Malini’s voice broke the silence.
“If you had written me letters…” Her fingertips touched Priya’s on the paper. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what you would have written.”
“‘Dear Malini,’” Priya said after a beat. “‘I’m shit at writing letters.’”
A low laugh.
“A good start,” said Malini. “But I know you have more poetry than that.”
“You told me I’m no good at poetry.”
“Did I?” Malini’s tone was light; a leaf leaving a ripple on waters. “How well I lie.”
Priya looked down at those words, her vision blurring a little. She closed her eyes.
“‘Dear Malini,’” she began again. “‘I’m afraid. I can’t protect everyone. And serving gods, no matter how long you’ve worshipped them, is—cold, pitiless, ugly work. Whenever they ask me to change for them, to grow stranger and stronger, I think of how easy it was to become what you needed. You wanted to be saved, and even though I was angry I also… I said yes.’” She smoothed the paper down. It was that or crumple it. Her hands were restless. “You asked me to fight your war, and I said yes. You asked forme, and it was always yes. I wanted it to be yes.” A breath. “And then I couldn’t say yes any longer. I…”
A tear splattered on the page.
“Shit,” said Priya with a laugh. “I’m an ugly crier.”
Malini clasped her face then. Fingers gentle on her skin, wiping the tears away.
“Priya,” she said gently.
“You shouldn’t wipe my tears,” Priya said, her voice wobbly. “You should hate me.”
“You’ve said so before,” Malini replied, following the shape of Priya’s cheekbones tenderly with her thumbs. “I do hate you. As I hate myself. Perhaps I always will.” Tender touches, fanning over Priya’s skin. “Not because you left, Priya. But because I had so much faith in you that I did notseeyou, your pain, or the choice you faced—and you did not have enough faith to trust me.” She spoke in a low voice. “I wasn’t clever enough to keep you.”
“Malini—”
“I won’t be so foolish again.” Malini’s voice was determined. “I won’t lose you.”
“You put cuffs on me,” Priya said, her tears turning into a smile.
“I did.”
“Chained me. Insisted I was yours.”
“I did,” Malini said. Her hands were still holding Priya’s face. “Will you hate me for that?”
“I’ve never been so sensible,” said Priya. She turned her head, shifting from Malini’s grip. Malini released her.
Carefully, Priya reached up to Malini’s hair.
“I gave you a flower once,” Priya said. “And then I took it from you. I took my heart from you, or tried.”
She reached into Malini’s crown of flowers. The flowers were strung on a thread wound through her curls. A few blossoms came away easily. They unspooled, growing tendrils in her hands. She lowered her hands, placing her own wrists together. Those tendrils curled in a tangle around her wrists, binding them together.
“This is my vow to you,” Priya whispered. “Garland-strung. You can hold me here. I want you to.”
Malini traced the line of flowers, the vulnerable skin of Priya’s arms, above her joined wrists. Then she took Priya by the arms and dragged her in, and kissed her.
It was a firm kiss, a kiss that knew her; a kiss thatdemanded. It wasn’t gentle, but Priya didn’t want it to be. She thought of the way Malini had touched her in a water-swept dream and felt a hot ache in her belly, between her thighs.
Please, she mouthed, and Malini was pressing her down onto the bed, Priya’s face to the blankets, her hands beneath her; Malini was sweeping Priya’s hair aside and fastening her teeth to the nape of Priya’s neck. Priya cried out soundlessly.
Hands under her blouse. Hands touching her, owning her.
