Page 40 of Scars and Crowns

But she expected excellence from the people she loved. Especially from Yuvaan. Growing up, I'd lost count of the evenings he'd come looking for me after another lesson on royal protocol.

His shoulders would be stiff. His jaw locked. Some fresh lecture about posture, etiquette, diplomacy, or the proper way to greet visiting dignitaries still echoing in his head.

I'd drag him out through the back gardens. We'd sit beneath the old neem tree eating hot jalebis from the market until the crease between his brows finally disappeared. I never blamed her for any of it. Even then. She wasn't trying to make his life difficult. She was preparing him for a world that would never forgive him for making mistakes.

It was the only way she knew how to protect him. I understood that. Even as a child. Even when I hated seeing how lonely it sometimes made him. Which is exactly why . . . a part of me has been expecting disappointment.

Not anger.

Not cruelty.

Something quieter.

A carefully hidden disapproval. After all . . . I'm the daughter of the palace housekeeper. I left years ago chasing dreams. I came back carrying a child and far more questions than answers. If anyone had reason to believe her son deserved someone . . . simpler . . . Someone easier . . . Someone without a complicated past . . . It would be her.

I draw in a slow breath before stepping onto the veranda. The sight waiting for me stops me in my tracks. Amma Saheba is already seated at a small wrought-iron table beneath a canopy of flowering bougainvillea. Sunlight filters gently through the pink blossoms overhead, scattering soft patches of light across the white tablecloth.

Tea has already been laid out. Porcelain cups. Fresh snacks. A plate of biscuits.

Everything arranged with quiet care. As though she'd been looking forward to this. Before I can even greet her, she notices Sara. Her entire face lights up. Not politely. Not out of obligation. Genuinely.

"There you are!" The warmth in her voice catches me completely off guard.

Sara doesn't hesitate for even a second. She marches straight toward the table with the confidence only children possess, her attention immediately settling on the plate of biscuits. Apparently priorities remain priorities.

Amma Saheba laughs softly before pulling out the chair beside her. "Come." She pats the seat affectionately. "I'll tell you which biscuits are the best."

Sara climbs up without the slightest hint of shyness. Within seconds they're discussing biscuits with complete seriousness. I remain standing for another moment, quietly watching them. Then I take the chair opposite. Relief mixes strangely with confusion somewhere inside me. This . . . isn't what I'd prepared for. Of course, Sara doesn't allow peaceful conversations to last very long. She leans toward Amma Saheba with exaggerated secrecy. Then announces loudly enough for the entire veranda to hear—"Mumma cried today."

My soul leaves my body. I close my eyes. Just briefly. "Sara . . . "

"She did." Sara nods confidently. "While brushing her hair." I can actually feel heat rushing into my face.

"It wasn't—"

I clear my throat. "There was . . . " I search desperately for something believable. " . . . an eyelash." I lie because what am I supposed to say? That her son made breakfast for me and I have been so desperate for him that it made me tear up? That would be very embarrassing.

"An eyelash?"

"Yes."

"It went into my eye."

Amma Saheba laughs. A full, genuine laugh that immediately eases the embarrassment threatening to swallow me whole. She reaches across the table and pats my hand gently. "I'm sure."

I know she doesn't believe me. Mercifully . . . She doesn't say so. Sara, having completed today's mission of exposing every family secret she knows, immediately loses interest in the adults.

Only then do I notice the little play corner arranged a short distance away. Wooden blocks. A colouring book. Fresh crayons. A stuffed elephant almost as big as she is.

Someone prepared all of this. For her. Sara lets out a delighted gasp before hurrying over. Within moments she's sitting cross-legged on the floor, completely absorbed in building something wonderfully complicated out of wooden blocks.

Amma Saheba watches her quietly. Something changes in her expression. It softens. "She has your mother's eyes." The words are spoken almost to herself. I follow her gaze toward Sara. "Your mother used to sit exactly like that." She smiles faintly. "Whenever she had a few free minutes."

I blink. "I didn't know."

"No?"

She shakes her head gently. "I'd forgotten myself." Her eyes remain on Sara. "Until today." For a moment . . . Neither of us speaks. The ache inside my chest feels strangely different now. Softer. Because she'd just given me something I never knew I was missing. A memory of Maa. One that belonged to someone else's heart until today.