She still wanted to hate them the way she hated the Maha, but it was extraordinarily hard to dislike people who were so earnestly curious about water fountains and havelis and the fine clothes that noblewomen wore. Mehr answered them as truthfully as she could: Yes, there were water fountains—Ambhan nobility loved to surround themselves with beauty. Yes, the havelis were grand. No, they were not encrusted in jewels.

She described some of the beautiful things she had seen her stepmother wear over the years: gold brocaded, sash-bound tunics; robes so long that they required a maidservant to hold the ends as she walked. She described the fine mesh of the veils noblewomen wore, the turbans of the men.

The girls drank it all in hungrily. When Mehr finally allowed her voice to falter, some of them leaned forward, just a little. One entreated her to continue.

Good.

She’d woven an image of Ambhan life beyond the temple walls—an image of opulence and beauty, rich with color and light—and the girls had fallen under its spell. She had something they wanted now. Tales were not much to barter with, but they were better than nothing, and far more than she’d had only moments before.

“I like to sew,” Anni said. “If you could draw that robe I could try to make it. I’ve saved a lot of cloth.”

Mehr shook her head with a faint smile. “I’m a terrible artist. But I would be happy to describe it to you again, if you like.”

That seemed to please Anni.

“I lived in Jah Irinah once,” Rena confided. She had dark, serious eyes. “But that was a long time ago. I remember very little anymore.” Her voice was wistful.

“You left?” Mehr asked.

“The Maha brought Rena here,” Anni said. “He brought all of us here.”

They told her then, each of them, their own stories of life in the Empire. Like Edhir, they had all been unwanted children once. Illegitimate or orphaned, they’d had no place in an Empire that valued bloodlines and order, and their lives had been defined by poverty and fear. The Maha had saved them. Mystics had taken them from their home provinces and given them sanctuary in the temple, where the Maha had fed them and clothed them and given them a purpose. When they were friendless, alone, and desperate, the Maha had raised them up, and they loved him for it.

The reminder of how lucky Mehr and Arwa had been was sobering. Mehr’s life had not been perfect, but she had never hungered as the girls had hungered. She’d never doubted that she would be fed and clothed and sheltered. If she had suffered and been saved as the mystics had, perhaps she would love the Maha as they did. Their love was the trembling, hopeful adoration of a kicked dog under a kind hand. It was a love born from pain.