“No,” Zeyar said, “the only thing weshoulddo is go and talk about this privately.” He looked intently at Hasan as he stressed, “As a family.”
Zeyar’s meaning was clear: He wanted to discuss it somewhere Poppy couldn’t hear them. Relief flooded through her as Hasan lifted his knife away from her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, the sight of her blood coating the blade making her ill. Between the hunger, the stress, and the smell of rust in the air, she thought she might faint. But she couldn’t get woozy. She couldn’t be weak.
Hasan pulled her to her feet by her good hand, eyeing the gash in her thumb. His expression was almost inscrutable, but the slight downturn of his lips betrayed his conflict. “I’ll send someone to have that bound,” he said. “Put pressure on it for now.”
She wrapped her fingers around the wound, pressing it shut. Her flesh cried out in protest, nerves screaming at the touch, but she maintained a tight-lipped smile until they left, determined not to let them see how visibly shaken she was.
When the door had closed behind them, she slumped back down, trying to steady her breathing as she waited for them to return with their verdict. She tried not to think about all the ways that could have gone better. She had done her best with what she had, but the thought brought her no comfort. If Poppy had failed to persuade them, she stood to lose far more than just her thumb.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Two Paths
Needless to say, their ma was just as shocked as Hasan to learn that Poppy was daivyakt. At first, she’d been piqued to see the two of them downstairs without the thumb, but when Hasan revealed what Poppy had told them and recounted the story of the burst pipe, she’d been stunned into silence?—a rare thing for someone as sharp as his mother.
“I thought the viceroy picked her off the street,” she said. She was chopping behndi for lunch, her movements deft and quick. “What was a daivyakt girl doing in the gutters?”
“She was orphaned,” Zeyar said. “They found her in the ashes after a fire in a textile factory in Andhra?—”
“I’m familiar with the tale,” Rohini snapped. “I was there when it happened. Gods, it was a scandal. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. The Welks were all displeased?—I don’t think I saw any positive press coverage. Virians were divided; some felt that it was a sign that Welkish society was becoming more accepting of us, whereas others thought it was a new phase in eradicating our identity, by taking our children and implanting their values in them.”
“What did you think?” Hasan asked.
His ma sighed. “It was one less child on the streets. Evidently, no Virian was planning to claim her if they found her in the wreckage of that factory. I suppose it makes sense, that this girl from Andhra has control over water. Narayan Sovan and his family spent years in that city before Jagat Rai finally executed them all at the end of the war. Perhaps he didn’t do a thorough job, and whoever escaped had to start over with nothing. But still, daivyakt living like vasudhakt?” She shook her head. “What has this island come to?”
Hasan’s mouth flattened into a straight line. “Vasudhakt don’t belong on the streets either, Ma.”
His mother waved his words off with her knife. “The gods place us where we need to be,” she stated. “It’s not for us to decide what roles we play in the destiny of the world.”
Silently, Hasan wondered if it was power or the cold indifference toward the plight of the human condition that marked the difference between man and god.
“Anyway,” Rohini said, bringing him back to the conversation at hand, “we cannot continue with our plan as it is.”
“Why not?” Zeyar asked.
She shot him a dirty look. “She is beloved by the gods,” she said. “Not only does she have the power to channel divine energy, but her domain is water. Since the slaughter of the Sovans, water daivyakt have been practically unheard of. The gods show us great favor by blessing her with such an ability. To cut her fingers off would be inviting their wrath. They might forsake us, and then we would be even worse off than the vasudhakt.”
“So then we ought to back her, then,” Hasan said, pouncing on the opening. “If she’s daivyakt, likely descended from the royals of old, then she’s born to rule. The gods would want us to support her, don’t you think, Ma?”
Zeyar glared at Hasan. “If she’s truly destined for the role, she’ll come into it on her own. If the gods want her to have it, then it will come to be, with or without our interference.”
Their ma blew out an exasperated breath. “What are you talking about?”
“Poppy and her fiancé are in a power struggle,” Zeyar explained. “Montrose intends to marry her so he can be the next viceroy, but she wants the role herself.”
“There’s never been a vicereine,” Rohini said.
Zeyar shot Hasan a triumphant look. “That’s whatIsaid.”
“More’s the pity,” she continued. She lifted her bowl of chopped behndi, walking to the stove where the rest of her ingredients waited. Hasan and Zeyar followed, flanking her as she turned on the gas stove and poured oil into the pan. “In the age of maharajas, there were several, highly competent dowager maharanis, some of whom were even more blessed by the gods than their late husbands! This island could use a woman’s touch?—especially one ofourwomen, with divine favor.”
“She has no one to support her, Ma,” Zeyar said. “She’s been gone for seven years and has only just returned. She has no connections, no allies. By her own admission, even her lord father’s influence isn’t enough. She wants us to fight for her, but once she’s in office, then what? Do you think white men will lie down and accept orders fromher? A brown woman? They’ll overthrow her, and then whoever succeeds her will stamp us out like cockroaches.”
“But she would be sympathetic to us,” Hasan countered. “Having her as vicereine could open the doors for real change. She could introduce all kinds of legislation to improve the quality of life for Virians in this country. Montrose has always persecuted us, has even chosen a career that gives him the license to do it without repercussion. Do you think that will stop if he gets even more power?”
“Her sympathy would be her downfall,” Zeyar said. “The other nobles would see it as a weakness, and work even harder to overthrow her. What do you think she’ll do then? If it comes to saving her own neck or fighting for your idealist notion of a better world, she’ll pick herself. Then you’ll have chained yourself to the losing side, with nothing to show for it.”
Hasan turned on as much of his youngest-son charm as possible. “Ma, what do you think?”
