The stormy weather makes nighttime wanderings impossible. As tempted as I am to go check on my daggers, I know it will be difficult to explain the mud I drag in from the garden and into the servants’ quarters. When I’m not thinking about my daggers or Cavas, my thoughts wander to the rekha that divides Ambar Fort in two, separating Raj Mahal from the women. Over the next couple of days, I strike up a rapport with one of the serving girls, attempt a few of the same questions I asked Yukta Didi before getting shut down.
“The rekha? It’s supposed to begin in the middle of the garden, I think,” she tells me. “I can’t say exactly where, though.”
“Wouldn’t someone be in danger of crossing it by accident, then? If it was invisible?” I ask.
“Oh no!” She laughs. “As a barrier, the rekha is far too strong. Its magic will burn you if you attempt it, so I wouldn’t even try. Why are you so interested, anyway?”
“She probably wants Yuvraj Sonar’s attention again,” another serving girl says before I can answer. “Probably thinks she can be made the crown princess if she tries hard enough. Don’t hold your breath, girl. If you’re lucky, you might be made the yuvraj’s concubine. If Rani Amba doesn’t kill you first.”
As puke-inducing as her comments are, I keep quiet, hoping she’ll equate my silence with embarrassment. Her laughter follows me out of the room, echoes in my ears, as I lead Malti to the stable for her usual ride.
“You don’t look too happy this morning,” a male voice says, sounding amused.
My heart skips a beat and then sinks when I realize it’s not Cavas.
“Rajkumar Amar.” I bow. “I apologize. I didn’t see you.”
“She has been in a bad mood for the past two days,” Malti informs her brother. I scowl at her, but she simply widens her eyes, unperturbed. “You are, Siya. You didn’t even laugh at my joke about the acharya, the fishmonger, and the Zaalian innkeeper.”
“Where did you hear that joke?” Amar asks sternly, even though the corners of his mouth twitch under his mustache.
“The stable boys.” Malti grins. “Though I didn’t understand the part about the fishmonger’s eel—”
“That’s enough!” The alarm on his face nearly makes me smile. “Wait. How about … this?”
To my surprise, he kneels and picks up a dried blade of grass. He spins it until it transforms into a pale-pink flower I’ve never seen before. “An orchid from Jwala,” he says, presenting it to a delighted Malti, who insists that he give me a flower as well.
“There’s no need,” I begin, but Amar is already bending, picking up a handful of dried earth this time, his hands glowing orange. Buds sprout from it, the bright orange of a sunset, the gold of newly hammered swarnas. Ambari roses burst into bloom before my very eyes. I don’t know why I flush when he hands them to me or why I’m suddenly aware of the stable boys whispering behind us. What makes me even more self-conscious is what—or who—I see behind Amar: Cavas, leading Malti’s pony out of the stable.
“Thank you, Rajkumar,” I say finally. “That is the finest bit of conjuring I’ve seen in a while.” I stare at the flowers, unsure if I’m supposed to take them and the dirt right out of his hands, when Amar smoothly deposits them into a pot, which has appeared out of thin air.
“You needn’t flatter me, Siya ji. There are better conjurers out there.”
“No, there aren’t!” Malti tells Amar. “Bhaiyya, you’re the best conjurer in the world! You can make things appear out of nothing!”
Her words make me strangely uncomfortable. In this proper, pretentious world of titles, where a queen’s own children don’t forget to add the word rani before Ma, it’s almost jarring to hear the affection in Malti’s voice, to hear her call Amar bhaiyya the way any other girl would her brother.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. They are still royals. The children of a man who has ripped hundreds of siblings apart with his atrocities.
“I’m not the best conjurer in the world.” Amar gives me an embarrassed grin. “There are things I’m not good at, magic I haven’t quite perfected even in the realm of conjuring.” Behind us, Dhoop whinnies. “And if I continue talking, you won’t be able to go on your ride,” he continues. “Be good, Malti. Siya ji, I’ll have the flowers delivered to your room.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say. Goddess knows what the other serving girls will say when they see flowers arriving for me!
“They will be for everyone to enjoy,” he says, as if sensing my thoughts. “Shubhdivas, Siya ji.”
“Shubhdivas, Rajkumar.” I bow, feeling the heat of Cavas’s gaze.
“Siya, your face is red,” Malti comments.
“It’s the sun.”
“But—”
“Come along now. We’ve made Dhoop wait long enough,” I say hastily before she can point out that the sun hasn’t even made an appearance today and that the weather itself is quite pleasant, if not cool. Amar’s interest in me also makes me uneasy. Yes, there’s interest here. Something I should take advantage of. That I would take advantage of—if not for the figure in white walking ahead of me, the king’s seal embedded in his orange turban.
I’m so busy watching Cavas that I don’t pay attention to where I’m going and trip over my own foot, landing face-first in a puddle left by the recent rain. I don’t know what’s worse: the mud dripping down my chin when I finally rise to my feet, Malti’s bell-like laughs, or Cavas’s hovering over me, amusement battling with concern on his face.
“Laugh more, will you?” I don’t bother hiding the irritation in my voice.
