She was reminded of the day, so very long ago, when Ruhi had asked her to take care of Mehr and teach her the rites. Ruhi had been the Governor’s concubine long before Lalita returned homesick to Jah Irinah, but becoming the mother of two half-Ambhan daughters had shattered something within Ruhi and tipped her from uneasy contentment into slow-moving, dreadful awareness. Lalita remembered pitying her. Ruhi hadn’t married the Governor, hadn’t made any vows, but the children were as good as a chain holding her fast within the palace walls. And Ruhi had come to understand, far too late, how ill-suited she was for Ambhan society.

Where Lalita had flourished, gaining financial independence and a modicum of security, Ruhi had become a shadow of the woman she’d once been. She’d had fire in her once. She’d been a Tara’s daughter, and a headstrong one at that, determined to make a better life for her clan and her people. But her life in the Governor’s palace had crushed the spirit out of her and filled her soul with terrible, unanswerable fears. Lalita remembered the way Ruhi had taken Lalita’s hands in her own, her grip firm, her eyes blazing.

Take care of Mehr for me, Ruhi had said. Teach her. Help her. I can’t be the mother she needs. Please, Lalita.

Lalita had known that day that Ruhi would leave eventually. She’d never blamed her for it. The clan had needed a Tara, after all, and Ruhi had needed to survive. If she’d remained in Jah Irinah, she wouldn’t have.

“Of course,” Lalita said gently. “You don’t even need to ask.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY

Despite everything, Mehr’s body healed and grew stronger. She slept—briefly, restlessly, her sleep riddled with dreams. She ate the food left for her, which wasn’t plentiful but was still more than she’d been able to stomach in those last weeks of service to the Maha. Sometimes Lalita came and kept her company, and nearly every night her mother kept watch outside her shelter.

She had no idea when her mother rested, and didn’t ask. Ever since the first night when they had spoken so freely to one another, Mehr had struggled to find the words to simply talk to her mother. All the words she had were raw, weighty, an echo of her wounded heart. She didn’t dare let them pass her lips. Instead she sat by her mother in silence, watching the daiva writhe on the distant horizon until dawn broke the sky.