Mairo found Rimi at her loom one morning, fingers dancing through threads that gleamed like captured sunlight. The pattern emerging beneath her hands showed two birds sharing a branch – one crowned, one simple. The symbolism wasn't lost on Mairo.

"The princess and the weaver," Mairo said softly, settling beside her friend. "You're getting bolder with your patterns."

Rimi's hands didn't pause in their work, but a smile touched her lips. "Adanna loved yesterday's piece about the tortoise and the dawn. She said she'd never thought about how the shell's patterns could tell a story of patience."

"Adanna?" Mairo's voice sharpened. "You call her by name now?"

"She insisted." Rimi finally looked up, noticing the worry creasing Mairo's brow. "What's wrong?"

Mairo picked up a loose thread, rolling it between her fingers. "In Garin Gabas," she began carefully, "we heard about the three princesses from neighboring kingdoms that died in one year. Not from illness. Not from accident. From kindness offered with a smile."

"The princess isn't like that," Rimi protested. "You should see how her eyes light up when—"

"It's not the princess I fear for you," Mairo cut in. "It's everyone around her. The courtiers. The nobles. The ones who've spent generations learning to smile while they slip daggers between ribs." She leaned forward, gripping Rimi's hands, stilling their work. "In my time there, I saw how it works. Nobody loves truly in those walls. Nobody looks out for anyone but themselves. Today's closest friend is tomorrow's worst enemy, all because of a whispered word or a perceived slight."

"Mairo—"

"Listen to me." Mairo's voice was urgent now. "Don't eat their food. Don't drink their wine. Not even if the princess herself offers it. Especially not if that noble girl – what's her name?"

"Nkili."

"Especially not if Nkili offers. I've seen her type before. They're like the beautiful flowers in the forest that attract insects only to digest them slowly."

Rimi gently extracted her hands from Mairo's grip and returned to her weaving. "I appreciate your concern, truly. But you're wrong about this. The princess... she's different. She listens. She wants to understand Obiako's people's stories. And Nkili..." She hesitated for just a moment. "Well, she's the princess's closest friend. She's been nothing but gracious."

Mairo sat back, watching her friend work. The pattern was growing now – the two birds sharing not just a branch, but a song, their beaks open in harmony. Beautiful. Innocent. And completely blind to the snake Mairo could almost see, coiled in the shadows of the pattern's background.

"The deadliest poisons in Garin Gabas," she said finally, rising to leave, "were always mixed with honey. Just... promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you'll remember that I warned you when—" She stopped herself.

"When what?"

"Just say walah."

Rimi looked up at her friend, saw the genuine fear in her eyes. "Walah," she said softly. "But you'll see – this is different. Sometimes things can be exactly what they seem."

Mairo said nothing more, but as she walked away, her heart heavy with the memory of other innocent girls she'd known in other courts, she heard the princess's name fall from Rimi's lips again – "Adanna" – spoken with the trust of a friend. In the palace, she knew, such trust was stronger than any poison, and twice as deadly.

Elsewhere in the compound, I was wrestling with a large bag. I yanked the rope tighter around the bag of yams, cassava, and early season corn. The knot wasn't cooperating, which matched my mood perfectly.

"Going to market already?" Mairo's voice carried across the compound. "The cock hasn't even crowed his third crow."

I grunted, wrestling with a particularly stubborn yam that kept threatening to escape. The morning air was still cool enough to make my fingers stiff.

"You're angry with me," Mairo said, not a question. She squatted down beside me, her wrapper tucked carefully between her knees. When I didn't respond, she picked up a fallen yam and turned it over in her hands. "About Rimi."

"What you choose to warn her about is your business," I said, my voice clipped as I worked the rope.

"But you think I'm wrong."

The rope bit into my palms as I pulled it taut. "You're seeing ghosts in every shadow, Mairo."

"And you're not seeing the shadows at all," Mairo countered, but her voice was gentle. She watched me struggle with the knot for a moment before speaking again. "You know, I once saw a girl like Rimi in the court—"

"Mairo." I finally looked at her, really looked at her. "Not everything is Garin Gabas. This is Nri. Obiako. Our home. Our people. I don't want you scaring the poor girl. We need the princess at our side. This is good."

"I know but ...Evil wears different cloths but speaks the same language everywhere." She touched my arm lightly. "Let me come to market with you."

I raised an eyebrow. "You hate the market. You said the haggling reminds you of court politics."

"Maybe I miss court politics," she said with a slight smile that didn't reach her eyes. Then, more seriously: "Or maybe I miss my friend. We hardly talk anymore, not since..." She trailed off.

I sat back on my heels, studying her face. The face that had seen too much in her kingdom, Garin Gabas, that carried secrets she still wouldn't share. But also the face of the girl who'd once helped me steal ripe mangoes from a chief priest's tree, who'd held my hand through three nights of fever when the bad rains came. Yes, she and I had buried those initially days of animosity between and had become somewhat inseparable.

"The market women will talk your ear off about their daughters they want to marry to their cousins' sons," I warned, but I could feel my resolve softening.

"Better than noble women talking about which cousin they plan to poison at the next feast." She picked up one of my smaller bags. "Besides, I need to restock my herbs."

I frowned. "Your healing herbs?"

"And others." Something flickered in her eyes. "Just in case Rimi doesn't keep her promise about the palace food and wine."

I sighed, finally giving in. "Fine. But no more Garin Gabas stories on the way. Tell me instead about that time you convinced the Jibril, your cousin play with a desert snake."

Mairo's laugh rang out, genuine this time, dispersing some of the morning's heaviness. "Only if you tell me how you plan to convince Nne Chioma to lower her yam prices today."

"By reminding her that her son still owes me for fixing his leaking roof before the rains."

As we gathered the bags between us, the sun finally beginning to peek over the compounds' walls, I caught Mairo glancing toward the palace rising in the distance. Her fingers absently touched the medicine pouch at her waist, and I pretended not to notice how she'd positioned herself to carry the lighter loads, leaving her right hand free – the hand that in Garin Gabas had probably needed to be free for other purposes.

Some habits, I supposed, were harder to unlearn than others. But at least this morning, she was here, with me, heading to our simple village market where the worst danger was Nne Chioma's sharp tongue over yam prices.

"Come on," I said, nudging her. "If we hurry, we might catch Nna Okoro before he sells all his palm wine to the chief's compound."

"Now that," Mairo said, falling into step beside me, "is the kind of court intrigue I can handle."

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