Madhu beckoned them closer. Puffed out smoke.
“She’s young,” Madhu said shortly. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees. “There are worse places to stop than here,” she said to Arwa. “We’re established. Oh, there are plenty of charlatan visionaries here, but they keep the Governor’s soldiers distracted.”
“Do they,” Arwa said faintly.
“You’re young. Pretty. Can you cry on command? Never mind.” A waved hand. “You can learn. Show the pilgrims a sad face and they’ll give you any gift we ask for.”
“But you wouldn’t be expected to whore,” the first widow piped up.
“An added benefit,” agreed Madhu. “The House of Tears has a good reputation for a reason.”
“That is—I did not think—”
“You did not?” A grin. “My, you are a sheltered one.”
“I.” Arwa shook her head. “I am sorry, Aunt. I don’t think I should be here.”
Madhu pursed her lips. Sucked her teeth. Then she said, “Well, think on it. The world is becoming unsafe for women like us. We all feel the terror in the night. But widows have currency in such times. The world is mourning, and who knows better how to mourn than we do?”
Without conscious thought, Arwa removed one of her packages and placed it in the woman’s hands.
“This is all I have to offer as a pilgrim. I…” Words failed her. She did not know how she felt. “I am sorry, Aunt. I have to go.”
And she turned and fled.
Arwa returned to their makeshift room and handed out the food as Eshara dragged herself sluggishly to her elbows and began to eat. Zahir left his food untouched, a frown creasing his brow.
“You took a long time,” he said.
She didn’t want to explain where she had gone, or why she had given the widows her food. She didn’t want to explain how she had felt in the House of Tears: the way those bright candles had moved her heart like a star across the heavens. She did not want to tell them how the old widow had reminded her of Gulshera, and made her wonder what had become of Gulshera. Of Jihan. Of Bega. Of all the women, left in the massacre.
“I lost my way,” said Arwa. That at least was believable.
“You brought nothing for yourself?”
“I…” She shook her head, trying to clear the haze of grief and exhaustion. “I’m sorry. I am—tired, I think. That is for you.” She gestured at the parcel. “I misplaced my own food, not yours.”
“We can share, Arwa,” he said. His gaze was steady, assessing her. “There’s no need for sacrifice.”
She nodded, truly too tired to argue, and ate a little, chewing on spongy rice and gram flour, the sharp tang of chutney. Then she drank a little water and curled upon herself. Head on her arm. Comforted by the sound of humans—living, breathing humans—around her.
“We leave in the morning,” said Eshara. And Arwa, blackness already pulling her into sleep, did not respond.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
She was in Kamran’s study.
Papers lay before her. Dozens of missives. She sifted through them by rote, as was expected of her. She raised her eyes carefully to gauge his expression. He was seated in the corner, face resting on his knuckles, body in shadow.
“Husband,” she said. “What am I to do with these?”
He was silent. Biting her lip, she lowered her eyes once more. Perhaps he did not want to be disturbed.
She read the next page; neat script, terrifyingly small. She knew this hand.
A chill ran through her. She raised her eyes once more, and stood.
“Husband,” she said. Silence. Then: “Kamran.”
