The Bookweaver's Daughter
Page 20
The rest of the funeral party was already waiting by the garden stream, their heads bowed against the rain. They had all managed to find something white to wear. Looking at their faces, I felt an overwhelming rush of affection: Roshan, Niam, Aisha, Nina, Naveen, and Kira.
I took my place next to Nina as my mother began to speak.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said. Her voice cracked, and I took her hand. She sighed. “It’s just—I didn’t expect to be saying goodbye to my husband like this.”
There was a moment of quiet, and I realized that there were no ashes to scatter in the stream, as ancient Kasmiri tradition dictated. Jahan had taken even that from us.
My mother dabbed at the corner of her eye with regal composure.
“Amar and I built this home together,” she said, indicating the ruins around us. “We thought we had years ahead of us to raise our daughter within its walls. And that’s all he ever wanted: to raise the next Bookweaver into a woman of grace and compassion.”
She smiled at me. “Even though he’s not here, I know he got what he wanted. And—I just want to thank him for raising our daughter.”
As she spoke, she slipped her wedding ring from her finger and placed it in the small stream, building a fleeting altar to my father. The ring sparkled as it was swept away by the current.
Roshan spoke up. “I’m going to say a few words about my brother,” he said. “Everyone else is gone—our parents, our siblings, our family. With Amar’s passage, Reya and I are the last Kandharis, and I carry that name with pride.”
He sighed, staring up into the impermeable gray sky. “It wasn’t always easy to be the non-magical best friend of the Bookweaver. Sometimes it felt like I’d have to sacrifice everything for the sake of his legacy.”
Nina and I exchanged glances, and I quickly looked away.
“But that didn’t matter, not in the end. Because Amar taught me that magical ability or inherited power are not what make a person great. It’s their choice to keep fighting, no matter how hard it seems, because giving up is simply unthinkable.”
Next to him, Niam cleared his throat.
“Amar Kandhari taught me so much about bravery,” he said quietly. “He showed my family kindness, and it’s a debt I can never repay. All Aisha and I can do is pay it forward. And somehow, that still isn’t enough.”
Aisha took his hand, and he held onto his sister for support. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to have a sister of my own: another brown-haired, dark-skinned, green-eyed girl to give me strength in the hardest moments.
Then I realized that I didn’t have to wonder. I had Nina.
“Thank you, Niam,” Mother said. “Reya?”
She was looking at me, but I couldn’t find the words. My throat had closed up.
“Goodbye, father,” was all I could choke out, reaching behind my neck for the last time. I unfastened the cracked pearl that had once been the center of my existence, letting it drop into the river with a splash.
The sun was beginning to shine as our party broke up and headed their separate ways; only Naveen stayed back.
Nina and my mother looked back as they left, but I shook my head, indicating that they should go on without me.
Naveen and I walked through the ruined garden in comfortable silence. He, too, was wearing white—a buttoned white top that had somehow survived the mahal’s explosion. His hair, still ruffled from the rain, glinted copper in the weak sunlight, giving the impression that his head was on fire.
“Thank you,” I said at last. Naveen looked sideways at me. His pace was leisurely enough, hands jammed into his pockets with a practiced casualness, but I could tell that he was upset. I suddenly remembered that he, too, had lost his parents at a young age.
“Coming here was my pleasure,” he said. His hand brushed my arm reassuringly, and my stomach warmed—I hadn’t realized how badly I needed his human presence, to be touched, to be heard.
“No. I meant … thank you for everything.” Our eyes met, and I tried to put so many unspoken things into one sentence: Thank you for fighting for me. For listening to me. For believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.
He understood, and I saw the side of his mouth quirk up in his characteristic half-smile.
“You would’ve done the same,” he said. He turned, and I followed his gaze to see a lone plant, its silver flowers bright amidst the tangle of weeds. Naveen knelt down and picked up a single blossom.
“I don’t know what it is, or how it survived,” he said, tucking it behind my ear, “but it’s beautiful.”
In spite of everything, I laughed. “I know,” I said. “This was my father’s favorite flower. The crown of reya.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book has truly been a labor of love, having been written and rewritten several times over during the past six years. I could not have done it without the support of my parents and my sister, who were my biggest sources of strength. I also want to thank my first readers, M.R. and K.R. (and apologize for killing off the dog), and send love to P.C. for helping me slog through the Word Swamp. You helped me weave my words to life, and I am forever grateful.
Malavika Kannan is a 17-year-old writer from Orlando. While The Bookweaver’s Daughter is her first novel, Malavika’s writing has been featured in Harper’s Bazaar, Teen Vogue, and the Huffington Post, among other places, and she was recognized with a Scholastic Awards National Medal. A relentless advocate for female empowerment, Malavika is dedicated to using her voice to make the world a kinder place. That’s why she started The Homegirl Project, a buzzworthy online community that illuminates women of color. You can keep up with her adventures at malavikakannan.com.