She wasn't sure if that was reassuring or irritating. She decided it was both.
The inside of the temple was warmer than the mountain air.
Incense smoke rose in slow threads toward the carved stone ceiling. The low, rhythmic sound of chanting filled the space, and the flames of several oil lamps threw soft gold light across the walls. Fresh marigold garlands draped the deity shrines, their orange vivid against the dark stone.
Yamini's eyes moved quickly across the assembled group.
Mira near the far wall. Rani Suchitra at the center in a deep burgundy silk, gold border sari with her spine perfectly straight and expression perfectly regal.
Bharat's three brothers stood slightly to the left. Tall, composed and observing quietly.
Ram Devara gave her a small nod that was measured, unhurried, the greeting of a man who had already formed an opinion. Samar Keshwa watched her the way someone checks a perimeter. Not openly hostile, but thorough. Viraj Sahom smiled politely but observed with the same intent focus that Bharat often did.
Then, amid the intimidating men, a young, beautiful woman in a deep-gold Kanjivaram saree stepped forward slightly and smiled at her.
It was Sanjana, Ram Devara’s wife.
Yamini's chest lightened slightly as she recalled Sanjana’s warm reassurance on the wedding day at the Rewa Palace.
Yamini returned the smile.
Then Rani Suchitra turned to the head priest.
“Please begin,” she said.
The rituals moved through their sequence with the unhurried authority of centuries of practice.
The head priest's voice was steady and low as he guided the prayers. Ghee fed the havan fire, sending fragrant smoke curling upward. Yamini sat beside Bharat on the low ceremonial mat, her pheran spread around her, her hands folded in her lap, following each instruction as it was given.
She was acutely aware of the small distance between them.
He sat perfectly still beside her, his hands resting on his knees, his posture straight. There wasn’t any visible restlessness or impatience. He repeated the verses when directed with precise quietness.
Yamini repeated the verses after the priest, her voice low and steady.
After the final prayer concluded, the head priest indicated toward the shrine of the deity.
“Seek the blessing of the lord,” he said. “Together.”
They rose from the mat.
Yamini moved toward the shrine and pressed her palms together, bowing her head. The stone beneath her knees was cold even through the pheran.
Bharat was beside her, head lowered, palms pressed together. Utterly still.
They rose together.
And then moved forward, lowering their hands to touch Rani Suchitra’s feet and seek blessings.
When they stood up, Yamini saw Rani Suchitra’s face softening.
It lasted barely a second. Long enough for Yamini to see it. Not long enough for her to be sure it was real.
The regal expression resettled over Rani Suchitra's face.
Rani Suchitra turned to face the assembled group.
“The rituals are complete,” she said, her voice carrying without effort through the stone space.
