“Your Majesty,” she said. In her arms, she bore a gown of delicate indigo silk. Laya had been wearing it in the gardens earlier that day.

“How is Dayang Laya?” Duja asked. After the tournament, Laya and Bulan had had a devastating fight. Their hateful words echoed across the courtyard. Everyone in the entire palace complex heard them. Duja had tried to calm Laya down earlier that evening, but her daughter was beyond consoling.

“One of the lady’s maids saw to Dayang Laya’s bath. I assisted her,” the serving girl said. She was a scrawny thing with wan cheeks and a slight provincial accent. She must have been a recent recruit, because Duja had never seen her around the palace before.

“And?”

“The princess has been in there for hours, and she refuses to open the door.” The girl diverted her eyes to the ground, hesitating. “Pardon my frankness, Your Majesty, but we fear she might be trying to drown herself.”

Duja sighed and waved the girl off. “Go on. I’ll see to her myself.”

“As you please, Your Majesty.” She bowed again, then scurried off to the laundress.

Duja continued to the end of the corridor. Dim, yellow light shone through the slit beneath Laya’s door. Duja pressed her ear to the thick mahogany panels. On the other side, she could hear the faint sound of sniffling.

She knocked softly. “Laya, it’s Mother.”

The sniffling silenced. Then a pattern of angry footsteps echoed across the floorboards as Laya approached the door.

“What do you want?” Laya snapped, her voice muffled through the layers of wood.

“I want to speak to you,” she said. “Please let me in.”

A reluctant sigh, then Laya relented. The door creaked open. She leaned against the frame, her arms crossed. “You have my attention,” she said in the lofty tone Duja hated.

Laya could be as awful to her as she liked, but no haughty expression could hide the red splotches around her irises or the puffy bags under her eyes. The poor girl had been crying for hours. Her hair, damp from her bath, hung limply around her shoulders. She looked less like the steel-faced tyrant she pretended to be and more like a drowned rat.

“I was worried about you,” Duja said.

Laya stared back. Her bottom lip trembled. The haughty mask fell from her face like cracked stone. “Oh, Mother,” she said, crumpling as she barreled into Duja’s arms.

Duja froze, surprised. She had not seen Laya cry since she was a child. Back then, she would always run to her father for comfort⁠—never Duja. She still needs me, Duja realized. She softened as Laya sobbed into her chest, her tears seeping through the fine silk of her blouse.

“Hush, darling.” Duja wrapped her arms around Laya and led her into the bedroom. They sat together on the edge of the bed, and Laya sobbed in earnest.