Her time on the Hirana had already changed her, but now it was shifting and molding her dreams. She woke once in the night and saw that the ground had changed beneath her; the imprints of flowers were all over the stone. As she blinked, confused, they faded.
That night she woke again, as she so often did—pitch-dark around her, no sound of other maidservants at work to break the stillness—and realized something was different. She could hear a new noise. Not the rush of water that slithered through her dreams. Not Malini’s breath, slowed by her medicine and deepened by sleep.
Weeping.
She stood up. She crossed the dark room to the side of the princess’s bed. Malini was curled up on her side, face twisted into a rictus, her shoulders bent to a sharp angle behind her, raised like wings. She was still deep asleep—the drugged wine had seen to that—but a ferocious nightmare had its claws in her.
Priya kneeled down on the charpoy beside her. Lightly shook her shoulder, then a little harder, and harder still when Malini remained curled tight as a thing of shell.
“My lady,” she whispered. Then more firmly: “Princess Malini. Wake up. Wake up, princess.”
Malini gave a jolt. Moved, with the sudden speed of a viper.
The grip that latched onto Priya’s wrist was vicious. Malini’s nails dug into her skin, all cruel points untempered by hesitation or fear. Her eyes snapped open, but they were unseeing, looking through Priya as if her flesh were glass.
Priya instinctually closed her left hand around Malini’s, trapping the vise of Malini’s hand in a vise of her own. She knew exactly what to do: how to tighten her grip just so, to make Malini’s hand spasm and release her, or twist the princess’s wrist until the bone gave way with a snap.
“Please, my lady,” she said instead, keeping her own breath steady to hold back the pain. She knew how to do this, too. “It’s only me.”
For a long moment the cruelty of Malini’s grip did not falter. Then, slowly, awareness returned to her eyes. She released Priya abruptly—but Priya was still holding her. Priya uncurled her own fingers calmly, carefully. When Malini remained frozen, Priya lowered her arm for her and said, “You were having a nightmare.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Malini said faintly, and turned to the side, covering her mouth.
Priya leapt up, looking for a basin, but Malini was not sick. She merely remained on her side for a long moment, head lowered, hand over her mouth. Then she raised her head and said, “Sometimes—my medicine…”
“There is no need to explain, my lady.”
“I was dreaming again.” Priya watched Malini twist the fabric of her sari into knots in her hands. “I am… not myself.”
Priya wished then that she could go and speak to a healer, or even to Gautam. They would be able to tell her exactly what dangers to watch for as exposure to needle-flower became full-blown poisoning: the cadence of breath, the significance of sleep paralysis and venomous dreams, the dangers that could be read in the pulse or the near translucence of Malini’s flesh.
But she had no one to speak to. She could only watch as Malini deteriorated.
She thought of how she would comfort Sima, or even Rukh, and could not imagine giving Malini the kind of casual, easy intimacy she’d give either of them. She considered placing a hand against Malini’s back, but—no. She couldn’t.
“Do you wish to bathe, my lady?” Priya asked abruptly.
“It’s not remotely near morning,” Malini said in a flat voice. “I can’t leave this room.”
“You can,” Priya said. “Leave, that is. If you’d like to. My lady.”
She had the key to the room bound to her waist chain. She unhooked it, holding it to the faint light.
Malini looked at it. Looked away, her face in profile.
“I do not want to bathe,” said Malini. But she didn’t lie back on her bedding once more, or demand water or food. She did nothing but sit hunched over, her hands curled like claws. Staring at nothing.
“A walk, then,” Priya offered. “A little exercise would perhaps do you good.”
“Do me good—would it really?” Malini’s hands curled a little tighter. “I do not think walking will cure what ails me.”
There was no bitterness in Malini’s voice. Only resignation.
“Walk with me regardless,” Priya said, “and I will tell you a tale of the yaksa.”
Malini finally raised her eyes. Deep, dark. Considering.
She rose to her feet.