She was staring at the greatest threat to her life right now.
6
For three straight weeks, Aasha avoided death. She avoided death in the form of a colorless gas that she only noticed from catching sight of leaves faintly curling. She avoided death in the form of a shadow pool that lay beside the stretched-out darkness of a massive statue. And she avoided death from a wall of hands where every hand offered a poisonous beverage except one, and she was forced to take a sip of one glass. That had been the hardest. Not because she was worried about death in the form of a poisonous drink, but because if she took a poisonous one and didn’t die then Zahril would have surely noticed and probably killed her.
The way a Spy Mistress had to think appealed to Aasha. It was less about anticipating, and more about looking. During those weeks where she avoided death, not once did she reach for the mannerisms that she had learned in Bharata. And neither did she reach for hervishakanyaabilities that she had learned in the harem. Instead, she reached for… herself. The space between her two lives where she existed in moments of stolen peace. A place of curiosity. Questioning. The kind of place where a horizon may not be a horizon at all, but a sword of light laid flat upon the land and glimpsed only if one tilted their headjust so.Aasha felt as though she breathed easier here in a way that she never had in Bharata or thevishakanyaharem. In both places, she was either too much or not enough. If her soul had been fluttering from the harem to Bharata, here it had fallen still. Not still, like death. But still, like sleep. Rest and repose to an era of restlessness.
It was the start of the fourth week. Aasha had just survived a grueling lesson of mismatched scents. Bananas that smelled like burnt rope. Bitter almonds on an apple rind. Musty sweets. Pine-sharp perfume on pistachios.
“This doesn’t smell like what it looks like,” Aasha had protested.
Zahril had scoffed. “You think a poison is going to announce itself just for your convenience?”
“That would be nice, yes.”
They had fallen into a rhythm. Zahril would insult. Aasha would ignore. A lesson would ensue. Each time she didn’t die, Aasha imagined that a small tool chiseled out a little more of Zahril’s smile. Her face, though scarred on one side, was still… beautiful.
Aasha hadn’t noticed until today. It was at the end of the lesson. Aasha’s hair was plastered to her face, damp from the steam room where Zahril had laid out the various poisons and scents. Zahril had been leaning out over those poisonous fumes, one sea-glass eye swiveling, the other—garnet-black and glinting like ice under a new moon—pinned to Aasha. The steam and smoke and venom had plumed into the still air. A watery phosphorescent light had burstfrom a broken vial. Zahril had averted her gaze just in time, bringing her almost face-to-face with Aasha. Aasha, who had no cause to worry about venom, had no cause to flinch. She stayed still, her eyes wide open, which was how she noticed that Zahril had squeezed her eyes shut. It was such a strangely childish gesture that Aasha fought back the urge to shelter Zahril in her arms. But within seconds, that urge faded. Something else replaced it… a nearly painful desire to reach out and touch. It was all because of the light from that broken tube. Silvery light burst from it, illuminating the smooth planes of Zahril’s face, the crescents of her cheekbones and dark spill of her eyelashes, the wide bow of her mouth, which—when not pulled into a sneer—was full as a fruit. Zahril had opened her eyes to see Aasha staring at her. A moment too long passed. And then it was broken.
A week passed.
Aasha still hadn’t been able to shake Zahril’s face from her thoughts. And, if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t really want to.
There had been something secret, unguarded in her expression. An ease that Aasha had only recognized in her own reflection. It didn’t make sense to imagine that the Spy Mistress might share anything with her, but Aasha felt as though sheknewthat fear. That gap of belonging and not quite fitting, wondering if the parts of her that overlapped might somehow be worn smooth with time and simply fall into place.
Nearly two months had passed in the Spy Mistress’s company. Aasha, who hated the taste of the bland food delivered from the neighboring village, had taken to preparing the dishes herself. Zahril generally claimed her food was either inedible or fatally spicy, but Aasha noticed that her dish was always clean after a meal.
Tonight she was makingpakoras.Zahril had only just started sampling the things Aasha attempted to make.
“That doesn’t smell right,” said Zahril. She was eating whatever bland offering had been prepared by the people in the neighboring village. “If you poison yourself, I will feel like a very poor instructor.”
“I will try not to hurt your feelings,” said Aasha.
Aasha did not turn as she spoke. But she felt, like a bend in the space, as if Zahril was smiling. Yesterday, Aasha had simmered apple slices in cloves and honey. Zahril, whose hands were full, had said:
“Just give me the thing, if you’re so desperate for me to insult your culinary ability.”
Perhaps she meant for Aasha to put it on the plate. And leave it there. But she hadn’t.
She placed the fruit between thumb and forefinger, twirling it like a spiral, so that it might catch any threads of golden honey. Then she’d held it up to Zahril. Zahril tensed. Not looking at her. But her lips had parted, and Aasha placed the fruit on her tongue. If she saw the barest flush of red on Zahril’s cheeks or if Zahril had noticed the slight tremor in her fingers when her skin had brushed the damp velvet of her lips, neither of them said anything.
Aasha had never madepakoras.But she understood the basics. Chopped cauliflower, tomato, plantains, and chili peppers dipped in a batter made from gram flour and deep-fried into crispy perfection. The smells soon overwhelmed the kitchen…
But so did the popping oil. It bubbled faster than Aasha expected. Leaping out of the cast-iron pot, and landing everywhere. Including her skin.
Aasha gave a sharp cry.
Zahril was at her side in an instant.
“What’s wrong with you, girl?”
“Wait—” she started.
Aasha saw it before it happened. The ladle poised too close to the handle. The sharp jut of Zahril’s elbow, and the sudden shift in weight.
“Move!” cried Aasha.
She pushed. Zahril stumbled. The pot of oil teetered. Spilled.
