Samina’s face darkened. “I told you, she was the closest thing I’d ever had to a sister. I had no one else to reach out to. I waited outside the gates of her house, hoping for some scraps from her table, something to bring home to my brother that I hadn’t fished out of the trash. She looked... different. Stiff, not the curious and adventurous person I remembered. But she still gave me the emerald necklace off her own neck, encouraged me to pawn it for money.”
“That must have kept you well fed for some time.” Even if it had been small, the pendant alone would have bought Samina and her brother enough rice for three weeks.
“In theory, it might have.” Samina picked at the edge of her cast. “But the police came to arrest me just two days later. For stealing from the viceroy. My brother and I got sent to a state-run orphanage. You know how that ended.”
Hasan did. Samina didn’t often speak of her time in the orphanage, but she didn’t need to. He had heard enough stories from survivors over the years. “So you think what? That Poppy turned you in?”
“What else am I supposed to think?” she demanded. “They found me so quickly. More than likely, her parents gave her hell for losing that necklace, and it would have been much easier to point the finger at me than to tell the truth.”
“You didn’t ask her?”
She turned away. “I don’t need to ask. I already know.”
He turned that new information over in his mind, adding it to what he already knew of the woman he’d agreed to champion. Poppy had been humble once, comfortable among the company of her own, sharing whatever she had with them. A promising sign that she had not always been so aloof among Virians. So what had changed? He wanted to know Poppy’s side of the story?—but she was too angry to speak to him. Samina had given him context, but whatever event had made Poppy who she was today had clearly happened after Samina had left the Sutherland estate.
“Why all the questions?” Samina asked. “This seems like an absurd amount of interest in a hostage.”
Hasan ran a hand through his hair. “She’s daivyakt,” he said. “With an affinity for water. But she seems unable to summon any daivyakhi.”
She sucked in a shocked breath, then winced, clutching her ribs. “Explain,” she wheezed.
Quickly, he summarized the situation: Richard and Poppy’s power struggle, the bargain he’d struck with Poppy, and the events of the morning. “She doesn’t know the first thing about any of the gods,” he said. “Something is holding her back, and I don’t know what.”
Samina scoffed. “She was raised by Welks, Hasan. The emperor is supposed to represent the Founder on earth, and her adoptive father isliterallyhis cousin. Do you think they were taking her to see village performances of the epics? He had her shipped to Welkland to put as much distance as possible between her and this country. When I was in the orphanage, they beat us for speaking Virian. At night, we were forced to say our prayers to the Founder, else we weren’t allowed to eat supper. They did everything in their power to make us forget who we were. I doubt Poppy Sutherland’seducationlooked any different from mine. The only thing they would have taught her at that fancy overseas college is prejudice and self-hatred. You cannot ask for blessings when you secretly fear being cursed.”
An idea bloomed in Hasan’s mind, blotting out the rest of his thoughts. “Fair enough,” he said distantly. “Thank you, Samina.” He stood to go.
“Hasan,” Samina called. He paused, turning in the doorway. “Don’t tell her I’m here, please.”
He studied Samina’s face, not understanding the rationale behind her request. Nonetheless, he inclined his head. “You have my word.”
• • •
After the morning’s humiliation, Poppy spent the rest of the day in her room with a chair wedged under the doorknob, refusing to open the door for anyone. This house was full of criminals; if one of them wanted to come in, they could break the door down themselves.
She lay on the bed, reflecting deeply. Catherine would have called itsulking, but Poppy felt she had earned the right to sulk. It wasn’t every day that your ancestral gods rejected your prayers. She dwelled on a past that wasn’t the past, imagining her life if she had grown up in a house like this one, raised by her birth parents. What future had they imagined, when they pressed their hands to her mother’s swollen belly? She didn’t even know the name they had given her. Who could she have been, if not Poppy Sutherland?
By the time the sun began to set, her mood had not improved from her hours of introspection. Her empty stomach did nothing to help. When Hasan came to announce that dinner was ready, she no longer had the willpower to shut him out.
She followed Hasan downstairs, but he walked straight past the kitchen, toward the rear doors. “What about dinner?” she protested.
“We’re dining outside tonight.” His lips curved up slightly. “Trust me. You’ll see.”
She sighed but trailed after him. When they stepped out onto the patio, she froze.
The backyard had been transformed. Two tents with mosquito-net walls had been set up in front of a low wooden stage. Instruments lay in the grass in front of the stage beside the firepit, which, despite the heat, had been lit. Its flames cast a warm glow on the stage, illuminating it.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“You’ll see.” Hasan smiled. “Eat first.”
That was one instruction she was more than happy to obey. He led her into one of the tents. Harithi was already inside, sitting on a cushion in front of her thali, propped up on a serving tray. Poppy sat beside Hasan on a cushion of her own, mouth watering at the silver plate in front of her.
Dhal, mutton curry, mashed eggplant, potato bhaji, coconut chutney, and several other items filled the small metal bowls that ringed the rotis stacked in the center of the plate. Poppy paused; they had not provided a spoon with this thali. With the exception of tea sandwiches, the Hawk had declared eating without cutlery incredibly ill-mannered. She had whacked the backs of Poppy’s fingers with her cane when she caught her picking up food with her bare hands, determined to beat “the savage” out of her. Instinctively, she flexed her fingers, recalling nights of knuckles so raw they bled.
“What’s wrong?” Hasan asked, picking up on her hesitation.
“I don’t have a spoon,” she whispered.
