“Basic hygiene,” Harithi deadpanned. “We may not have state-of-the-art plumbing, and there may be a water shortage, but something is better than nothing.”
How low Poppy had sunk, to be cleaning her body with a wet rag. But the warmth radiating from the bucket won her over, as did the promise of clean skin.
“Fine,” she said. “Turn around.”
It was objectively the worst bath of her entire life. Just yesterday, Poppy had sat in a porcelain tub full of steaming, scented water while maids massaged her scalp and detangled her hair. Now she shivered, naked and vulnerable in a cell, dragging an abrasive, worn-out towel over her skin.
When it was over, Harithi removed a clean set of clothes from her bag: a long blouse and a loose pair of pants like a man would wear. “This is a salwar kameez,” she said, enunciating the words slowly, as though speaking to a child. “It may not be a pretty gown, but it’s what we have, so it’s what you’ll get.”
Poppy prickled. She might not have been raised by Virians, but evensheknew what the basic fashions were called.
Harithi helped her into the salwar first. Though Poppy had expected them to feel foreign, they were baggy enough that it wasn’t uncomfortable. The kameez fell past her knees, and though Poppy had to roll the sleeves a couple of times, it was a decent fit.
She sat back in the chair, looking at Harithi expectantly. Harithi caught her look, lifting a brow. “Something I can do for you?”
“Aren’t you going to help braid my hair?”
Harithi scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “What, you can’t do it yourself?”
Poppy bristled at the criticism. Shecoulddo it herself. She had done it alone for years in Welkland, and could have very well done it now if not for her stiff limbs and aching wrists, courtesy of the Jackal’s hospitality. But she refused to respond to Harithi’s dismissiveness with vulnerability. Instead, she drew her armor tight, sneering. “Why would I need to? I belong to a First Family.”
Harithi’s expression grew cold. “Ah, right. The lords and ladies of the upper class wouldneverhave reason to groom themselves independently, unlike the denizens of the slums. You know, for a culture that gave us shit about the castes, the Welks certainly put a lot of emphasis on their social groups, hm?”
With that, she lifted the bucket and marched out of the room, leaving Poppy alone again, her wrists and pride smarting.
• • •
After he sent Montrose a ransom letter with Poppy’s engagement ring enclosed, Hasan waited eagerly to hear back. In a few days, they’d trade Poppy for Paranjay, and this nightmare chapter of their lives could end. Just yesterday, Zeyar had received a coded telegram from one of their contacts on Welkish shores. The news had been grim: The identity of their opium customers had leaked to Welkish authorities; only one other person besides the two of them would have had access to that information: Paranjay. Hasan knew his brother was not a coward and could weather more than his fair share of pain. If they had extracted such precious information from Paranjay, then Hasan did not want to imagine the things they were doing to his brother in captivity?—if he was even still alive. He didn’t dare voice the thought aloud.
Zeyar firmly believed Paranjay had not been killed. “They’ll want to make an example of him,” he kept insisting. “A public trial, to discourage any copycat criminals.”
But as the days went on with no response from Montrose, Hasan’s faith weakened. The impossible question had swollen inside his chest, and on the third day, it burst free, tearing a ragged hole through him as he asked, “What if he’s dead?”
Zeyar’s head snapped up from the newspaper he was poring over. “What makes you say that?”
“Montrose should have jumped at the chance to get his fiancée back,” Hasan said. He’d never had a serious partner, but in theory, if he esteemed a woman highly enough to make her part of his family, then there would be no price he wouldn’t pay to keep her safe. “The only thing that would stop him from trading for her is no longer having something to trade.”
Zeyar shook his head. “Montrose is more strategic than that,” he reminded Hasan. “Remember, we’re dealing with the youngest police captain in Viryana’s history. He’s probably looking for any other option to get her back, to avoid negotiating with us. He’ll see reason eventually, especially if the press keeps up the way it has.” Zeyar folded his newspaper and tossed it to Hasan.
Hasan caught it deftly, flipping it to the page Zeyar had been reading. Above a photograph from Richard and Poppy’s engagement party, the headline read, “Clueless: Montrose Allegedly Stumped over Missing Fiancée.”
“The longer it takes him to come to his senses, the more incompetent he’ll look.” Zeyar leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “They’re already writing pieces questioning his quick promotion. He’ll come to heel eventually.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Despair roughened Hasan’s voice. “Paranjay is at his mercy?—has been at his mercy, for the pastmonth. You said we shouldn’t raid the police station because if we failed, Richard would retaliate against Paranjay. What’s stopping him from retaliating now?”
“He cannot retaliate in any way that counts,” Zeyar said. “The public doesn’t know that the two cases are related?—in fact, many of them don’t know who Paranjay is at all. But if we reveal ourselves by attacking the precinct, Richard can use it against us and move Paranjay to a high-security prison on a completely different part of the island. He can claim that Paranjay is a threat to civil safety and push for a more severe sentence.Thisis the best way, Hasan. Violence won’t solve this.”
“You said you would listen to me,” Hasan objected. “That was the deal.”
“I do listen. It doesn’t mean I have to agree.”
“This is a shit bargain.” Hasan threw the paper to the floor. The crease in Zeyar’s forehead deepened at the action. “You get all the veto power, and we end up doing whatever you want. This is supposed to be a family business, but you call every shot.”
“I can’t help it if your ideas are stupid and reckless,” Zeyar said. “If you came up with some good ones, maybe I wouldn’t have to veto them all.”
Hasan couldn’t stop himself. “Ifyou’dbeen captured, Paranjay would have gotten you back by now.”
Zeyar flinched, the low blow landing exactly as Hasan knew it would. What he hadn’t expected was the way the crack in his elder brother’s demeanor rippled through him, an aftershock of regret that rumbled right down to his bones. Before Hasan could retract his statement, Zeyar’s expression cleared, his stare becoming cool and indifferent. He rose to his feet, gathering his stack of newspapers.
