Aasha woke up in the darkness. She shook her head, and immediately turned toward the wall. There were no windows here. Though there were paintings full of startling lifelikeness. An image of Bharata, and a painting of a forest bright with fruit. They were even signed, although Aasha hadn’t noticed this until now, with a small symbol: a star balancing on the peak of a mountain.
Aasha wondered whether Zahril had made them… but there was a softness here that seemed distinctlynotlike her.
Perhaps they were drawn by the hand of another Spy Mistress. Someone who had lived long enough to make paintings and infuse them with love. Aasha placed her hand against the canvas, the glossy ridges where thick daubs of paint stuck out tickled her skin.
What did you do to last so long? How can I do it too?
But the painting yielded no answers.
Aasha left the paintings behind, performed her ablutions, and then opened the door to the maze of hallways. Unlike yesterday, there were no food scents for her to follow through the sprawling labyrinth of Zahril’s tower. It was lovely, if sparse. And dark. The dark did not bother Aasha. There had been plenty of times in thevishakanyaharem when they had not emerged from their den for nearly a month because it was not deemed safe to perform their arts. But this darkness was different. Not the kind of cozy shadows that spoke of something lived-in, but rather damp. Aasha’s skin felt tighter. She had only just gotten used to that sharp scent of green, growing things, and the rough texture of dirt beneath her fingers. She hadn’t traded a prison of silk for one of stone.
“Hello?” she called, when she entered the kitchen.
There was a basket of food on the dining table. She rummaged through it, finding a spiced potatoparatha,a couple of oranges, and a milk pouch. Her throat felt scratchy. Wasn’t there any tea in this forsaken place?
The food had to be delivered. By what means, Aasha wasn’t sure. There might have been a chute in this place that led straight to the neighboring village’s kitchen for all she knew.
“I guess if it can’t even spare sunlight, there’s no chance of tea,” she lamented.
There were several shelves lined with jars. Some held pieces of agate and polished moonstone, others held mustard seeds and candied fennel. At the way back, she finally found it: a tin of tea. The leaves looked brittle, but the aroma was still there: earthen and sweet.
She took it out, and measured out the spices. Grated nutmeg, cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods, star anise, and cloves. In a small pan, she toasted them together, and then ground it with a mortarand pestle. The water, tea, and milk were bubbling when she felt a slice of cold in the air. It was the cold of parting space when another body has just entered.
“What do you think you’re doing?” snapped Zahril.
Aasha froze. “Sor—” she started before shaking herself.
“I’m making tea,” she said. “I made some for you too.”
A chair leg scraped. Followed by some reluctant shuffling.
“I didn’t realize they sent me a kitchen maid,” needled the Spy Mistress.
Aasha just shrugged. She’d been hassled before by others. If they chose to displace their fury and frustrations on her, she had about four hundred years of practice.
“I’m not, however I enjoy preparing food,” said Aasha, throwing grated ginger into the spiced milk.
“How quaint.”
“It’s not the worst habit,” said Aasha. “I could enjoy rolling in manure, for instance. And that would make me far less enjoyable company.”
She’d borrowed that line from Vikram. She muttered a thanks to him in her head.
Aasha strained the tea into the two mugs, and set one down before Zahril.
She looked at it for a long time, her features still entirely obscured.
“What’s this?”
“It’s called tea. From common knowledge, I’ve gathered that one sips it when it’s cooled down a little. Sometimes you can dunk a biscuit into it, if that suits you.”
If Vikram were here, he would have grinned widely. Over thepast year, he’d gone out of his way to cure what he called her wide-eyed-cat approach to life. The first time Aasha had made a rather vulgar joke, Vikram had been so proud, he let her choose all the palace desserts for a straight week.
“Don’t be condescending to me,” snapped Zahril.
Aasha’s bravado withered and snapped. A braver person might have retorted:don’t drink it.But she did not feel very brave anymore. She felt as if she had been stripped of her skin and with no armor, every word and insult bruised her heart. Every word had to be placed into the context… human or Otherworld? Every reaction required a well to draw from, and hers had gone dry.
Aasha turned around, giving a show of privacy. Faintly, she heard a dainty sip. And then a splutter.
