One girl had escaped the soldiers at the brothel. Only one. It was only right that Bhumika protect her.
“You don’t have the sense to know who to trust,” he said.
There was a hardness to his tone. So Bhumika lowered her eyes, chastised.
“My soft heart makes a fool of me,” she said.
“This one should be interviewed by someone trustworthy,” he said, as water was brought to him as well, a sheen of condensation upon the metal cup. “I’ll have Commander Jeevan speak to her.”
Bhumika nodded.
Vikram hesitated.
“Lord Santosh,” he began. Then went quiet. “Emperor Chandra is ordering women burned.”
She said nothing.
“This is not the way of the mothers of flame,” he said. “This Chandra… if the older brother ruled, if he hadn’t left his family and faith, it would not be so. But some men dream of times long dead, and times that never existed, and they’re willing to tear the present apart entirely to get them.
“I am glad you did not see it,” he added, and she wondered for a moment if he was testing her. If he knew. But no. He had never suspected her of anything, her poor, unknowing husband.
“Oh, Vikram,” she said quietly. “I am sorry.”
He sighed, and said, “You have nothing to apologize for.” He drank deeply, then lowered his cup. “Now. Come here. Tell me about your day.”
When Vikram was gone, Bhumika retired to her room. Khalida came in not long after, a pot of flowers balanced against her hip. Her expression was tight.
“Lady Pramila won’t release her,” said Khalida. “The maid Gauri told me. She won’t give your girl a day’s ease. What do you want to do?”
“Nothing,” said Bhumika. Here, through her window, she could see the edges of the Hirana, framed in sunlight.
“I can insist on your behalf that household rules around the treatment of servants are adhered to.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Bhumika. “I’ll find a way to talk to Priya regardless.”
She knew the Hirana’s power. She knew how it was already changing Priya. She had a hunch, a suspicion, and she would know soon enough if it was correct.
“What are you holding?” Bhumika asked. “A gift, is it?”
“Jasmine from Parijat itself,” said Khalida, placing the pot on the window by Bhumika. “General Vikram sent it to you. It’s a gift.”
“How kind of him,” Bhumika said, and saw Khalida’s lips quirk at the sweetness of her voice.
It was not a container fit for jasmine flower, and the fragrant blooms would die soon enough.
“Is he here?”
Khalida knew she wasn’t speaking of her husband.
“Yes.”
“Tell him to enter.”
As she waited, Bhumika brushed her fingers over the flowers; felt the deep, river rush of the deathless waters within her. She watched the small blossoms wither and fold in on themselves beneath her touch. There was no reason not to kill them, if they would not survive anyway.
“Lady Bhumika.”
A man’s voice. A man’s shadow on the marble, as he bowed behind her.
She turned.
In her years of marriage, Bhumika had made sure of one thing, at least: Vikram was master of his mahal, but the first loyalty of the majority of maids and children, the soldiers and serving men, those who cooked the food and set the fires, and held arrows and swords against the dark, was to her.
She—the regent’s kindly wife, his vapid dove—had saved them. She had given them work and a home. And she demanded nothing in return.
Not yet, anyway. Not until now.
She did not speak of the executions. She did not speak of Ashok. “You may be needed, soon enough,” she said. “And I am sorry for it, but I must ask for your loyalty. I must ask for your service. I must ask for what you promised me.”
There were resources you should use sparingly. Resources too precious to be wasted. There were resources you must test before the time truly comes when they will be needed.
This was his test. He raised his eyes. On his arm, the cuff of metal marking his status gleamed the faded silver of a scar.
“My lady,” he said. “You have it. Always.”
PRIYA
Now that she knew Malini dreamt of fire, Priya began to dream of water. Clear, cool, rippling. Rivers winding beneath her feet, hissing like snakes.
When Meena had strangled her, she’d had a hallucination a little like this: of water coiling about her ankles. Of her brother limned in red, liquid-shadowed, more water than skin. In the moments after, she’d been able to use gifts that had long been inaccessible to her.