by Sasha Nanua
“I can’t afford another room,” Sanya says. “I’m using all the savings Ma gave me before . . .”
“Like I said, we’re grateful. Aren’t we, Amir?” I need Ria’s friend to play along, or I’ll never learn more about the Foothills.
One night on these floors might be unseemly for a girl of my status, but at least it’s not dirt.
Sanya grunts. “Only for tonight. Ma would’ve wanted that.” Her voice softens in a way I haven’t heard before. Perhaps she hardened herself, alone on the streets, the same way Amir and Ria did.
I feel as if I’m intruding on their space, unresolved tension crackling like a winter hearth. But I won’t deny this offer, not when this girl could be my ticket to the Foothills.
Though I’ve never picked up a broom in my life, I spend the day with Amir helping Sanya clean the tavern to repay her. I’ll do anything to get further along my quest.
That night, after a small meal of papad and pickled vegetables, we take our rest on the floor, a scratchy blanket shared between Amir and me.
When Sanya enters the room, candle in hand, she doesn’t say a word. Amir is already sleeping, but a question itches at my throat.
“Do you think you and Irfan would ever go back to it?” I whisper amid Amir’s soft snores.
Sanya sinks onto the bed. She knows what I’m asking; would they ever return to their life of charity, of helping others for no reward.
Sanya hesitates. “Yeah. But it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”
Her question doesn’t invite an answer. Instead, her words drift like smoke in the silence. Then she blows out the candle.
15
Ria
“Ow!” A thin sewing needle pokes me in the ribs.
“So bony,” an auntie remarks, scrutinizing my waistline. “We’ll need to tailor her a size down.”
I stand in the middle of the women’s room, an animal pinned under the spotlight. Rani’s maids hold rivers of fabric of all weights and colors, from heavy golden blouses to light silver skirts. Behind the maids are a beehive of gossiping aunties, the commentary on their tongues ready to sting. They prod my skin, measure my torso, spin me in dizzying circles.
It’s my second full day at the palace and I’m already exhausted. This morning I woke to a fresh schedule at my bedside and a cold note from Saeed, written in precise scrawl.
Your mother has asked that I provide you a strict schedule for lessons. We will rotate with other classes as needed. This schedule will be put into effect beginning tomorrow.
History of Abai—Reptile Terrarium, Ninth Bell
Physics—North Tower, Eleventh Bell
Etiquette—South Tower, Fourteenth Bell
Saeed
He must’ve known today was dedicated to fittings and engagement party talk, and given me a day off. After waking up late, I feasted on the lunchroom’s offerings: soft mattar paneer; crunchy pakoras; bright, spicy curries; steaming lentils. A bout of nausea turns the memories bitter: I’ve never eaten like that in my life.
Like royalty.
Another poke in the ribs, and the food is forgotten.
Ever since I spoke with Shima and Saeed, I’ve had my mind on one thing: finding the raja and queen and figuring out the truth. I have a little over a half-moon until Rani and I switch back, which means the clock is ticking fast.
“There’s our princess.” Amara appears in view, standing before me expectantly. Her stare is sharp, like she can see through me to who I really am. A thief. A fake.
Any sickness I felt seconds ago subsides, replaced by a cold slither down my spine.
“What have they been feeding you?” She lifts my right arm and taps me on the ribs, as if that’ll magically make my skin grow thicker.
Amara grunts and turns, her attention on the bare counter in the center of the women’s room. “I ordered a fresh batch of roses yesterday! Are the servants inept?” She shakes her head. “No matter. Well, Maneet? What do you think?”
Queen Maneet enters my view, sporting a sari bejeweled with gold and purple beading. My eyes burn into hers. My mother. But calling the queen Mama is too strange. She’s not Mama Anita, and she’ll never replace her.
Her smile as she looks at me is soft, yet wan. Too thin to be true but too wide to be meaningless. Maybe she sees me, her missing child, in front of her.
If only I could be with her alone, ask some questions—
“My daughter,” she says, tilting my chin left and right as if to inspect my face for imperfections. She acts like she’s more interested in Rani’s appearance than her marriage, her thoughts, or the future of the kingdom. “Tell the maids to keep you from the sun. Your engagement party is coming, you know. And you must start eating properly—your cheeks are getting hollow.”
Instinctively, I touch my right cheek faintly. Deep-seated shame sears my face. I pull away, not because of the way she’s inspecting me, criticizing me, but because the queen doesn’t seem to notice me, the person, one bit.
“Are you prepared for your engagement?” one woman asks.
“Your lehenga should be red,” says another. “The color of tradition and true love.”
“No,” another interjects. “Magenta is the new trend.”
Amara thankfully whisks me away from the women and behind a folding screen. A maid dresses me in a fabric that’s bright yellow at the top and seeps into a ruby red. When I present myself to the aunties, they all shake their heads. Amara snaps her fingers, and another maid comes forward. The next is a lehenga that’s snug at the hips and sapphire blue with a matching blouse. When the maid fastens the chunni around my neck, I imagine it’s my own—the one I stole from a silk merchant in a faraway village two moons back.
“Raja’s beard,” I say, shocked at the silky material. From the confused expressions on the maids’ faces, I quickly say, “Do you think it’s . . . suitable?”
The queen’s look is one of disapproval. My stomach drops, and I clear my throat to hide my disappointment. I’m not here to play dress-up, but I need to get this over with. The quicker I’m out of here, the quicker I’ll get my answers.
And yet even as much as a part of me detests this, another part is astounded. Maids, following me around? Dressing me in the finest silks in Abai? I shouldn’t like it, not even the thought of it, but it all makes me feel like a little girl dressing up in Mama Anita’s finest clothes. I didn’t care how oversize they looked on seven-year-old, bony me—I dreamed that I was a noble person, someone worthy of attention.
I try on more, and the queen looks almost bored by the options. She rises, clapping her hands twice. “These colors aren’t agreeing with me. Red, on the other hand, is tried and true. Amara, let us break for a while. In the meantime, please take Rani to start looking at jewelry.” The queen makes for the door, the maids close behind.
“Wait,” I say, but the queen is gone, disappeared out the door, the maids right behind her. “Won’t I need her approval?” What I really want to say is, Won’t I get another chance to speak with her? To . . . get to know her?
My stomach swirls with confusion. I feel light-headed.
Amara sighs. “Remember, Rani, that I am your father’s adviser,” she whispers darkly. “Which means that aside from his, mine is the opinion that matters most now.”
I shake my head. Though the words are harsh, Amara says them with sickening sweetness, as if afraid the queen will walk back in at any minute. As we make our way out of the room and across the hall, I pass a collection of whispering Charts who straighten when I’m near. They are pillars of strength, of force. The closer they are, the more I fear them. Right now I’m the princess, but the guise feels flimsy as the soldiers’ eyes settle on mine. Eyes like black, steaming coals.
I force myself to look away. Amara guides me like I’m cattle, and we end up in a smaller room holding arrays of jewelry on glass stands. I salivate at the thought of all those jewels spilling out of my pockets.
“You heard your mother,” Amara sn
aps. “Choose.” She grabs a collection of necklaces, clutching them like they’re scraps of metal instead of precious jewels, and thrusts them at me. I hurry to try on a necklace, then a set of bangles Amara selects from a stand.
“Too orange,” she decides flippantly, unclipping the necklace. She throws on another set and grimaces in disgust. “Certainly suitable for peasants.”
“What’s wrong with peasants?” I blurt.
My bangles jingle as she twists me around, inspecting me. “The world doesn’t live as you do, Rani. There are thieves out there. Rats.”
My hands tighten into fists. “A thief isn’t a rat. Some people aren’t born rich.”
Amara sticks up a brow. “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about this topic, Rani. I thought you to be a self-serving princess all these years.”
My cheeks burn. “I meant you don’t have to be a princess, or any kind of royal, to belong here. In the palace, in Anari, anywhere. After all, you’re here.”
Amara’s silent after that. Even my own words make me quiet.
I’ve said too much.
“I’m only here thanks to your parents’ generosity. After I set up your mother with the raja, I became like a noble myself. They accepted me to live here after Kumal’s passing. Saeed’s father was only twenty-four. Or have you forgotten that detail?”
“I—I’m sorry.” I didn’t realize how important Amara was to the king and queen. Or that Saeed’s father died so young.
Amara takes my wrists in her hands. Too thin, she’s probably thinking. A clear difference between Rani and me.
I stare at her hands, suntanned and marked with blisters on the palms. No . . . not blisters. Some sort of scar, faded with age. And above them, bracelets, cuffs, locked onto each forearm.
I point at them without thinking. “What are those?” They’re gold-plated cuffs inscribed with a symbol. An eye.
This is the kind of jewelry that would sell in the marketplace for at least fifty silver coins. A couple moons’ worth of food and shelter.
“These?” She bristles, then clasps her hands together. “A simple gift from my father. Before he passed.” She says the words matter-of-factly, but her face is drawn, and she glances away.
“Would you talk to him again? If you had the chance?” I don’t know where the words come from, but I’m suddenly reminded of Mama Anita. What I would do if I could just talk to her one last time. But she’s gone.
“Such a magic doesn’t exist,” Amara snaps.
“Oh. Right.” The words eke out of me, and I wish Rani had told me more about Amara—their relationship, her past. I don’t know how to read her. Amara turns, putting some jewelry into a silver-laden box, and I catch a glimpse of what looks like keys dangling from a loop on the waist of her sari.
I am your father’s adviser . . . Rani hadn’t mentioned that to me. Had Rani and Amara’s relationship always been taut as a stretched rope?
“That was a long time ago.” She clenches her fingers into fists, then exhales. “And of no importance to your fitting.”
She turns me back to the mirror and begins prodding me with more jewelry. After a few moments, I can’t help but ask the next question that comes out of my mouth. “What tonic do you prescribe to your son?”
“Excuse me?” Amara looks entirely befuddled in the mirror, her expression quickly giving way to anger. “You set your damned snake on my son. Don’t you think he needs something to help him rest?”
Rani let Shima loose on Saeed? But why? How?
And Saeed said he’d been having dreams for a while now. That’s what the tonic is supposed to be for—not trouble sleeping. So why is Amara lying?
I need to get things back in my control. I’m the royal one here, and I’d better start proving I belong. “Is that any way to speak to the princess, Amara?”
Amara chuckles derisively. “I can speak in any way I please. And if you forget to call me Amara-ji again, I’ll make sure your father will hear of it. Every. Last. Detail.”
Her heels clack, stabbing the floor with each step as she paces the room. I attempt to hide my frustration. No wonder Rani hadn’t mentioned her to me. Her mother-in-law and the king’s adviser? Amara’s very existence is nothing more than a recipe for torture.
As Amara moves, the jangling of keys echoes in the room. That sound catches my attention: with Amara as the raja’s adviser, she must have keys to some pretty important places.
Maybe even places containing important records.
Records that could show me the truth of my birth.
The whole reason I stayed in this Masters-forsaken place.
“Amara-ji,” I call out sweetly, grinding the name down with my teeth. “I apologize dearly; I should treat my father’s adviser with more respect.”
“As you must,” Amara concurs, still pacing. “Your engagement party is less than a half-moon away. I expect only the best for my son.”
“Of course,” I say, careful not to stutter. I turn on my charm, the one that got me through so many nights on the streets. “Please have a seat, Amara-ji. It’s only right we find you some jewelry for the engagement. After all, you are the mother of the groom.”
Amara eyes me like she’s on to the game I’m playing. Thankfully, she takes a seat at the vanity and begins to try on earrings. I eye the keys at her waist hungrily.
Now or never.
I bend over, using one hand to sort through the jewelry, while my other roams to the key ring on Amara’s side, the keys splayed along the velvet chair.
I press a hand to the keys, silencing them with my fist. I try slipping them off the key ring, slow and steady, just like I’m thieving fresh naan. I’m so close, tasting victory on my tongue, when the door flies open. The keys slide out of my grasp.
“Any progress?” the queen asks, holding a cup of tea in hand.
“Not much,” Amara says, scanning her nails. Meanwhile, the queen strolls to the vanity, sets her cup down, and takes another look at me. With a gentle hand, she brushes away a stray lock of hair. It feels . . . wrong. Unnatural. The act is too sentimental for the Snake Queen, for someone other than Mama Anita. I don’t want her near me, but she looms so close I can’t escape her without causing a scene. She has my eyes, my lips, my skin. Her hands are long and slender like mine, her hair dark and just as wiry. My hair. Except hers has been tamed into submission.
My heart pitter-patters. This is what I wanted—a chance to talk to my parents. A chance to discover who I really am, before Amir and I escape.
So I force a lie off my tongue. “Saeed gave me an assignment. I need to record my personal history. I need to know about my birth, my childhood—all of it.”
The queen eyes me quizzically, then laughs. “Rani, dear, I am not sure where to start.”
I force myself to speak. I’m her daughter, but right now I just feel like a fraud.
“You’ve told the story many times, Maneet,” says Amara, as if bored.
The queen nods. “It was a simple birth, Rani. All went as planned.”
She’s obviously holding back. Frustration boils my blood. Why can’t she tell me why I grew up in an orphanage?
“And my father’s reaction?” I press.
The queen glances away. “Hmm. What did he say?”
Before I can speak, Amara stands abruptly. “Why are we discussing such trivial details? Come now. The fitting is not yet over.”
The queen agrees, snapping her fingers and calling for the maids to draw me back to the women’s room, where they wait with more lehengas.
Anger flares deep in my belly. It was as if the queen didn’t know she’d birthed two daughters.
I’ve been starved of more than just food. I’ve been starved of a family.
I force a smile as the maids hold out the new outfits. They flood toward me, as if I’m some kind of magnet. Maybe I am. Rani and I lived on opposite poles, yet inched closer together, until finally, everything clicked.
And then split apart.
&
nbsp; I play along with the fitting, knowing I’ll be out soon enough. Because in the back of my mind, I’m not thinking about the color of the decor, or the assortment of bindis and bangles and everything else a princess should care about. I’m watching the halls, the servants filtering in and out, the Charts reporting to the raja.
A few soldiers march out of a hallway where I spot, farther back, a room with a sleek desk, behind which now sits the king himself. His office.
It’s not like I can just barge in there and demand my birth papers. Could I? If I make things too obvious, the raja and queen might suspect something of me. And it’s not like the queen was giving me straight answers about my birth, either.
I need to figure this out in secret. Wait. Watch. Strike when the time is right.
That’s how I steal. And that’s how I’ll uncover the truth.
“Let’s wrap this up now,” Amara says with a clap. “I’m tiring myself with all these tasks.”
The queen nods and leaves, but I’m not done yet.
A thief’s work is never finished.
I make my way to Amara and lay a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Amara-ji,” I begin, “for all your help with this engagement.”
“Don’t butter me up,” she replies, though I can tell she’s enjoying every sweet utterance from my mouth. “Be ready for another fitting soon, dear Rani.”
She leaves, only her footsteps echoing behind her, not a jangle of keys to be heard.
I lift my hand up to view my slim thief fingers clutched tightly, a glint of gold peeking out from underneath. I grin, pocket the keys, and leave the room without a sound.
16
Rani
“Eat.”
I jolt in my spot. I rub my eyes, suppressing a yawn as watery sunlight creeps into the tavern’s dining area. I spent the night poring over Tutor’s book on plants, trying to decipher the strange symbols he’d written in the margins and failing. Now Amir pushes a tray toward me, holding a plate of chopped banana sprinkled with cinnamon and a cup of fresh water. We eat breakfast in our own little bubble while awaiting Irfan and Sanya. I try not to gawk at the lack of silverware, the mud-brown utensils we use in its place, the copper-rusted tray.