“Kaikeyi?”
My heart stopped for one agonizing moment. I pressed myself against the wall as it restarted at double speed. It was only my brother, whom I had ventured out to find in the first place. “Yudhajit?”
He was a few steps away now, clad in crisp white cotton sleep clothes that had clearly not yet been slept in. His eyes shone brightly in the darkness. He too must have been waiting for this still hour to leave his room. “What are you doing up?” he asked.
“What are you doing up?” I retorted, not wanting to admit I had been coming to get him.
He made a face. “I asked you first.”
I shrugged and started walking away, trying to feign indifference. The court had taught me patience, but it had taught Yudhajit impulsivity. Only one of us knew how to hold their tongue.
“I couldn’t sleep. I miss Mother. She did not even say goodbye to us. I—I don’t understand.” His voice twisted and broke, and I found myself fighting back tears as well.
Unwilling to face my own grief, I kept walking, and he easily caught up to me, filling the space by my side as he always did.
We slipped like ghosts through the hallways, not wanting to return to bed just yet. In unspoken agreement, we found ourselves heading toward the door to the kitchens, our stomachs growling in unison.
Yudhajit moved ahead to open the door. I had grown distracted thinking of what sweets I might find to snack on and did not realize he had stopped until I walked right into him. He stumbled slightly but did not make a sound, pointing his chin toward the entrance. After a moment, I heard what he did—the faintest murmur of voices. We tiptoed closer, closer, closer, until the murmurs became words.
“So long as nobody learns the truth, it does not matter.” I could not recognize the deep voice, resonating through the small space like the beat of an animal-hide drum.
Yudhajit, more familiar with the men of the palace, mouthed Prasad at me. An advisor who I had seen at formal court occasions, but never interacted with. He sat near the king, so my father likely valued him.
The second voice I recognized immediately. It belonged to my mother’s former lady-in-waiting, Dhanteri. “It matters to me,” she said sharply.
“It shouldn’t,” Prasad replied.
“I know. Manthara knows. Why keep it a secret? The children deserve to know.”
“Neither of you can tell another soul, or both of you will find yourself unable to work.”
Dhanteri laughed, a sound without any happiness at all. “I am already without work. The raja saw to that when he banished Radnyi Kekaya.”
If our bodies had not been nearly occupying the same space, I would not have noticed Yudhajit’s quiet gasp.
Banished.
I was listening, straining for answers, as though by will alone I could force these adults to tell me what I craved to know.
“Woman, she is not your radnyi anymore. You will not speak another word, or I will ensure that you are the last of your name,” Prasad hissed. His tone frightened me.
I snuck a glance at Yudhajit to see if perhaps he understood what that threat meant, but he looked as confused as I did.
“If you keep your mouth shut,” Prasad added, “I will see to it that you are kept on, to manage the women’s work in the court.”
There was silence for a moment. “As you say, Arya Prasad.” The faintest rustle of cloth came from behind the door. “I will speak to Manthara.”
“See that you do. So long as everyone believes Radnyi Kekaya left of her own accord, it will not matter what really happened.”
Yudhajit and I backed away from the door as one, rounding the corner slowly, carefully. But when we were sure we would not be heard, we darted fast, bare feet leaving brief impressions of dampness against the cool stone. Only when we reached our rooms did we stop, facing each other and panting.
“What do we do?” Yudhajit asked. “Surely they could not have been telling the truth.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” I said.
“We can talk to Father—”
“No!” I cut him off. “Please, we cannot tell anyone. You heard what Prasad said. If you tell anyone, Manthara will have to leave.” I couldn’t stomach the thought.
“You shouldn’t need your nurse anymore, Kaikeyi. We’re twelve, almost adults.” Yudhajit scoffed. He had only recently become taller than me. I hated his new height and the way he could look down upon me now, but I hated even more that he was right. Still, I would not give up Manthara.
“Please?” I asked.