“You must be able to tell me something,” I say. Iyla presses her glossy lips together and tips her head toward the ceiling like she finds me exasperating. She sighs and glances toward the door as if Gopal might walk in at any moment and catch her violating tradecraft. “It’s someone important,” she tells me. “Someone big.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That could describe all of them,” I say. “You aren’t telling me anything.”
She shrugs. “That’s all I’ve got.” She combs her fingers through her hair and runs her palms over her dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles. “Wish me luck,” she says, heading for the door. “I’m off to make your mark fall in love with me.”
I shake Mani awake and we eat our dinner. Mani sneaks bits of chicken and bread to Smudge, and I pretend not to notice. I smile and make small talk, but my stomach is hectic with dread. Because Iyla looked beautiful tonight and there is no doubt that this boy will fall for her. And then, whoever he is, I’ll have to kill him.
I wasn’t born lethal. I wasn’t that unlucky. My misfortune came later, when my parents decided that they longed for money more than progeny.
Gita loves to tell the story of how I became a visha kanya. She says that my father presented me to Gopal swaddled in a blanket the color of a ripe tangerine. He watched while Gopal filled a small dropper with toxin and then drained it against the squishy pink inside of my baby cheek. “Bring her back in three days if she’s still alive,” Gopal said.
He never expected to see me again. Most of the babies didn’t make it through the first night.
“But in three days he returned,” Gita says. Her eyes are always bright during this part of the story, her voice filled with wonder. “You’re our miracle.”
The story gnaws at me; what does it say about me that I am a miracle to Gopal but disposable to my father? Even now, I wish it were the other way around.
Deven is already there when Mani and I arrive at the bookshop the next morning. He and Japa are at a table in the corner, their heads bent together, talking so softly that I don’t even hear the low murmur of conversation. Japa raises one hand in greeting but doesn’t look up.
Mani scampers off to find a book and I stand at the front of the shop waiting for instructions. But it quickly becomes obvious that Japa and Deven won’t be finished with their conversation anytime soon, so I grab the broom leaning against the wall and start sweeping, easing the bristles under the bookshelves and pulling out thick piles of dust. Japa obviously hasn’t swept in ages. Working soothes me, the purposefulness of it, the sense of accomplishment.
The next time I look up, Japa and Deven have disappeared. I poke my head around the corner and peek into the storeroom, but there’s no sign of them. Then I notice a swirling pattern of dust on the floor in front of one of the bookcases at the back of the shop. It’s not a bookcase for customers—it’s piled with an odd assortment of cleaning supplies and boxes of unsold merchandise—and the pattern on the floor suggests a gust of air coming from beneath the lowest shelf. I brush my hand along the bottom of the bookcase, and a cool breeze tickles my fingers. There’s something back there. I stand up and see three shiny marks in the dust on the side of the bookshelf at about chest height. I turn my hand and match my fingerprints to the marks. A door, then. I wonder if this is the secret storage room where Japa keeps the more valuable manuscripts, but I don’t dare test my theory. Japa probably wouldn’t look kindly upon me barging into a meeting he’s worked so carefully to conceal. But I can’t help being curious. Why would they need to move their conversation so far away? Do I seem so untrustworthy? Or are they talking about something more important than priceless books?
I rub at the marks with my sleeve until they disappear—no use having a secret entrance that calls attention to itself.
I finish sweeping and then find a soft cloth in the storeroom for mopping. I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing at the floor, a bead of sweat trickling down the back of my neck, when I hear Mani’s name. A ping of alarm zips through my stomach, and my eyes flick to the far corner of the shop. Deven and Japa are back—Deven is talking and Japa is watching Mani, his eyebrows drawn together and down in V-shaped concern. I glance at Mani. He looks like he always does, absorbed in his book. Though his lips are pale at the edges and his breathing is labored. Deven glances up suddenly and I drop my gaze.
“Hey, pal,” Deven says, and his voice sounds so loud in the silence that I jump a little. “I brought something for you.” He holds a pale fruit—almost white—with a blush of pink at the top.
I stand and join them, not sure I want Mani to accept anything from Deven. But I can’t think of a good excuse to stop him. Mani takes the fruit and gives it a sniff. “What is it?” he asks.
“It’s called maraka fruit. My father grows it in his orchard.”
“Your father has an orchard?” Mani says, like this is the most remarkable thing he’s ever heard.