She hoped.
The maidservants had brought grain and firewood and oil. They’d left the Hirana sparkling clean, and hidden beneath a pan, they’d left Priya her own message: thumbprints, hastily imprinted on a scrap of white cloth.
Priya swallowed a lump in her throat. For those who couldn’t write, this was the only kind of memento they could leave for a loved one going far from home.
The maidservants had cooked breakfast for the princess: slow-simmered kichadi flecked with cumin, and thick parathas with yoghurt and sugar and raisin-studded malai. But by the time Malini woke in the late morning, sluggish and barely aware of what lay around her, the parathas were stiff, the kichadi cold, the malai congealed. Pramila barely touched her food either. It was as if the both of them were gnawed by something that left no room for hunger. So it was the guards who ate the most, with Priya keeping a choice piece for herself.
The water Priya warmed every dawn was barely ever used by the princess. It was Pramila who used it, perfunctorily bathing, allowing Priya to comb her hair, snapping at her when she caught a tangle or bound it back too tightly. Malini simply slept dirty, tangle-haired. And Priya… watched, and obeyed, and felt her contempt for Pramila grow.
She was not certain if Pramila neglected Malini on purpose, or if she considered the matter of feeding, bathing, and caring for the princess the work of attendants and therefore below her dignity. But she suspected it was the former. The woman demanded her fire be lit and her food be warm but cared nothing for Malini’s well-being, beyond ensuring that she listened to sanctimonious tales and drank her evening wine.
She marveled at the uselessness of highborn women, her scorn for the lot of them curdling in her. Priya had been a girl of status once, but temple children were plucked from villages and settlements across Ahiranya and then tested, day in and day out, for their strength and resilience and cunning. If Priya had refused to start a fire as a girl, she would have been boxed around the ears for laziness. In her childhood, idleness was weakness to be unlearned.
Thank the spirits, there would be a holy day soon, and for a time she would be free.
“Of course you’re not leaving.”
“All servants have a day’s ease,” Priya said. “My lady,” she added, after a beat. It wouldn’t do to anger Pramila too much. Not when she needed something from her.
“You stay here,” Pramila said slowly, as though Priya were stupid. “You serve an imperial scion now, girl. Don’t you understand? Your local customs don’t apply.”
Priya was fairly sure servants in other parts of Parijatdvipa also had days of rest, but what good would it do to say so, when Lady Pramila was looking at her as if she were an idiot, her mind clearly already set?
“I… I have other duties.”
“Not anymore. Your duties are here,” Pramila said. “Now bring me dinner and a cup of tea. There’s a girl.”
Priya bowed her head, murmuring an acknowledgment. She warmed some food, brewed a pan of tea laden with spices and bamboo cane, her hands trembling with banked fury.
She poured the tea. Prepared a plate. Returned to Pramila’s side and arranged the meal. Lowering her eyes demurely, she said, “If I may speak to my fellow maids, perhaps…”
“Yes, yes,” Pramila said, waving a hand in dismissal. She took a key from her belt. Tossed it to Priya. “Keep it, girl. I have another. Do whatever is needful. But do not allow the princess to wander, you understand?”
“I do, ma’am,” said Priya. “Thank you.”
There was a small triumph in that at least: She had permission to talk with the others, and also had evidence that Pramila no longer felt the need to watch her. Her false meekness had set her free—left her invisible and given her a way out of Malini’s cell.
Priya was beyond suspicion again. She could explore the Hirana once more.
She sought out Sima, grabbing her outside the eastern chamber. Sima whirled when she felt a hand on her arm. Then her eyes widened, and she flung her arms around Priya, drawing her into a bone-crushing hug.
“That’s a lot of emotion,” Priya said, lightly teasing. “I’d almost think you missed me.”
“Of course I’ve missed you. Do you know how boring it is without you? None of the other girls gossip about anything, they’re owl-headed idiots, the lot of them.” Sima sniffed. “But look at you. Your sari—”
“I was ordered to wear it.”
“Well, it’s rather nice. I wouldn’t say no to a new sari.” As neatly as she had mended the rip in the sleeve from her fall, it was still visible—a faint, puckering scar in the fabric. “Why haven’t you spoken to any of us? I looked for you. Gauri asked the jailer about you, but was told you were busy and to stop asking questions.”