He brushes a lock of hair from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. “How could you possibly think that?”
If he knew me at all, he would know that there is no other reasonable conclusion to draw. Of all people, I don’t deserve kindness. This conversation has gone too far and now I feel exposed. I don’t even know Deven, not really. I shake my head. “Can we talk about something else?”
Disappointment flits over his face, but he erases it almost instantly. “Sure. What would you like to talk about?”
I shrug. I’m no good at conversation and my mind is busy trying to puzzle out what kind of game Gopal is playing.
“You could tell me something about yourself,” Deven says.
“There’s nothing to tell.” What I really mean is that there is nothing I could tell him that wouldn’t make him hate me.
He sighs. “If you’re going to be difficult, then I’ll go first. I love wood carving.”
“Wood carving?” It’s the last thing I was expecting him to say. It’s something that belongs in a real conversation, and I’m not good at those.
“Yup,” he says. “I’d live with a knife in my hand if I could.”
“What do you carve?”
“All kinds of things. Animals, spoons, chairs, face masks. I’ve been itching to carve patterns in Japa’s bookshelves for months, but I don’t think he’d appreciate it. Now your turn. What do you do for fun?”
I come here for fun—or I did before Gopal stole it from me—but I can’t tell him that. “I like to read,” I say, which is almost the same thing.
Deven motions toward the bookshelves. “Obviously,” he says.
“Not obviously. I could just enjoy shelving books and never read at all. Or I could just need the money.”
“Do you?”
My cheeks heat. “No, but that isn’t the point.”
“Yes, it is,” he says. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I’m an assassin. I was supposed to kill someone today, but he never showed. My brother might be dying. My throat feels thick. Is that all there is to me? I slide down to the floor and rest my head on the wall. Deven sits beside me, still waiting for an answer. “I like sunsets,” I tell him, “and the sound of crickets chirping and looking up at the stars.”
“You like nighttime,” he says after a moment, and this strikes me as incredibly insightful to understand so quickly from so little. Night has always been safer than daylight.
“And I have a cat,” I tell him just for good measure, just to make me seem more like a normal person. Normal people have pets, I think.
He laughs. “I saw the cat when I walked you home the other day.” That’s right, he did. It seems like forever ago. He leans his head back against the wall next to mine, and we both just sit there in companionable silence staring at the ceiling. Deven glances outside. “I was supposed to leave hours ago,” he says. “I’d better get going.” He stands up and offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me to my feet. “I think we scared Japa away,” he tells me. “I’ll go tell him goodbye.”
He walks away, and suddenly I feel sheepish that I’ve made Japa feel awkward about being in the main room of his own shop. I’m mortified that he saw me break down like that. I press a hand to my forehead. This has been such a long day and I can’t wait to crawl into bed and go to sleep.
Deven comes out of the storeroom with his bag slung over one shoulder. “It was nice talking to you, Marinda,” he says.
I nod. “Thank you for…well, you know, for everything.”
He grins at me, with both sides of his mouth, and it feels like standing in a patch of sunlight on a chilly day. “Anytime,” he says, plunking several coins down on the countertop.
I raise my eyebrows. “What’s this for?”
He slips a book out of his bag. “I’m taking this one,” he says. It’s several inches thick and bound in jade-green leather. The cover illustration is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. A majestic bird flying through the air with an enormous snake dangling from its beak. Below that are dozens of people, their faces tipped toward the heavens in awe. But it’s the top of the book that makes my heart stop.
Because there, in big block print, are the words I’ve been dreading all day: The History of Sundari.
All the heat drains from my face. The room feels like it’s spinning and I hold on to the edge of the countertop for support. Not him! my mind screams. Please, not him!
“Marinda,” Deven says. “It’s okay. Japa knows I’m taking the book.”
Someone else knows he’s taking the book too. Someone else thought he’d leave with it hours ago. I still haven’t spoken. My mind is scrambling for what to say, for what to do.
“What’s wrong?”
I try to pull myself together, to arrange my expression into something less horrified. “Nothing,” I say, waving my hand in front of my face. “Just a long day.”
“Are you sure?”