My eyes flick up to Deven. “Thank you,” I mouth. He nods.
Iyla steps into the room, and for an awkward moment no one says anything. It’s Mani who moves first, who circles his good arm around her waist and wraps her in a hug. My heart swells at his compassion. He had to have seen her in the circle that night in the cave, and even before that he was never very fond of her. I wonder if he sees her differently now that he’s witnessed the worst I have to offer. Iyla stiffens at first, and then a sob rips from her, a scratchy, feral thing that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. She hugs him back, her whole body shaking with sobs. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her cry. “I’m sorry, Mani. I’m so, so sorry,” she says.
“I know,” Mani tells her.
I prepare a thick stew for dinner, and we eat and talk. Mani tells us about his recovery and about all the new friends he’s made at the palace. Iyla and I fill the boys in on the village and our never-ending supply of dessert. Finally Mani’s eyelids start to droop, and so I take him upstairs and tuck him into bed. His eyes are closed before I make it to the door.
When I get back to the kitchen, Iyla has already gone to bed. And just like that, Deven and I are alone. He stands up and wraps his arms around my waist. “I missed you,” he says. And I missed him too, but there’s a lie between us and I can’t pretend there isn’t. I put a hand against his chest and gently push him away.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
He bites the corner of his lip. “Okay…”
I hold out my hand. “Come and sit on the sofa with me.” He slides his palm against mine and I try to memorize the feel of it, the warmth of his skin, the shape of his fingers. He sits on one side of the sofa and I sit on the other. I tuck my legs underneath me and stare at my hands while I try to find the words.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I gaze at his face for a moment before I answer. I want to see him one more time when he looks like this—all boyish and kind—before hate twists his features. And then I gather my courage and clear my throat. “Kadru—she’s the woman who made me a visha kanya—she told me something the last time I visited her that I think you should know.” His eyebrows pull together, but he just waits for me to continue. I wipe my palms on my thighs. I nearly tell him that I’m the only visha kanya, but the words stick in my throat. It’s dangerous information to risk the Raja discovering, that he could have stripped the Nagaraja of his biggest advantage just by killing me.
Not that I don’t trust Deven; I do. But he didn’t stop his father from imprisoning me, and the image of him standing there, horrified, as they took me away in chains still haunts me. I swallow hard and frame the thought as a question instead.
“What if I’m the one who killed your brother?” I stare at my hands so that I don’t have to see his face.
There’s a long silence, and I think he may have left. Then he asks softly, “Is that why you won’t let me touch you?” I meet his gaze, and my eyes fill with tears. I can’t speak, and so I only nod. Deven shakes his head. “You didn’t kill my brother, Marinda.”
“But I must have. Kadru said—”
“He was fifteen years older than me. I was only two when he died. You weren’t kissing boys as a baby, were you?”
“No,” I say. “I wasn’t.”
For a moment I just sit there. It’s a new sensation, discovering my innocence instead of my guilt, and I’m not sure where to put that knowledge—where it fits or what it means. Of all the horrible things I’ve done, I didn’t do this one. Some of the heaviness that’s been pressing on my chest for months lifts away. It’s not everything, but it’s something.
“I didn’t kill him,” I say, as if the words will make it true.
“No,” Deven says. “You didn’t. And you didn’t kill me either. You could have, and you didn’t.”
“No,” I say, “I really couldn’t have.”
Deven scoots closer to me and lays a hand on my cheek. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says. “And then I’m going to continue living and so are you.”
My heart skitters forward. Deven brushes his lips softly against mine and then pulls away and searches my face like he’s making an important decision. My cheeks are warm and all my limbs feel heavy and loose. Deven strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers, then he takes my face in his hands and kisses me again. And this time the kiss is passionate and soft and all-consuming. Something inside me trembles and then splits wide open.
I have kissed dozens of boys, but I have never been kissed. Until this moment I didn’t know there was a difference. I didn’t know kissing could be like this—like creating instead of destroying, like beginnings and not endings. Like melting. Like love.
The restlessness I’ve been feeling for months wriggles and expands in my chest. It takes shape—and it is hard and courageous and defiant.