Shaunette sat cross-legged on a woven mat, arms folded primly in her lap, her posture proper as always—until Santiago reached out and placed a bright yellow maracatu crown on her head, the sequins glittering under the moonlight.

“…This looks ridiculous,” she muttered, lips pursed, her thick coils of black hair piled beautifully under the beaded crown.

Santiago knelt in front of her, his wide grin never faltering. “It looks perfect. You look like the queen of Olinda herself.”

She rolled her droopy light brown eyes but didn’t take it off. If anything, a small twitch of a smile teased the corner of her mouth.

He sat beside her now, hands dusted with cassava flour from earlier preparations. “You know, when I was alive, I never really celebrated. My village was too busy surviving. But once I joined the coven…” he paused, voice soft, “they let me remember where I came from. That meant something.”

Shaunette’s eyes scanned the plate in front of her — acarajé steaming softly, carefully cooked under her supervision, while caruru rested beside palm wine in old clay vessels. On her side of the spread lay dishes she’d introduced him to: egusi soup with pounded yam, moimoi, and zobo chilled with hibiscus and cloves. Their cultures met like two rivers — not blending to erase, but mingling to hold space.

Santiago broke the silence. “And you? Do you remember your festivals?”

She hesitated, lips parting slightly. “Not really. My family was… strict. Distant. We weren’t allowed to celebrate. Joy was—” she stopped. “—a weakness.”

He turned to her, gently brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Then tonight, we make new memories. You and me. No kings, no rules, just us.”

Shaunette blinked, and for the first time in a long while, allowed herself to lean forward — carefully, hesitantly — until her forehead rested on Santiago’s. Her voice dropped low.

“I used to dream of dancing barefoot in the dirt. With drums. Bells. Color.” Her hands shook slightly. “But I never did.”

He smiled and stood, extending a hand. “Then come.”

“Santiago—”

“Come, minha cobra bonita. There are no cages here.”

She took his hand.

And he twirled her slowly, barefoot, her long coiled hair whipping around her waist as he began humming a soft rhythm from the Amazon. She stepped awkwardly at first — every movement stiff from a lifetime of suppression. But Santiago was patient. His hips swayed, his hands guided. And slowly, like water meeting fire, she began to move too.

They danced under the moon — Brazil and West Africa, warrior and maiden, slave descendant and soul survivor.

Afterward, breathless (from emotion, not exertion), Shaunette looked up at him.

“You do know I’m still going to fold the mats and wash the pots before dawn.”

Santiago chuckled. “Of course. But only after we light the fire again. For you this time.”

She didn’t smile. But her eyes softened.

“Okay.”