Her words didn’t stop them from drawing their own blades. The man who had first seen her strode up to her and held his dagger a hairsbreadth from her throat.

“How did you find us?” he demanded.

Mehr swallowed back her fear and said, carefully, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to be here. The storm led me astray.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me who you are, or so help me—”

“Stop. Lower the dagger, Kamal.”

That voice. Mehr knew that voice.

“But, Lalita—”

“Lower it.”

As the blade lowered, Mehr turned her head. And Gods above, it was Lalita after all. Lalita was striding toward her, hood lowered. Her robe was faded, her dark hair loose over her shoulders. There was silver in her hair, no paint on her lips and no kohl around her eyes, but there she was, undeniably alive and whole.

“Oh, my dear one,” Lalita said. Her voice trembled with joy. “What are you doing here?”

This had to be a dream—a mirage. But the pain in her chest, the ache in her feet, told her this was all too real. Lalita was here. Lalita was well.

“I thought you were dead,” Mehr said, in a voice that trembled like a leaf. “I went to your haveli and I thought …”

“No, no,” Lalita said, shaking her head. “I am sorry you saw that, so very sorry, Mehr. But I’m safe.” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She managed a smile. “You didn’t come here to find me, did you?”

“No,” Mehr said softly.

“Look at her clothes,” Kamal said in a low voice. “She’s come from the temple.”

Lalita was still looking into Mehr’s eyes, her face full of wonder. She barely seemed to hear him. “That isn’t possible.”

“Perhaps you can’t see what stands in front of you, but I see one of the Maha’s creatures.”

Lalita laughed faintly. “Mehr’s father is Ambhan,” she said. “She doesn’t have the gift. The Maha would hardly trouble himself with her.”

It was astonishing, how love could blind someone. Lalita was looking right at her, and yet Mehr had a sense that Lalita was not seeing her at all, that hope and love had reshaped Mehr in her eyes into someone softer, someone safer to love. Perhaps that was why she had never warned Mehr about amata, or sensed the gift that lay under Mehr’s skin. Perhaps some part of Lalita had sensed the truth and shied away from the knowledge, far too aware that the only future that awaited most amata-gifted women lay at the end of a knife.

Mehr swallowed. “Lalita,” she said. “Look at me.”