Arwa avoided meals whenever possible. There were no more walks, no more visits to the prayer hall where she could seek comfort in the presence of the effigy of the Emperor and the Maha. She did not go to the valley and practice archery again. Gulshera had never returned the bow or the quiver of arrows to Arwa’s keeping, after she had so carelessly discarded them.
Instead Arwa took food from the kitchens, which the servants handed over warily, begrudgingly. She sat in her own room, waiting for her hand to heal, struggling to ignore the itch of flesh weaving itself whole, and wrote letter after discarded letter to her mother.
In the end she settled on penning her mother a simple letter, sparse in detail and in feeling. She told her mother she liked the hermitage, that she appreciated the silence, and the time to reflect without disturbance.Being alone, she wrote,suits me well.
Arwa had never been one for writing letters, after her marriage. She doubted her mother or father would expect that to change, now she was a widow, cloistered away in the isolated keeping of a hermitage.
Besides, she had seen—felt—her mother’s raw disappointment, the heat of her shame in Arwa. She did not think her mother would be eager to reach out to Arwa now. All her work to make Arwa whole and better, and what had come of it, in the end? Nothing.
Give Father my love, she finished.I hope you are both well.
She was likely to be long gone from the hermitage before her mother’s response arrived. She had no doubts that Gulshera’s mistress would want her. Arwa knew how strange it was, the thing her blood had done. Her blood had drawn the daiva to her. Her blood had saved her. There was cure and curse tangled inside her. That was worth a great deal, in these harrowing times of blight. Especially to the Emperor’s line, who had brought the Empire all its glory, and must have felt keenly the Empire’s pain.
One evening, Gulshera came to Arwa’s room. Arwa had been sitting on her bed, reading a book of poetry—a tangle of beautiful, lyrical verses—when Gulshera rapped on the door and entered. Arwa snapped her book shut. She moved to stand, a question hovering on her lips. Gulshera shook her head. She knew what Arwa had intended to ask.
“No reply yet,” said Gulshera. “I’m here to cut your hair.”
Arwa reflexively reached a hand up and touched the ends of her hair. Her hair had always grown fast. When it had been long it had been her pride, and had lain in thick black waves to the small of her back. At its current length—not long, but not quite as short as was seemly for a widow—it curled faintly where it touched her jaw.
“With your hand as it is,” Gulshera said, “you can’t cut it yourself. And you need to make yourself presentable.”
“I could ask a servant,” Arwa offered cautiously, wary of Gulshera, who was expressionless, arms crossed.
“I doubt they would help you,” Gulshera said.
“Do they say I’m an Amrithi barbarian? Do theyfearme now?” Arwa knew she should not have asked, should not have let the bitter, hurt words pass her lips, even before Gulshera shook her head, just one weary turn, as if Arwa’s words and Arwa’s very presence exhausted her.
“It’s natural for them to fear,” Gulshera said. “Do not worry about them, Arwa. Worry about your future. Sit at your desk and let me begin to make you fit for it.”
Gulshera had brought shears with her. She smoothed the curls of Arwa’s hair with her fingers, then began to cut them away neatly. Arwa felt the strands fall away from her. She sat very still, conscious of the sharpness of the shears, and the cool regard of Gulshera’s eyes on her.
“Apart from the dagger and the blood, you really don’t seem very Amrithi at all,” Gulshera said, voice approving but detached, as if Arwa were a piece of flawed livestock, a thing to be weighed up for its quality. The snip of the shears was glittering sharp in Arwa’s ears. “I would not have guessed, if you hadn’t betrayed yourself.”
“I told you. It’s just an aberration in my blood,” Arwa murmured, wrapping her memories of her early childhood away, away. “That’s all. As for the dagger…” She curled and uncurled her fingers, testing the flexibility of her healing skin. “It’s a necessity. That’s all.”
Gulshera gave a low hum of acknowledgment. Then she said, “It shows, at least, that you can learn how to behave appropriately, when you need to. Beneath your rage is a mind that can think.” Snip. Snip. “I need to teach you about the protocol a widow must adhere to.”
“I know that,” Arwa said.
She heard the huff of Gulshera’s breath. It almost resembled a laugh.
“You learned how to behave in your family’s own women’s quarters, or in a hermitage made up solely of widows. The behavior of a widow in another household must be different. It must be beyond reproach.” She brushed the cut strands of hair from Arwa’s shoulders. “I served at court after my husband’s death. In the very household where you will soon go, in fact. I learned the standards of behavior expected of women like us.”
Ghost women. Shadow women. Women who had lost their purpose.
Arwa resisted the urge to nod, her body itching with restlessness. She waited and listened.
“You must be demure. Limit your laughter. Limit your smiles. Do not engage in dance or celebrations. Focus on prayer.”
“I know all of that,” Arwa said.
“You know, but you falter. Here you have the luxury of forgetting what is expected of you. That is the benefit of life in a hermitage, or among loving family willing to turn a blind eye to transgressions. The imperial palace…” Gulshera paused. In the silence, Arwa heard a dozen things that Gulshera discarded, unsaid. The tension in her coiled at that. “You cannot forget,” Gulshera continued, finally. “You’ll be watched constantly for many, many reasons beyond your widowhood. Do not allow anyone a reason to smear your name.”
Arwa could feel cold air on her bare neck. She shivered, and unable to resist the urge, she touched her fingertips to the surprisingly neat ends of her newly shorn hair.
“Have you heard anything?” Arwa asked tentatively. “From your mistress?”
“No,” said Gulshera. “Not yet.”
