Mani sleeps for hours, waking only briefly to eat a light dinner and then promptly falling back asleep. He says just four words to me while he’s awake: “A little,” when I ask if he’s hungry, and “I’m full,” when I ask if he wants more soup.
I have so few people in my life and nearly all of them are mad at me: Mani, Iyla, Gita, Gopal. The only one who isn’t angry is Deven, and he would no doubt be furious if he knew what I’ve done, what I am. I think about the days before I had a brother—how lonely it was, how all I thought about was finding a way to run. And that’s exactly how I feel now, like running away and never looking back. I watch Mani’s chest rise and fall. His hands are tucked beneath his cheek, and dark curls fall over his forehead. He looks even smaller in sleep, even more vulnerable. He would never make it if we tried to leave. But if I can find a way to make Mani well again, I’ll do a better job of escaping. I’ll take him and run so long and so far that Gopal will never be able to find us again.
I drift off curled in a chair by Mani’s bedside, but my sleep is choppy, plagued with nightmares of huge snakes, dying boys and snapping whips. But when I wake gasping, reality is no comfort. Remembering the previous evening sweeps me up in a wave of regret. Why didn’t I ask Iyla where Deven lives? Gopal wants him dead by the end of the week, and that gives me only six days to slip him two more doses of toxin, and I have no idea where to find him. Why didn’t I ask Kadru how far apart the doses need to be? I don’t know if one day is enough or if I need to move more slowly. And it may all be a moot point if Gopal sends another kind of assassin after Deven—he must have them, other assassins who kill people in more traditional ways. But there is one question that haunts me the most: What did Deven do that the Raja wants him dead?
At some point during the night the sky grows angry and a torrent of rain pelts against the metal roof of our flat in an unrelenting rhythm. The sound is so loud it drowns out my thoughts, and sleep finally finds me.
When I open my eyes, the room is dark. It could be midnight or morning—it’s impossible to tell.
“Marinda?” I can tell it isn’t the first time Mani has said my name. It must have been his voice that woke me.
“Hmm?”
“Someone is at the door.”
I bolt upright. At first I think Mani’s wrong, that it’s only the rain, but then I hear it. Tap, tap. Pause. Tap, tap. It’s not a pattern that I recognize—not Iyla or Gita or Gopal. I look over at Mani and hold a finger to my lips. His eyes are wide and he’s trembling, but he nods. He can be quiet. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and creep to the window. My heart is thudding against my rib cage and I’m half expecting Gopal to be on the other side of the door with a whip in his hand to finish with me what he started with Iyla. I push back the edge of the drapery, just a fraction, just enough to see who is there.
It’s not Gopal.
Deven stands outside, a bag in one hand and a bouquet of marigolds in the other. He’s dripping wet. His dark hair is pasted to his forehead, and tiny droplets cling to his lashes. He wears a hopeful expression, like it’s a holiday and he’s just been handed a present. It’s a strange kind of pleasure to watch him without his knowing. He looks younger without an audience, less confident somehow. Warmth spreads through my chest. I spent the whole night worrying about how to find him again, and here he is on my doorstep.
“Marinda?” Mani asks. His voice is colored with worry.
“Everything is fine,” I tell him, dropping the drapery. I open the door and Deven’s face breaks into a smile.
“Good morning,” he says. Then he looks me over and frowns. “Oh, no. I woke you.”
“No.” I run my fingers through my hair, suddenly self-conscious. And then I remember my bare wrists and drop my hands to my sides. “You didn’t. I just…” I’m still surprised to see him here and I have no words.
He laughs and steps through the threshold into the flat. “Yes, I did.” He holds up the bag. “But I brought a surprise, so hopefully you’ll forgive me?”
Mani bounds off the bed. “What did you bring?” The excitement in his voice stings a little after he gave me the silent treatment yesterday, but I’m glad to see him smiling again.
“This is for you,” Deven says, handing the bag to Mani. “And I brought your sister some flowers.” He presents me with the bouquet of golden blossoms held together with a white ribbon. Careful to keep the insides of my wrists facing me, I take the marigolds and press them to my nose. They smell sharp and woodsy, more like a boy than a flower. I close my eyes and try to capture this moment, and suddenly I feel apart from myself—like I’m standing to the side and watching a different girl’s story. Because this isn’t my life, not really, and this moment belongs only to the Marinda that Deven thinks he knows, not the real me. The boys in my life don’t have flowers and sweet words. They have headaches, and tremors, and death.
“Thank you,” I say past the lump in my throat. Thank you for making me feel like a normal girl and not a poisoned one.
Deven’s eyes are soft. “You’re welcome.”
Mani tugs on my arm. “Look what Deven brought me,” he says, holding up the same pale fruit he ate at the bookshop. “Maraka fruit. Can I eat it now?”
I ruffle his hair. “Sure, monkey, go ahead.”
“Eat a few pieces,” Deven says. “You’re going to need your energy.” I raise my eyebrows in a question. “The flowers weren’t my only surprise. I came to kidnap you.”
“What?” Mani and I say together.
“The three of us are going on an adventure today,” Deven says.
“I don’t know—” I start, but Mani interrupts me.
“Please, Marinda. Please, please, please.”
I glance over at Deven and he presses his hands together under his chin, imitating Mani. “Please, Marinda,” he says in the same pleading tone.
I laugh. “You two are trouble,” I say.
“So?” Mani asks.
“Yes, all right. Let’s go have an adventure.” Both boys grin and then they slap their palms together in a celebratory high five. I roll my eyes. “Breakfast first,” I tell them.
“Of course,” Deven says.
I dress behind the curtain in our small bathroom—black pants, hiking boots, a silky lapis-colored top and wide silver bracelets. I pull my hair back in a ponytail and tie it with a scarf. This is probably unwise, going off with Deven like this. A few weeks ago I wouldn’t have even entertained the idea.
But Deven makes me reckless.
And just for one day I want to know what it feels like to be the girl he thinks I am.
After I finish dressing, while the boys are laughing over a game of dice, I warm two loaves of flatbread, smear them with butter and sprinkle them with cinnamon. Then I pour each of us a tall glass of orange juice.
I make sure Deven gets the poisoned one.
We’re a few hours into our hike up a steep mountainside blanketed in lush green trees when Deven reaches for my hand. “Close your eyes,” he says. “I want this to be a surprise.” He laces his fingers through mine and presses his other hand against my waist. I close my eyes and let him guide me forward.
“No peeking,” he says. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. It’s exhilarating, the thought of him that close to me. But then panic seizes me. What if I can feel his breath only because it’s labored? What if the poison I gave him is starting to kill him? I strain my ears, but all I can hear is the trill of a songbird. I focus on the feel of his hand in mine, check to see if it feels hot or clammy. It doesn’t—it feels soft and strong. Some of the tension drains from my shoulders. He’s fine. At least for now.
The ground is still damp from the earlier rainfall, and my boots sink into the soil as I walk. Cool mountain air bites at my cheeks, but it feels pleasant after the heat of the valley and after the exertion of the long hike. Mani is humming happily beside me. His eighteen hours of sleep yesterday must have restored some of his energy. He hasn’t asked to stop for a break onc
e. Suddenly Mani falls silent and I hear a sharp intake of breath.
“Wow,” he says softly.
“We’re here,” Deven tells me. He drops his palm from my waist, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.
I open my eyes, and my breath sticks in my throat. We’re at the base of an impossibly blue lake nestled against the side of a sheer cliff. The lake is surrounded by thick green forest. A brilliantly white waterfall tumbles from the rocks into the water below. It’s breathtaking.
“It’s not the tallest waterfall in Sundari,” Deven says, “but it’s the most beautiful.” This is the only waterfall I’ve ever seen, but I have no doubt that he’s right. I’m completely mesmerized.
“What’s it called?” Mani asks. His face is tipped upward and he’s wearing an expression of such joy that it tugs at my heart. It didn’t occur to me that the waterfall would have a name, but Deven is ready with an answer.
“It’s called the Maiden’s Curtain.”
“Why?” I ask.
He turns to me. His eyes are bright. “It’s from an old legend,” he says. “Would you like to hear the story?”
“Yes,” Mani and I answer in unison.
Deven laughs. “Okay, but let’s get comfortable first.” He pulls a large blanket from his pack and unfurls it on a flat, grassy area near the water’s edge. We lie on our backs, gazing up at the waterfall, close enough that the mist dances over our cheeks. When Deven starts speaking, there’s a melodic quality to his voice, like he’s told this story many times before.
“The legend goes that this lake once belonged to a maiden who was renowned for her beauty. Stories of her were told far and wide, spoken around cook fires and whispered at bedtime. Eventually the tales reached the ears of a lonely prince who was determined to find a beautiful bride. He had courted many maidens, but none of them were lovely enough to satisfy him. So the prince set out to find the maiden of the lake. He searched for months until he finally found this water—the brilliant blue of a sapphire. The lake was so perfect that he was certain he had the right place. And sure enough, a little ways off, he saw a young woman bathing herself in the water. He crept closer, trying to catch a glimpse of her and see if the legends were true. The maiden was submerged up to her neck in the water, and her back was to the prince, so all he could see was her dark hair. But it was beautiful hair, so his heart swelled with hope as he waited for her to turn.”
Deven stops talking and for a moment there’s just the rush of the waterfall in our ears. “So what happened?” Mani asks.
Deven props himself up on his elbows. “Do you really want to know?”
I swat him on the arm. “Of course we want to know,” I say. “No fair stopping in the middle of a story.”
He shoots a stern look at me. “The first rule of legends is that you never strike the storyteller.”
“Even if he is an obnoxious tease?” I ask.
His face breaks into a wide grin. He tries to force it from his face and assume a more serious expression, but he’s not having much luck. “Even then,” he says.
“Dev-en,” Mani whines. “Just tell us what happens.”
“All right,” Deven says. He clears his throat. “Finally the maiden began to turn. The prince held his breath, anxious for his first look at her face. But when he saw her, his heart sank. She wasn’t beautiful at all.”
“She wasn’t?” Mani asks.
Deven shakes his head. “She wasn’t. She was actually quite plain. The maiden saw him and asked, ‘Why have you come?’
“ ‘I came to see if the legends about your beauty are true,’ the prince said.
“ ‘And what have you discovered?’
“ ‘I’m afraid I’ve been misled,’ the prince told her.
“The maiden was so offended by his rejection that she used her magic to create a curtain of sweet milk that tumbled from the cliffs above to shield her from the prince’s view. And then she continued to bathe. The prince turned to leave, but he hadn’t gotten very far when he heard a sound so beautiful it made him ache inside with a longing he had never known before. The maiden was singing. The prince ran back to the lake, and as he listened, he fell in love—not only with her beautiful voice, but also with the words of her songs, which revealed her heart. Suddenly he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He called out to the maiden and asked her to remove the milky curtain. Although it added much beauty to the lake, it blocked her from his view, and he desired to court her. But the maiden refused.
“The prince was determined not to leave until she changed her mind, and so he made his home near the water and spent his days talking to the maiden—telling her the stories of his youth, discussing philosophy, reciting poetry.
“Gradually the maiden’s heart softened and she fell in love with the prince. But still she wouldn’t remove the curtain. Although the prince could not remember why he had ever doubted the maiden’s beauty, she could not forget that he had once thought her plain.”
“So what happened?” I ask.
“They died—each of them in love with the other, but never seeing one another again.”
“They died?” Mani said. “That’s a terrible story.”
But I didn’t think so. It was tragic, true. But also romantic and beautiful.
“Some people say if you listen very carefully, you can still hear the maiden singing,” Deven says.
That makes us all fall silent. And for just a moment, in the rush of the waterfall, I think I can hear something that sounds like music.
“Are you up for seeing something else?” Deven asks after we’ve lunched on a picnic of samosas and maraka fruit. The sun has risen high in the sky, chasing away the crisp mountain air, and now we are bathed in a pool of buttery warmth. I’m reluctant to leave such a beautiful place, and so I don’t answer right away.
Deven studies my face. “Or we could stay here?”
“No,” I say. “We can’t have an adventure with only one stop. I just…” My voice is suddenly scratchy with emotion, and I have to pause and take a breath before I speak again. “I really love it here.” And I do. I’ve never been anywhere so serene in my entire life.
His eyes are bright. “I knew you would.” He smiles, but it’s not his usual grin—this smile spreads slowly, like spilled honey. His face looks younger and less guarded, like it did this morning when he stood outside my door in the rain. I smile back and he holds my gaze until my cheeks grow warm, and I let my eyes slide away.
He turns to Mani. “What do you think, pal? Do you want more adventure?” But Mani is already on his feet, bouncing lightly on his toes. We all laugh. Deven slings his pack over his shoulder and holds out both of his hands—one for me and one for Mani.
Deven says the walk will take over an hour, but I almost wish it would never end. We hike under huge trees that filter the light into dappled patterns on our arms and legs. The air smells so fresh that I feel like if I could just breathe deeply enough to pull it all in, it might wash away all the darkness. A songbird flits in the trees above us. With a start I realize that it looks like a miniature version of the great bird—its wings are the rich blue of lapis lazuli, edged in emerald green. I can’t pull my gaze away.
“Look,” I say, tugging on Deven’s hand, “it’s Garuda.” We stop and admire the bird for a few minutes before continuing on.
There’s a warmth radiating from my chest, and the thought crosses my mind that this must be what happiness feels like. And then, for some reason, my mind wanders to my mother. Or rather the empty space where my memories of her should be. When I was a little girl, I wondered about her incessantly—her eyes, her hair, the timbre of her voice. But I stopped thinking about her years ago, the way you avoid stepping in a puddle after a rainstorm. Because why make yourself miserable on purpose? And yet somehow the beauty of this day, its simple perfection, pushes my nonmemories of my mother forcefully to the surface. It’s as if my mind is trying to keep things in balance—like adding sour to sweet in
a recipe. Gita’s stories of me as a baby include only my father. I’ve never heard her or Gopal mention my mother—though clearly I had one, even if she did agree to sell me.
“What do you think?” Deven’s voice pulls me from my thoughts and I follow his gaze. The trees have parted to reveal a small cove, closed in on all sides by mountains. Azure-blue cottages spill into the valley and spread out in every direction, the blue roofs rising and falling in waves. For a moment I’m too stunned to speak. It seems incongruous to see a village in such a secluded location. It’s beautiful in a whole different way than the waterfall is, but just as breathtaking.
Mani finds a voice before I do. “What is it?”
“The Widows’ Village,” Deven says. His voice is full of awe, like this place is sacred to him.
“Widows?” I say. Widows are considered unlucky in Sundari—superstitions abound that if a wife outlives her husband, she must be cursed, and socializing with her is dangerous. Even stepping in a widow’s shadow is said to bring seven years of bad luck.
Deven clears his throat. “Years ago the Raja heard reports about a settlement of poverty-stricken widows living in the far reaches of Sundari. He traveled there to see with his own eyes, and it was even worse than he thought. All of the women were destitute, dressed in rags and barely surviving off only a few meals a week. Their families had disowned them when their husbands died, and they had nowhere to go. It infuriated him that the women should be so poorly treated for something that wasn’t their fault, so he had his men search the kingdom high and low for somewhere they could be secluded and start a new life in a place of their own. When his advisers showed him this valley, he knew it was perfect. So he had this village built for them, and now they live and work together without any stigma.”
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