“What kind of message?”
“If you will not free me, then he will try to find a way,” Malini said. “A quiet way that does not expose our plans. If there is one. And if not…” Her hands twisted, curling into fists. “Then I will be grateful to know how business proceeds, and to send word to Aditya.”
Priya was very still. Malini looked at her, weighing up the tension of her body, the turn of her head, and wondered how close she was to breaking.
“You spoke of hating those with imperial blood,” murmured Malini. “You spoke of your loved ones burning. Well, I have lost people I love to the pyre, too. At my brother’s orders. Let us see him off the throne together, Priya.”
There was an openness, a painful openness to Priya’s face at that. Wide-eyed, mouth parting for words she couldn’t speak. It faded, after a moment, leaving nothing but determination in its place.
“If I do this—if I help you—then we’re not going to be mistress and servant,” Priya said slowly. “Outside of here you may be the imperial princess and I may be nothing, but here I’m something useful. I have something you need. And I will not be your tool or your weapon. I will be your equal. Do we have an agreement?”
Priya hated being belittled. Priya hated not being seen. Hated being made small. Malini had seen it in her when Pramila had hit Priya—when a black, calculating look had flickered, just for a moment, through Priya’s eyes.
It was lucky, then, that it was always so easy to meet Priya’s gaze. To look into that face and give her what she wanted, simply by allowing herself to be honest. Not having to manipulate Priya felt like a small blessing.
“You are immensely powerful,” Malini told her. “And if you choose to believe I am manipulating you, or not—please believe this: I am telling you the truth when I say I have needed a friend. And you have been—very kind.” Ah, she would miss that kindness. “I must have your title, then. What would you be called? An elder?”
“Just Priya,” she said curtly. “As you already call me.”
“Then I must be just Malini to you, in return.”
“Fine. We have a bargain,” said Priya, and Malini’s heart soared even as her stomach knotted. Bargains, and vows upon bargains. There would be no end to it.
“Now. Malini. Tell me about this man, and where I may find him.”
BHUMIKA
She learned of the fire when the conches sounded. Someone had attacked Lord Iskar’s haveli, a captain told her, when he came with extra soldiers to guard her manse. But he knew no more than that.
She waited in her rose palace to see if anything—anyone—would attack the mahal too. She had no idea if her husband was alive. She could only sit, and think, and force herself to remain calm.
The most vulnerable members of the mahal joined her: the youngest and oldest maidservants, a few children, and the handful of rot-riven who served quietly in her household. They stood at the very edge of the room, in shadow, as the children sniffled through tears and the maidservants stood in stoic silence.
Among the rot-riven, she saw the boy Priya had brought into the household. Khalida had not been happy when Bhumika had allowed the boy to have a position. But the boy had not caused any trouble since. No complaints had been brought to Khalida or, by extension, to Bhumika herself. Bhumika had, in fact, thought little of him since allowing his employment.
She thought of him now. It was easier to look at him—his hunched shoulders and his lowered chin, the way he held himself small and alert in the exact way Priya had, when Bhumika had first brought her home—than it was to contemplate what could be happening beyond her manse’s walls.
“Come here, boy,” she said, beckoning lightly to him.
He approached slowly, then stopped and sketched out an awkward bow. He was dressed in a serviceable tunic and dhoti, the kind of clothing given to any servant of the mahal, but the shawl he wore over it was dirty, frayed at the edges.
“Your shawl is filthy,” she said. “Do you have nothing else?”
He shook his head. “No, my lady,” he said, his voice a croak of nervousness.
“Did you ask?”
He shook his head once more.
She glanced over at Khalida, who communicated—by the arch of an eyebrow and a slight shake of her head—that the boy had not requested a new shawl or asked for help of any kind.
“If you could, Khalida,” Bhumika said.
“My lady?”
“My spare brown shawl,” she said. “Please.”