s secrets would die with me.

That it was the lost sister Father had married. And her name had been Channari.

“Our grief bonded us,” he said quietly, continuing the story, “and we became close. One night, the night before she was to select her husband, she asked me a peculiar question: whether there truly was no magic in Kiata.”

In spite of the pain in my chest, I leaned forward. Father had never told me this.

“When I said it was true, she explained that it was magic that had killed her sister, and that she wished to get as far away from it as she could. She told me she had decided to choose me, if I would consider renewing my suit.” He inhaled. “It was the last thing I expected.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her that a hundred of Lor’yan’s sovereigns had spent months declaring their undying love for her.” He laughed quietly. “I told her that she should choose one of them, for my heart belonged to my children’s mother. But her mind was made up. ‘The fractures in our hearts will never heal,’ she said. ‘But I seek to make mine whole again. It is not a lover or even a husband who can do that, but a family. Let us be family for one another.’

“She made true on her word,” said Father. “Do you remember when you first met her, you called her Imurinya?”

“Because she glowed,” I said. “Like the lady of the moon.”

“That was the happiest I had ever seen her.” The ghost of a smile touched his mouth before he turned solemn once more. “The rift that came between the two of you wounded her deeply, Shiori. She loved you. Very much.”

Heat flooded my nose and eyes.

“I miss her, Baba,” I said through the ache in my chest.

I so rarely called him Baba. It had always felt odd, knowing he was the Emperor of Kiata, a man who was revered, loved, and feared—even by his children. But in this moment, he was my father first and emperor second.

In my lowest voice, I said, “Is it terrible that I miss Raikama more than Mama? Mama had six sons who knew and loved her. In my heart, I love her too—but I was too young to know her. Raikama…she had no one. Except me.”

“She loved you as her own. You were the daughter of her heart.”

Father couldn’t have known those were Raikama’s same words to me before she died. My self-control collapsed, and tears flooded down my cheeks before I could stop them.