What could she do if he woke blank-eyed and broken, a shadow of himself? Nothing, absolutely nothing. She was powerless here. So she pushed her fear away, locking it into the dark place inside her where all her grief and horror lived, waiting to be let out. She focused on practicalities instead. She took off her bloodstained robe—oh, how she would have loved to burn it whole—and put on her plainest shawl and tunic. She left her legs bare, not bothering with pajami, even as she wrapped the shawl tight around her shoulders and drew the cloth up to her face, breathing its scent in. If she breathed deep enough, perhaps she’d be able to find the scent of the women’s quarters, that unique combination of rosewater and oil and perfume she’d once kept stoppered in a perfect glass vial on her dressing table. But there was no scent of home. The shawl smelled like everything in the temple smelled: of sand and sunlight and dust. It was as if her old life were a story she’d made up, an utterly perfect dream she’d conjured to comfort herself through the bitter reality of her slavery.

But her life before had been real, just as real as her life was now, and it hadn’t been perfect. She’d been an outsider in her own home, protected from the worst cruelties a legal wife could inflict on an illegitimate, mixed-blood stepdaughter only by the strength of her father’s guilt. Even then, she hadn’t been safe, and she hadn’t been free. But she’d had Arwa, and Lalita, and Nahira. She’d had love, she saw now, in abundance. That love had given her the strength to breathe.

Now all the people she’d once loved were gone from her life, and her chains had grown heavier and heavier. She didn’t know if she could survive without hope. Could she let the thought of freedom go, and live like Amun had lived for years on end, like an animal in a cage, quelled and silent, always watching warily for the next blow to fall? She didn’t know if she had his strength. It would be easier to simply splinter herself on hating the Maha. Her pride made her want to. It would be the Amrithi thing to do, after all, to annihilate herself rather than letting the Maha have her heart and soul.

It would be harder—far harder, and far braver—to find a way to survive. Harder even still, to find a way to truly live.