Around that time, one afternoon, the Ada was walking down the road with her cousin Obiageli. The Ada said something rude, a touch insolent, and Obiageli reacted by reaching out and poking her finger into the Ada’s chest, right in her new breasts.

“Because you have these apples now, ehn? That’s why you’re talking like that?” Obiageli chuckled at the Ada’s shocked face and kept walking.

Inside the Ada, we shuddered and retched from that touch, turning her stomach over. The quick revulsion wouldn’t go away. We were loud and kicking against this meatbody we’d been shoved into; we wanted to be let out, this was an abomination. But the Ada had learned her trick of quick sacrifices just that year, so when they got back to the house, she cut into the back of her hand and bled us into a restless silence. She would continue, if you remember, for another twelve years, but back then was when she learned that the sacrifices worked, that using blood could make existence bearable, at least for a little while.

She tried to make us comfortable, as if in apology for her bleeding and bulging body; she dug into Saul’s old suitcases and found his shirts from when he lived in London, button-downs that were too big for her, which was perfect. The Ada covered her new body in flowered red polyester and crisp green cotton, hiding it away. She wore loose cargo trousers in army green with seven deep pockets, until the cuffs tore and frayed. When she overheard one of her classmates describe her as busty, she decided it was not real. It felt like he was talking about someone else.

All of this is to say that everything has existed in another form prior to its current one, so when Saint Vincent showed up, the Ada was not surprised. She welcomed his delicate masculinity arranging itself in folds inside her; she welcomed his company because she was, of course, always lonely. It brought her a small amount of grief when she realized that he was restricted to using only a dreambody because hers was simply wrong. Her body worked for As?ghara, but Saint Vincent would be neutered within it, with nothing weighing down between his legs, just canals lined in velveteen. His hungers were different, but simple. Saint Vincent wanted the soft nape of a girl’s neck against his mouth and he wanted it enough that the Ada went to get it for him.

It was a clumsy attempt. The Ada tried to explain the existence of Saint Vincent to one of her college friends who he found beautiful, but this was the Ada and she was not As?ghara, she did not have that silken charm. So the conversation was awkward, and as the Ada spoke the words exposing Saint Vincent’s existence and desires, she knew it sounded crazy; you could not put him into a mouth and expect it to sound sane. Her beautiful friend was polite but uninterested, and she turned the Ada down. It should not have been surprising, yet the Ada found herself retreating inside her mind, humiliated by this rejection, confused and hurt.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered to herself as she paced around the marble. “Of course she doesn’t want you. Who would?”

“It’s enough.” As?ghara stepped in and grabbed the Ada’s arms, pinning them at her sides, leaning her forehead against the Ada’s. “You tried. It’s enough. We won’t tell anyone about him ever again, you hear? We’ll keep him in here. No one except us can understand.”

Teary-eyed, the Ada nodded, and just like that, Saint Vincent became a secret buried in the marble. Perhaps it is not how we would have done things, but as we said, the beastself was running things and she thought it was for the best. It was how she moved; she pushed them back and hid them in the marble in order to protect them—first the Ada, and now Saint Vincent. As?ghara was the blade, forever flirting with the softness of people’s throats. They were balanced now—the Ada, her little beast, and her saint—the three of them locked in marbled flesh, burning through the world.

But no matter what skins they shed in this foreign country, we remembered where they came from and we remembered the first mother. Ala is all earth, no matter the oceans; the Ada was still walking on soil that belonged to her mother. Even her flesh belonged to Ala, for, as we have said, it is on her lips that humans are born, and there they live until they die. We were still her children, distilled into tripled hatchlings. Otu nne na-am?, mana ? b?gh? otu chi na-eke. And to be named is to gain power, let alone to be named thrice over. Our heat was building, spilling through the gates, calling the others, pulling them like a sun with weight. We should have known, we should have been warned—the children of our mother do not forget pacts and their oaths taste of anger and alligator pepper. They were gathering in rain clouds, their voices distant and dreamlike, but grating like torn metal.

You are looking for our trouble, they sang. Gin spilled on the soil, blood wiped over clay, and they spoke in a legion of voices.

What are you going to do when we come?

Chapter Twelve

I can die today, I can die tomorrow.

As?ghara

I heard the clacking first.

It was rhythmic and regular, bouncing off the walls and domed ceilings of Ada’s mind. “Stop it, Vincent,” I said, not turning around. “I don’t like that sound.” Sometimes he got restless and did things that irritated the hell out of me, like whistling ghost-birds across the ceiling or turning the marble into a maze of crying walls. I wasn’t in the mood for another of his games. I had been having a quiet morning standing at Ada’s eyes, not really doing anything, just looking out into her world.