“A supply caravan?” I ask. “But couldn’t it be the Raja? Or his men?”
Vara shakes her head. “The Raja doesn’t visit here, janu. And neither do his men. But we do need deliveries of fabric and meat”—she dips her head toward our gardening supplies—“and seeds. You are safe here. I hope one day you’ll come to believe that and find some peace.”
But I’m not convinced that the Raja won’t come looking for us one day. And even if he doesn’t, I’m not sure peace is enough anymore.
I know I should be happy here, tucked away far from anything resembling my old life. A year ago I would have been. Escape would have been enough. More than enough. But something restless is stirring inside me, and every so often it sits up and stretches and I feel as trapped as ever. Now I long for freedom.
Weeks pass without word from Deven and I start to worry that he’ll never bring Mani back to me. And maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe Mani is safer without me. After what happened in the cave, I’m not sure my brother ever wants to see me again.
On my worst days I worry that Mani didn’t survive and Deven doesn’t know how to tell me. The thought makes me ill, and so I try to push it away, to think of Mani as vibrant and happy and living in the palace like a prince. It’s a big upgrade from his purple cushion in the bookshop. The bookshop. I think of Japa often too.
Reminders of the Naga are everywhere—a glint of copper in sunlight, the hiss of the wind through the trees. And just today Iyla found a silver hair sprouting from the top of her scalp, long and shiny against the velvet black of the rest of her hair. She plucked it out and held it in her trembling palm. We both stared at it, wordless. Years and years of her life gone and we both blame me.
And so I decide to take Iyla to the first place I ever glimpsed what a different kind of life might look like. The first place I ever felt hope. I take her to the waterfall. The air is cooler than it was when Deven and I hiked here so long ago, and the trees are alive with hues of orange and red. I rub my arms for warmth.
“How much farther?” Iyla asks.
“I think we’re close,” I tell her. “Last time I came from the opposite direction, so I’m not exactly sure….” Just then we round a bend and there it is, every bit as beautiful as I remember.
Iyla and I sit on a grassy area near the edge of the water. This time it’s too cold to lie back with the sun in our faces, so we pull our knees to our chests to stay warm and I tell Iyla the legend of the waterfall. When I get to the end, where the maiden and the prince are in love but never see each other again because they are both too stubborn, Iyla sighs.
“It’s so sad,” she says.
When Deven told the story, I didn’t think it was sad. I thought it was romantic. But now I agree with Iyla. I think it’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard, and I’m not sure why I liked it so much. We sit in silence for a while, and I wonder if I’ll ever see Deven again. And I wonder if that’s what Iyla is wondering too.
I’m dozing on the sofa after our hike when I hear a knock.
“No more sweets!” Iyla shouts from the other room. Because we both know that is what awaits us on the other side of the door—a widow with jalebi or sandesh or sweet flour dumplings. I get up from the couch and stretch. I’m still rubbing my eyes when I swing the door open. And then my heart leaps in my chest.
It’s Deven.
And he’s brought Mani.
First I squeal. And then I cry. I gather Mani into my arms and hold him close to me. He’s crying too, and then he’s laughing, and I can’t imagine how we must sound to the neighbors. It’s not until I let go of him that I see it: his left arm is missing below the elbow. Mani sees me notice and I can feel him studying my face, measuring my reaction. I smile. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
He smiles back shyly, but there’s something guarded in his expression that wasn’t there before and it’s a splinter in my heart. “I’m getting used to it,” he says, lifting up what’s left of his arm. “I can do lots of stuff I couldn’t do a few weeks ago.”
My eyes are teary. “I’m sure you can, monkey.” I ruffle his hair. His complexion looks better than it has in a year. His cheeks are rosy and his breathing is effortless, just like breathing is supposed to be. “You look so healthy.” I pull him to me for another hug. “I missed you.”
Deven clears his throat. “I’m sorry it took so long,” he says. “He was pretty sick for a while there.”
Mani makes a face. “Deven made me eat maraka fruit at every meal. He even told the cook to add it to my bread.”