“Deven doesn’t love me,” I say after a few minutes, because it’s true and because I think it will make her feel better.
She laughs humorlessly. “Yes, he does. When he saw me in the circle of Naga, he pulled me aside and told me to shove the cloak in my bag. I thought that he was trying to protect me from being discovered by the soldiers. I thought it was proof that he cared about me. But, no. He threatened that if I didn’t help you escape, he would let the Raja know that I was Naga and I would be executed. Once again, my life matters only if it can save yours.” Her voice breaks. She loves Deven. It didn’t occur to me until this moment that any of her feelings might be real. I think of seeing her kiss him that day in front of her house. I was so worried that he loved her, and now she’s afraid he loves me. But she doesn’t need to worry. Deven is only thinking of Mani. When he finds out that I killed his brother, he will want nothing to do with me.
“Why did you come back?” I ask her after a few minutes.
Her eyebrows draw together. “Come back from where?”
“From wherever you went when you ran. I went to your house. All of your things were gone.” I can’t quite keep the bitterness out of my voice. “You escaped without me.”
“I didn’t escape. Gopal moved me. He hoped it would draw you out. He thought that you’d come to him panicked and ask for help finding me. But you never did.” A look of hurt crosses her face. “I really thought you would, but you never did.”
Her comment makes me wonder how much of our anger toward each other is because we’ve been looking through a window in the dark instead of in daylight—we thought we were seeing each other, but it turns out we were only seeing ourselves.
Iyla and I name our cottage the Blue House, even though every other house in the village is blue too. It amuses us, and there is so little to be amused about anymore. Over the next few days we settle into a routine. Iyla cooks, and I do the dishes. The jobs suit us. Iyla can make even the most boring ingredients desirable, and I can’t get enough of plunging my hands into soapy water and watching the stains lift away. Washing dishes is like witnessing redemption over and over again.
The cottage is cozy—not as lavish as Iyla’s old house, but not as spare as the flat I shared with Mani.
When Iyla and I stumbled through the mountain pass, the widows greeted us with open arms and a conspicuous absence of questions. “You’re safe now,” one of them whispered as she led us to the cottage, and I wondered if we weren’t the first ones to seek refuge here. The women have taken us under their wings—spoiling us with home-baked treats, teaching us how to mend ripped saris and boil fruit with sugar to make a spread for chapati.
It’s like having three dozen grandmothers and is so far removed from my life as a visha kanya that it feels like a dream. The women say it’s good to have young people in the village, which always pinches my heart because it makes me think of Mani. They would love Mani. I examine their faces and try to figure out which one of them is Deven’s grandmother, which woman shares his crooked nose, or his dark eyes, or his chin. But age has erased their features and made them all look alike. I don’t dare ask questions. Even here, it isn’t safe to draw attention.
One of the younger widows, Vara, is teaching us how to grow our own food—how to plant the brinjal seeds two knuckles deep, how to water just enough to nourish but not to drown, and how the things that sprout first and most easily are the very things that, if not eliminated quickly, will destroy our efforts. More and more Iyla and I find ourselves out here with Vara, our hands buried wrist-deep in the soil, luxuriating in the silence. It such a hopeful thing—gardening—the faith that we’ll be around long enough to enjoy the harvest.
I’m holding a handful of earth in my palm when I hear the rumble of a caravan coming through the mountain pass. My fist tightens around the dark soil, but the harder I squeeze, the more it slips through my fingers. Iyla’s gaze finds mine and together we turn toward the south and the cloud of dust that is rolling into the valley. My first thought is of Mani—I haven’t heard from Deven since we got here, and so my mind is preoccupied with my brother every moment. There’s an empty space in my middle that aches like only emptiness can.
But the dust cloud belongs to a group too large to be Deven and Mani, which means it’s likely the Raja’s men.
I scramble to my feet and brush my palms against my sari. My chest constricts at the rush of disappointment and then fear. Iyla and I need to make a decision. Do we run? Or do we stand and face our fate?
Iyla’s eyes are wide as she fumbles for my hand—even after everything that has happened, we still reach for each other when fear tugs at us—but she’s intercepted by Vara, who pulls both of us into her arms. “It’s only a supply caravan, girls. Don’t be frightened.”