There was a sudden white emptiness in Priya’s skull.
“Gauri’s struggling to get volunteers,” Sima was saying. “There’s me, of course. A few new girls who don’t know better. That’s all.”
“But you do know better,” Priya managed to say.
“I want the money,” Sima said quietly. “I don’t want to be a maid for the rest of my life. I didn’t come to Hiranaprastha for that. And you…” Sima huffed out a breath, but Priya was so numb she didn’t feel it, even though they were cheek to cheek. “I don’t think you want to be here forever either.”
“It’s not a bad life,” Priya said. “There are worse ones.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t want just a little bit more than you have,” said Sima. “And what happened there—it was a long time ago, Pri.”
“The Ahiranyi don’t forget.” Priya moved away from the window. Pressed her back to the wall and stared at the ceiling.
“Let the rebels remember,” Sima said. “Let them write their poems and songs and take up arms. You and I, we should look after ourselves.”
She didn’t add because no one else will. That truth was ingrained in their marrow.
But.
The Hirana.
If Gautam had brought her close to the bones of her past, the Hirana was the grave where the broken pieces of her memory lay at uneasy rest.
It all tumbled over her then. The exhaustion. The void inside her. Rukh’s bravado and loneliness, like a mirror flinging her own past before her. The thought of how easily a blade could part skin. The humiliation of being knocked over, dismissed, talked down to. And what do you do? Sweep floors?
She was meant to be so much more, once.
She couldn’t be the person she’d been reared to be. But maybe, just maybe, she could allow herself to want a little more than what she had. Just a little.
It sparked up suddenly in her heart—a desire so small and yet so powerful that it welled up in her like hunger in a starving body. She couldn’t let herself want her old gifts or old strength. But this she could want: enough coin to buy sacred wood without groveling before a man who hated her. Enough coin to make life a little better: for those children at the market, who had no one. For Rukh, who was her responsibility now. For herself.
Coin was power. And Priya was so tired of feeling powerless.
“I can see her,” Sima gasped suddenly. “Ah—I can’t see her face, but her sari is lovely.”
“She’s a princess. Of course her sari is lovely.”
“Gray, though. I thought she’d wear something brighter.”
“She’s a prisoner.”
“Who knows what imprisoned royalty get to wear? Stop sniping at me, Pri. Come and look.”
Priya took Sima’s place this time. A slim figure had just alighted from the chariot. Priya could see the edge of a hand still resting against the chariot’s wall, the pearly fabric of the princess’s sari moving slightly in the breeze.
“I’m going to find Gauri,” she said, stepping back.
“Right now?” Sima asked, her forehead wrinkling in confusion.
Priya didn’t want to wait. If she thought too long on how foolish this was, she would convince herself not to do it.
“Why not?” Priya said. “I need to ask her for a job. I’ll come to the Hirana with you.” She forced a smile. “You’re right, Sima. It’s time to take care of myself.”
MALINI
They were greeted courteously by the regent, General Vikram. He had his young wife at his side—a pretty and doe-eyed Ahiranyi woman, who offered her a polite but timid smile, then retired to her own palace with apologies. Lady Bhumika was late into her pregnancy, and unable to keep up with the demands of entertaining guests.
Malini was not a guest, of course. She was not here by choice. But Lord Santosh—as disgustingly pleased to be in charge of her imprisonment as he had been on the day Chandra had placed the responsibility of her in his hands—insisted on a lavish meal. Advisors to the regent joined them, but to her relief Malini was given a place of honor at a remove from the rest of them.
Great platters were brought out. Perhaps General Vikram had been warned in advance that Lord Santosh, like Emperor Chandra, had a marked distaste for anything that was not inherently Parijati, because the meal resembled the food she would have eaten in the imperial mahal in Harsinghar. It was heavy with ghee and raisins and pistachios, saffron swirling fragrantly through pale dhal. She picked at it, struggling to make herself eat as the regent asked polite questions about the journey and Santosh responded. Ever since Malini had begun being dosed with needle-flower, her appetite had waned. She felt no hunger now.