“But you could have stayed with us. Arwa and me. He would have allowed that.” Mehr stared into her mother’s eyes, which were so like her own. “I remember.”

Ruhi shook her head at that, her mouth thinning.

“I couldn’t, Mehr. I was afraid.”

“Of the Maha? His Saltborn?”

“Of many things,” said Ruhi. “When I fell in love with your father … Mehr, I was an idealist. I had great dreams of what we could accomplish together, a Tara’s daughter and the Governor of Irinah. I believed we could make the world better for the Amrithi. But I learned, soon enough, how little power an Ambhan nobleman has. Your father loved me, but he still obeyed his Emperor. When his nobles attacked my people, he turned a blind eye—for my sake, he told me, and yours. A Governor who refuses to obey the Emperor’s will, he told me, does not remain a Governor for long. And what would become of us all then? What would happen to you and Arwa, without the protection of his title and power? The thought terrified me, Mehr.”

Ruhi leaned forward, her gaze intent. She spoke as if she didn’t care what Kamal heard—as if there were no shame in it, airing their family’s grief before an audience. Mehr, raised behind walls and protocol, was frozen by her mother’s honesty.

“I was afraid,” Ruhi said frankly. “Afraid of what your father and I had done by loving one another. Afraid that no matter how well your father obeyed his Emperor and his Maha, one day their eyes would turn on him and they would see me, his amata-gifted Amrithi mistress, and steal me away, or punish him for loving me. And worse still, I feared they would punish you and your sister for existing at all.”

“Is that why you left? To protect us?” Mehr’s voice sounded small, so small.