Gautam pulled a lantern from the wall and lit it deftly; its dim glow guided them down, shimmering off a small, depleted collection of little bottles of fine colored glass that hung about the walls when they reached the bottom. The bottles were all carefully stoppered; all full of water that gleamed with its own muted strangeness in the flickering dark. Priya slowly touched her fingertips to one. It was cool, not fire warm like a sacred mask. But something in her heart—in the part of her that Ashok had twisted in the vise of his hand—recognized the call of it.
“You can’t take them,” Gautam said quietly, desperately, behind her. “You can’t. I’ve thrown my lot in with him. I’ve promised them to him. Everything I have left is his.”
“I won’t take them,” said Priya. She traced the edge of one vial. “But I should destroy them.”
“Please,” said Gautam. “No. Please.”
She tapped the glass a little. Watched the vial waver on its hook.
“You called me a rat,” she said. “And a few other things that you probably consider unkind.”
He said nothing.
“I want you to remember that that’s all I’ll be—as long as you give me no reason to be more. And I want you to do this floor-sweeping whore a kindness and share a little of your knowledge with her.” She turned to look at him squarely. “In return I’ll leave these alone. My brother does not need to know anything.”
Gautam’s exhaled breath was shaky with relief. “What,” he said, “do you want to know?”
“Tell me about needle-flower,” she said. “Tell me exactly what long-term ingestion does to the body. And tell me what the consequences are when the doses are stopped.”
MALINI
The dizzy spells grew worse after Priya left. Tremors shook her body, and there were times when she saw and heard nothing for long moments, then found herself in a new position. Leaning against the wall, or collapsed on the floor, her body not her own.
No one would come if she called. She and Priya had made sure of that, after all.
Priya was gone an hour. Two. Three. Malini forced herself to remain on her charpoy, curled up on her side like a small child, her hands bunched in the concave of her stomach, as if the heat of her own skin could ground her in place.
Perhaps Priya has died, Malini thought. Ridiculous. But time moved differently when you were captive and your body refused to obey you.
She heard the whisper of footsteps behind her. Raised her head and—
There was no one there.
She couldn’t stay on the charpoy with strange noises brushing her ears. She felt vulnerable and scared, her heart howling in her chest. She climbed down—dizzy for a moment—and crossed the floor. Lowered herself down against the wall.
There was a memory of fire humming inside her. She closed her eyes and listened to the splintering pop of wood and flesh under flame. The hiss of it. The screams.
She was not well. Not well. Not.
She saw two shadows cross the floor. She watched them.
Not real. This is not real.
Not real.
“My la—” Priya stopped. “Malini. I’m back. Why are you sitting in the corner of the room?”
“It felt necessary,” Malini said in a rasp. She didn’t move as Priya approached her. She heard no footsteps this time, which was at least normal. Priya always walked with strange, silent grace. Her face was achingly alive—dark and real above Malini’s own. “Did you find him?”
“I did,” said Priya, kneeling down.
“Can he free me?”
Priya was silent for a moment.
“That’s a no, then.”
“He had messages for you.”
