“Anyway,” Priya said abruptly. “I want to end her poisoning and stop the needle-flower entirely. But I’m not the one who gives her the wine.”
Bhumika drummed her fingers lightly. “Could you make yourself that person?”
“Pramila doesn’t think much of servants.” Priya crossed her arms. “And she certainly doesn’t think much of me.”
“But she needs you,” said Bhumika.
“She needs much more than me. But yes.”
Bhumika nodded, as if she’d come to some decision.
“Keep the princess alive,” Bhumika said. “Just a little longer. That’s all I ask of you, Priya. What you do with Ashok…” She shook her head. “Just do this for me. That’s all.”
Then Bhumika reached out, both hands before her, and violently shoved Priya down under the water.
Priya woke with a gasp.
Malini lay deep asleep on the charpoy beside her. The sun was beginning to rise. And Priya would have almost—almost—believed it was just a dream, if not for the memory of the flint of Bhumika’s eyes. The magic singing and coiling in her blood.
The lines upon the floor, which had moved into a mimicry of stars.
MALINI
Malini knew she was growing sicker. It was becoming more difficult to make herself speak. Quiet was simpler, easier. The needle-flower was a dark pool, enfolding her, pressing down upon her tongue.
Days passed. She had asked Priya to stay near her, to lie down beside her if she liked, and Priya had taken the request to heart. Often Priya sat by her and told her stories: more about the yaksa, but also silly, frivolous tales that she’d clearly dredged up from her childhood. Once, she told Malini about an elephant who asked its mice friends to save it from a hunter by biting through the ropes binding it.
“Do mice and elephants speak the same language?” Malini asked, when Priya was halfway into the story.
“Don’t pick holes,” Priya scolded. “Does everything really have to make perfect sense, my lady? It’s a tale for children.”
“I think it’s a fair question,” Malini said. She knew her voice was thin, reedy with exhaustion, but she managed a laugh when Priya gave her a mock frown. “Now, imagine if you were the size of an elephant and I were the size of a mouse. Would we really be able to have a conversation?”
“Well, you’d be too frightened to tell me how foolish my stories are, at least,” Priya said.
But as Malini grew sicker, the stories petered out. More often than not, Malini woke from nightmares to find Priya dozing on the floor beside her charpoy, head pillowed on her arms and her body curled on its side.
One night, she felt the charpoy shift; heard the creak of the frame behind her curved back.
Malini’s breath stuttered out of her. “Priya?” she whispered.
“I’m here.”
Malini turned over.
“I’m not dreaming?”
“No,” said Priya. “No, my lady.”
“That’s good.” Malini’s voice was a little hoarse. She curled her fingers against the weave of bamboo and saw Priya’s fingers mirror her own, a half breath of distance between Priya’s knuckles and her own. Malini could barely make out her face. In the night’s gloom, Priya’s skin looked ghostly dark, her mouth and jaw in shadow.
Perhaps it was the needle-flower that made Malini feel as if Priya would vanish at any moment, unspooling like the coil of smoke from a candle flame. Malini wanted to reach out and feel her skin; the reassurance of solid fingers and smooth nails, the dip and swell of knuckles, all of it real and proof of life.
But she didn’t. She stayed still and listened to Priya’s breath; watched the whites of Priya’s eyes, as Priya watched her in turn.
“Why does Lady Pramila hate you, my lady?” Priya asked suddenly.
“Did Pramila say something to you today?”
Priya shook her head. “No, my lady.”
“Jailers always hate their prisoners,” Malini said.
“The way she responds to you is not simply how a jailer responds to a prisoner, I think.”
“Is it not?” Malini frowned. “I thought it was. After all, power makes everyone monstrous. At least a little.”
Priya’s mouth turned down at the corners. She looked—worried, perhaps. That was good.
“Please, my lady,” she said. “I want to help.”
Malini wanted Priya’s pity. She wanted to bind Priya to her. She needed an ally. She had already been vulnerable in front of Priya, drawing her in, making a confidante of her. Now she would have to do so again. But ah, it was a hard thing to do: Making herself speak through the weight of needle-flower. Pouring out words. All of it was hard, and hurt.