“Because my brother wants me to be pure and honorable like them. Because he thinks the only way a woman can truly serve the empire, the only way a woman can be good, is through the sacrifice of her life.” She lowered her head a little, looking down at her hands. “I worship the mothers, Priya. I should want to be one of them. The burning is, after all, the lot of only the bravest and noblest of women. But I was—afraid.” Her voice cracked, a little. “I did not want to burn, Priya. And now every morning I wake from dreams of flame and believe I am on fire.”
Priya swallowed, hands stilling. Malini’s words—they were too much.
Once, the temple children had burned.
She understood a little how Malini felt, in that moment. Priya stood behind her, hands still entangled in her hair, thinking of bodies writhing and screaming and burning, and found that nothing tethered her to her skin but the cold drip of water, the damp coil of a curl of hair around her thumb.
“He sent me here so I would think of all those who burned and sacrificed themselves. Willingly and unwillingly. A good burning and a bad one.” Malini swallowed audibly. “But they are all the same. And all I can see when I sleep are my women, and now children, and fire…”
Malini’s voice faded. She raised her head.
“I do not usually talk like this,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize, my lady,” Priya murmured.
“I would not sleep at all, I think,” Malini said slowly, “would not rest, if not for my medicine. And now for you.”
“I did not know you took any medicine,” Priya said dumbly.
“A dose is placed in my wine, by Pramila,” said Malini. “Something made of flowers. Needle-flower, perhaps. I know nothing more.”
“Medicine brewed from flowers,” Priya said slowly. “I see.” A hard dread coiled in her stomach. It could not be. And yet…
The apothecary sold exactly such a thing in the Old Bazaar. Gautam had tiny husk-sized casks of it, a yellow thread of warning wrapped round the stopper of each bottle. A medicine brewed from needle-flower. A little could dampen pain. A little more could give bliss.
A little more than that could kill.
Sometimes it was given to the sick in measured doses over time to ease pain, but prolonged exposure could cause a sickness all of its own—a wasting of the mind and flesh that ended inevitably in death, or something horrifically close to it.
Did Pramila want the princess dead, or did she simply want to weaken her?
It was not a matter of whether Pramila wanted Malini dead, of course. It was a matter of whether theemperordid, and what would become of Bhumika’s carefully carved-out sanctuary if he achieved his goal, thus ensuring that General Vikram failed to protect Malini as he’d sworn to do.
Priya looked at Malini’s back then, without worry or shame, but with a clinical kind of fury, at the sharpness of her bones, the translucence of her skin. Oh, she knew the fragility of a mortal body—its resilience could only be stretched so far. Even if the emperor did not want his sister dead—and what was Priya meant to know of an emperor’s intent?—Malini could die so easily. She thought of vulnerable lungs, the stuttering pulse of that mortal heart.
“How often do you take your medicine, my lady?” Priya asked calmly.
“Every evening,” said Malini. “And sometimes during the day, if Pramila decides I am unduly—restless. Why?”
She craned her neck, looking back at Priya.
Malini did not look unknowing or even curious. There was a challenge in the arch of her brows.
“That is a great deal of medicine,” said Priya. “But—I am not a physician. I am only a maidservant. What do I know? My lady.”
“It is not my choice, whether I take the medicine or not,” Malini said. “You understand, of course. It is Pramila’s choice, and I must obey.”
Finally, Malini turned away. Priya fumbled for the ladle. Cleansed Malini’s hair, then set it down. Took hold of the soap and kneeled before Malini, perfunctorily scrubbing Malini’s arms and her feet, exposed by damp cloth. She did no more than that—she did not think Malini would care for more. It was the cold she hungered for, not the cleansing.
Priya raised her gaze when she lowered Malini’s left foot to the ground. She could not tell if Malini had been crying, not through those already red eyes, the water on her face. But Malini’s jaw was trembling faintly, her hands curled upon her lap into fists.
“Whenever you want to bathe in cold water, you just need to ask,” said Priya. “I’ll arrange it.”
The trembling eased, a little. Malini’s smile was weak but pointed—a lash of white teeth against the gray of her face.
“Thank you,” said Malini. “That is—kind of you, Priya.”
Priya swallowed. Lowered her head. She ground her own teeth together, forcing herself not to ask the razor-winged question racing about her skull.
