The prisoner. She was staring at the prisoner. The emperor’s sister. The princess.
There should have been no way for this to happen. The prisoner should have been sleeping.
But the lattice wall—this lattice wall—was in a corridor that no maidservant should rightly have entered. No one had thought to block the lattice with more than a simple curtain; no one had thought this could occur.
Look away, thought Priya. Look away.
She should have lowered her gaze. She should have bowed. Instead she stared, unblinking, into those eyes. She stared, and held her own breath inside herself, a tight kernel that threatened to burst against her ribs. She was like a bird, pinned by the wing. Flight was beyond her.
The prisoner gazed back in return. She was lying on the floor, propped up on her elbows, her hair a wild, dark curtain around her. The wine had stained her pale sari wound-red. Still holding Priya’s eyes, she leaned forward.
“Are you real?” Low voice, kept carefully soft, to avoid notice, and rough from weeping. “Speak. I need to be sure.”
Priya’s mouth parted. No sound escaped her lips. She wanted to ask the same in return.
The prisoner swallowed. Priya heard the click of her throat; saw the tilt of her head, as she regarded Priya with an expression that Priya could not hope to understand.
“Real, then.” Her eyes were rimmed in red. “Good.”
“Please,” Priya whispered again. “Forgive me. Princess.”
She scrambled to her feet. Bowed, head low, hands clasped before her. And then she turned and fled.
She heard nothing behind her. Only the absence of weeping. Only the princess’s hoarse breath, fading into the silent void of the night.
She raced back to the triveni.
At the center of the room, on the low plinth, sat Meena. Her back was to Priya, but she turned when Priya approached. Blinked at her. There were tear tracks on her cheeks.
“Priya?”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I was just tidying,” said Meena, which was such an obvious lie that Priya could only stare at her, openmouthed, for a moment.
“Get down.”
“I was just…”
“Get down from there,” she repeated. And then, because her tongue and her heart were traitorous sometimes, she said, “That isn’t for you.”
Meena climbed down. She crossed her arms before her, looking all the world like a guilty child.
“Do you know how near you are to the princess’s chambers?” Priya asked, shaken, her racing heart making her voice suddenly tremble. “Do you know the trouble we could be in, if the princess were to hear us? Or spirits forbid, Lady Pramila found us here? We have one job: We come here in the dark, we clean and prepare the food, and we leave before first light. We do not disturb the prisoner. We don’t allow her to know we exist. Those are the regent’s orders, and we obey, you understand?”
“I—I’m sorry,” Meena said shakily. “Please don’t tell Gauri.”
“I won’t.” She gripped Meena’s arm. “Think of the extra coin you’ll get for this job and behave next time, okay? Think of your future. Now come on. We’re going back to work.”
They left the triveni behind.
PRIYA
It was early morning by the time the maidservants made it down from the Hirana and back into the mahal. Billu had a plate of food warm and ready for them, and they divided the roti and pickles between themselves. Gauri excused herself quickly, claiming she needed her rest.
“We should rest too,” said Sima, dabbing her roti through the leftover fragrant oil and brine. Priya opened her mouth and Sima raised a finger up to stop her. “Don’t speak until you’ve finished eating, Pri, please.”
Priya rolled her eyes and swallowed down her mouthful of food with a swig of water, then said, “I’m not tired yet.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to the orchard,” she said. “Billu,” she called, and the cook turned from the humongous pile of onions he was hacking his way through. “I’m heading over to the orchard, so if you want me to carry anything to the boys…？”
“You should be going to sleep,” scolded Billu, but he gave her some parathas to carry with her, and a big flask of tea, the steam carrying the warm perfume of cardamom. “Tell them there’s a little onion sabzi left, if they’re quick,” he said. “But I won’t send it with you. Too messy.”
The few people with rot in the household had been assigned the task of clearing the blighted acres of the regent’s orchard, alongside the servants who usually managed the care of the regent’s trees. The rot-riven were, after all, already marked—they couldn’t be infected again. Or that was the logic used, at least.