“It is a fair thing to wonder why I left, as I know you must. Our house struggles: the court hierarchy is unstable, as is our position in it, and your nani and nana needed me by their side.” Affection sweetened Charumati’s bell-like voice. “We have always kept a place for you. Do you know how long your nani and nana have waited to meet their grandchild? How long I have waited to show you my childhood home and everything that will be yours?”
Nani and Nana. The grandparents Sheetal had never met, in the family home she’d never visited.
From the moment she’d seen the letter, this had been a quest, a business transaction, even: make it to Svargalok, find her mother, get the drop of blood, and go home. Now the floodgates in her heart opened wide.
All the holidays she’d missed, all the hugs, all the stories and sleepovers. A whole chunk of her childhood, just ripped away.
It was too much. She began to shake, her exhausted body giving out.
“I’m not going to be in your competition,” she said more slowly, fighting to stay upright on her cushion.
Dad. The name cut through her stupor like a beam from a lighthouse, and she clung to it. Dad needed her, not her grandparents.
Definitely not her mom.
Sheetal took a deep breath to steel herself. “I need your help. That’s why I came here.”
Her mother tucked a lock of Sheetal’s hair behind her ear. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Whatever help I may give is yours, my daughter.”
Sheetal worked to keep her own voice calm. “It’s Dad. His heart. He’s dying.”
Charumati frowned, delicate eyebrows coming down over a luminescent gaze, and clasped Sheetal’s fiery hands in her cool ones. “So soon? He should have many years yet, by mortal time.”
The inferno was rising now, roaring from inside Sheetal. She was so tired. So very, very tired.
Say it, she told herself. “I burned him.” That’s all you have to do. Three words.
But with her mother watching expectantly, Sheetal couldn’t do it. The shame sat sour on her tongue, and she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—spit it out.
“He needs your blood,” she said instead. Somehow, her mother’s hands still on hers, she doused the flame at her core—and with it, the last of the energy that had sustained her these past two days and through the trip into the heavens. Her vision blurring, she slid down to the marble floor.
An instant later, Charumati knelt at her side. Minal ran over, followed by Charumati’s ladies-in-waiting. “Let us remove her to the guest chambers,” Sheetal heard her mother say. “She must rest.”
“And get her some water,” Minal added. “She’s probably dehydrated.” Other voices murmured agreement, and one asked about the competition.
“That can wait,” Charumati said. “Hand me that glass.”
Sheetal’s eyes had slipped shut, and her lips felt like weights. Still, she took a few sips from the cup her mother held to her mouth before muttering, “You have to help him, Mom.”
Message delivered, she leaned back against her mother’s familiar warmth, inhaling the fragrance of jasmine and night breezes, and passed out.
When Sheetal opened her eyes, she lay in a bed of cloud framed by black crystal posts draped in a cumulus canopy. The richly decorated room around her bore the thinnest of diamond ceilings, through which the sun—Lord Surya—shone down, washing everything with the first dawning rivulets of pink and gold.
She’d been twisting and tossing her way through dreams. Dreams of Dev feeding her cookies and Dad’s physics lectures and the days when Charumati still lived among them that turned into dreams of Sheetal’s flame leaping higher than the house and burning them all alive.
This, though, was a much better dream. An A-plus dream. Good job, she told her brain, then snuggled up in fetal position beneath the cirrus cloud coverlet, ready to find out exactly how comfy imaginary beds could be.
“Oh, good, you’re awake.” Minal tugged on her arm, rudely cutting into her research. She was wearing a beautiful silver satin dressing gown that gleamed in the morning light. “Time to get up.”
Sheetal stared muzzily at her. “Excuse me, I’m not done sleeping? Get your own dream.”
“That’s a shame,” Minal said, not budging, “because your family’s waiting for us.”
Sheetal buried her face in the pillow. “Tell Radhikafoi . . . not . . . hungry,” she mumbled.
“Sheetu, do you even remember last night? Your mom, the competition?”
The competition. It hit Sheetal all at once, and she almost smacked her skull against the ebony headboard trying to sit up. She was in Svargalok, where her mother lived. And all the other stars, some who had made it clear they couldn’t stand her, and others who thought she was going to fight House Pushya’s battles for them. “We have to save Dad! Right now.”
“Whoa,” said Minal. “Slow down there.” A private smile flitted over her face. “You were so out of it, we had to carry you in here last night.”
“Where’s ‘here’?” Sheetal demanded. How could she have fallen asleep? Dad needed her. “What’d my mom say?”
“The guest quarters for all the champions. All I know is, your family wants to have breakfast with us, and Padmini’s going to be back any second to dress us. I already washed so you could sleep longer.” Minal tapped the headboard. “You owe me.”
Sheetal tried to keep up. Breakfast with her family. Being dressed. “Who’s Padmini?”
“Your grandma’s lady-in-waiting.”
“She must be cute for you to be so chipper in the morning.”
“Funny.” Minal waited a second, then asked, “How do you feel?”
“Dry.” Sheetal’s mouth was as desiccated as her fingers had been the time she’d helped Minal with a mosaic project, and it tasted just as foul as the grout had smelled.
Minal poured her a glass of water muddled with what looked like blue rose petals from a crystal pitcher on the bedside table. Next to the pitcher glinted two room keys embossed with the Pushya nakshatra and a small blue basket of silver and black candies, like in a luxury hotel.
Sheetal tested the water. It had the same sweet floral notes she’d tasted last night.
She drank more than she actually wanted, taking forever to swallow each sip. Maybe if she kept drinking, she’d float away. She wouldn’t have to think about how she’d let Charumati take care of her as if she were still the naïve little girl who was so sure her mother would always be there.
The water left her replenished and even energized, like it had magic electrolytes. It even calmed her fear. Charumati still cared about Dad. She’d give Sheetal the blood, and Sheetal would just have to explain to Nani and Nana that this whole competition thing was a big mix-up.
Minal poked her in the shoulder. “That’s it?”
Sheetal returned the poke. “What else would there be?”
Minal pressed her lips together the way she always did when she was contemplating something. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she began. “I can’t even imagine what this must be like for you. But I think maybe you need to hear that as cool as Magic Land is, it’s okay to be mad at your mom. Or to not even know what you’re feeling. I mean, you just had how much stuff dumped on you in less than twenty-four hours? Huge, life-changing things?”
“I’m not mad,” Sheetal protested automatically. The shame of last night festered like a bruise on her heart, and she cringed away from it.
“Your mom left you. Whether or not she had a good reason for it, she left you. And no one told you why, and now it’s up to you to save your dad and deal with this competition stuff. Seriously, I’d be freaking out if I were you.”
Sheetal didn’t know what she felt, and that was the problem. Feeling things hadn’t been part of the plan. What she did know was that she didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m fine. Let’s just worry about the blood.”
Minal let out a gigantic sigh. “You’re the most stubborn person I know. Also, you sound like a vampi
re.”
Sheetal bared her teeth in a fake snarl.
“Sheetu!”
But the image of Dad lying helpless in the hospital bed chased her grin away. How long could he survive without the blood?
“Okay, okay, I’m up,” she said, kicking her legs over the side of the bed. “Where’s the bathroom?”
12
Scraps of sun-burnished blue sky peeked between the pillars lining the corridor as Sheetal’s grandmother’s personal attendant, Padmini, led Sheetal and Minal from the champions’ quarters to the Pushya nakshatra’s wing of the palace.
Where Nani and Nana waited. Or as Padmini called them, the Esteemed Matriarch and Patriarch.
Once Sheetal had dried off from her bath, it had taken Padmini all of ten minutes to fit her with a choli, dress her in a blue-and-silver sari, plait jasmine blossoms into her hair, stick a diamond bindi to her forehead, and cleverly cover up the pimple sprouting on her chin—because of course there was one.
And yet Padmini had needed five whole minutes to fuss over the end of Minal’s expertly folded sari, pleating and repleating it and smoothing it over her shoulder before steering Sheetal out the door to meet her fate. Apparently Minal wasn’t the only one with a crush.
Padmini took it upon herself to play tour guide, too, rattling off names and histories as they passed marble statue after marble statue. Minal ate it right up, offering so many opinions and smiles that Sheetal very nearly offered her a spoon. “I love a good sculpture”?
At least one of them fit in here.
While they bantered, she hung back, staring up at the torans hanging from either side of the ceiling, black stitched with silver constellations like shining coats-of-arms. The sidereal melody danced through her, high notes and chords of anticipation, invitation—even sadness as she thought of Dad.
The Pushya nakshatra’s toran flashed past. Sheetal stopped to study it. Her constellation.
Nani and Nana had only ever been characters in a story to her. She’d wished for them the same way she’d wished for Dad’s parents when other kids built gingerbread houses and sand rangoli with their grandparents at holidays or got spoiled with souvenirs at Disney World. But except for a visit to India when she was little and sporadic video calls, she didn’t really know Baa and Baapuji, either. The thing was, she’d gotten over it. She’d grown up.
And now she was supposed to waste time making small talk with strangers when she could be rushing back to Dad?
It was a relief when Padmini ushered Minal and her through a large scalloped archway straight into a chamber that could have been designed for midnight masquerade feasts, the kind where you might never know who else you dined with. Jeweled silver oil lamps dangled overhead at different heights, tossing rainbows over the ink-black walls and floor. Shimmering blue curtains lined the picture windows, which alternated with silver-framed paintings of figures from Hindu myths. In the middle of the room, an oversize crystal table had been set with steaming thalis and black linen napkins.
And there were people. So many people, all flawlessly gorgeous and impeccably dressed. All with hair like hers. All turning in their chairs as one, their various conversations going still.
Wait. Sheetal had been nervous enough when she thought it was just going to be Charumati and Nani and Nana. How was she supposed to say anything real to them with all these strangers listening?
Minal looked just as taken aback. Padmini must not have bothered to let her know, either.
Gazes swooped over them, evaluating. They varied from shocked to intrigued to faintly put off. But most of the stars watched with interest, silver light skimming over their brown skin and smoldering in their dark eyes.
Who cared what these people thought? After today, Sheetal would never have to see them again. Ignoring her sweating palms, she raised her head higher.
“Are you excited for the competition? I certainly am,” said a male star about her age. It took her a second to figure out he was addressing the female star next to him. That competition again. She turned away.
And caught sight of a stately old woman holding court at the head of the table. She wore a starry circlet over her white-streaked bun, and though her face was wrinkled, Sheetal could see she shared Charumati’s large eyes. Her delicate chin. Nani.
To her right sat an elderly man with broad shoulders, a regal bearing, and a matching starry diadem. Nana.
The starry melody whispered in Sheetal’s ears, ethereal as lace and replete with a yearning so pure it made her throat hurt.
Padmini moved between Sheetal and Minal. “Esteemed Matriarch, Esteemed Patriarch, Princess Charumati, permit me to present to you the Lady Sheetal and her mortal companion.”
Charumati, Nani, and Nana rose and joined their palms before their faces. “Aav, beti, aav. Be welcome.”
Sheetal’s grandparents. Nani and Nana. Her grandmother’s music rang out as surely as if Nani had opened her mouth to sing; it linked them more soundly than any bloodline.
It was their bloodline, Sheetal realized. It was the beat of her grandmother’s heart. Of her grandfather’s. Of her mother’s.
Of hers. Her own pulse rose and fell in time with the notes.
“Go to them,” Minal murmured.
Sheetal strode past the rows of watching faces to her grandmother. “Nani.”
Nani grasped Sheetal’s hands. Her skin was soft and thin as tissue, in contrast to the firm set of her mouth. She looked like an empress. “Dikri, my granddaughter, my dear one. You’ve come home to me.”
My dear one. The flame at Sheetal’s core kindled. The words sank into a fissure in her heart she hadn’t known existed, sealing it. You’ve come home.
This was so unfair. She’d long ago accepted Dad and Radhikafoi and Deepakfua were her family. All her family. Not this hall full of people with starlit eyes and astronomical expectations.
When Nani released her, Nana spoke. “Be welcome among us, beti. May you burn bold in the deepest night.”
Charumati silently touched Sheetal’s forehead. Sheetal’s shoulders dropped, then tensed right back up. She couldn’t ask for the blood in front of all these people.
“And who is your companion?” Nani asked as Minal came up alongside Sheetal.
Sheetal cautiously returned her grandmother’s smile. “My best friend, Minal.”
“From Earth,” Minal added helpfully, putting her palms together before her bowed head. “Namashkaar, Esteemed Matriarch. My mummy-papa send their pranaam.”
“Such gracious manners! But please be at ease among us, children. We are your nakshatra.” Nani put a hand on Sheetal’s shoulder and turned her to face the table. “Bolo. At long last, our daughter is returned to us. House Pushya, I present to you now your own Sheetal, daughter of our daughter Charumati! Welcome her to our fold with open arms.”
The room chimed with greetings, some probably more sincere than others. Sheetal kept her face as blandly polite as she could, even as her insides shrank in on themselves. She wasn’t hungry at all. She wouldn’t be until she knew Dad was okay.
Nana indicated the two empty seats on Charumati’s right. “Minal, do not be shy. Be seated, both of you, and eat. I trust our astral fare will be palatable to your mortal tongue?”
“I’m sure it’s delicious,” Minal said, helping herself to the farther of the two chairs. In full view of the entire table, she scooped up something red-violet and sparkling from one of the small bowls in her thali. “Thank you for having me.”
Echoes of the starsong, the music of the spheres, drifted from around the table, each strand uniquely pitched, all weaving together into a web. Weaving around Sheetal, through her. She felt the curiosity thrumming in each note: Where had this long-lost granddaughter been, and why?
She almost laughed. Why, indeed.
Nani waggled her head from side to side in that particular desi dance that could mean yes or no or even maybe. “No thanks necessary. Eat, beti, eat.” At that signal, everyone else reached for their food,
too.
Sheetal finally sat down, sandwiched between Minal and Charumati. She scanned the thali before her. Oh, thank the gods; there were a few things she recognized, like spicy dal, jeera rice, and vegetables. Her nervous stomach could probably handle that. “It smells good.”
“Eat, beti,” Nani urged. “You will need your energy for the training.”
Training? Sheetal exchanged a baffled look with Minal.
“We had the gulaab jamun made especially for you,” Nana said. “Your mother told us how much you loved it as a child.”
Sheetal actually preferred milk-soaked rasmalai these days, but she took a bite of one of the golden-brown fried dough balls in syrup. Instead of the traditional rose water, the syrup tasted of a flower she couldn’t place. It looked right but wasn’t.
Kind of like her.
“So quiet, child,” Nana teased. “Talk to us. Speak of your life.”
Sheetal hesitated. What was she supposed to say?
“You are quite ordinary of aspect for a star’s child, are you not?” a woman with a long, gleaming plait asked across the table, studying her. “It is an odd thing to see.”
“Indeed! I am confounded anew by the bluntness of mortal features. How much like ours, and yet how unlike,” a man said.
Others chimed in with their agreement, as if Sheetal were on display at a zoo. She bristled. Was this how they would have treated Dad?
Charumati delicately cleared her throat, and the woman dropped her gaze. But Sheetal was sure it didn’t stop the others from thinking it: Her human blood. Her human friend. So very strange.
She pushed her plate away and opened her mouth to tell them exactly where things stood. She would not be ashamed of Dad or Minal. Not now, not ever.
Charumati pressed Sheetal’s hand as if to stay her protest.
“Is this how we speak to guests?” Nani asked quietly, her restrained tone belying the steel beneath it. “To those of our line?”
“But is she not plain?” the woman protested.
Nana silenced her with a glower.
Even Sheetal could feel the disquiet altering the starry melody. The shift was slight, a deepening of notes, yet enough to raise goose bumps along her arms.
Star Daughter Page 11