“I would,” Mehr insisted. “I’ve always found you to be an excellent teacher.”

“Ah, well then, that’s good.” Lalita smiled. “Next time I come, I’ll bring a needle and thread.” She clasped Mehr’s hands tight in return. “You’ve always been my favorite student.”

“I’m your only student.”

“That makes it no less true, dear one.”

Mehr hadn’t been joking when she had claimed she had a noblewoman’s typical lack of practical skills. She was able to navigate an Ambhan household artfully. She’d learned long ago how to play the dutiful child while not-so-secretly transgressing. She could read and write, and knew how to dress appropriately to reflect her station. She could recognize beautiful art and make meaningless conversation. But she could not mend clothing or start a fire, or cook or heal or contribute in a way that would assist her own survival, or anyone else’s.

The only skill she had that was of any worth here was her ability to dance the rites. So that was exactly what she did.

She began to spend the early mornings performing the rites out in the light, before the heat of the day became unbearable. When the sky darkened, before her mother came to keep vigil, Mehr would practice again for a half hour or so more, taking advantage of the cooler weather. She danced every rite she could remember, danced until exhaustion consumed her. She danced until the restlessness in her bones eased, until she could breathe without thinking of Amun and the red of his agony, the red of Hema’s blood. She danced until she no longer had the strength to run, as she so wanted to.

Mehr blamed the distraction the rites offered for the fact that it took her far longer than it should have to realize the daiva had taken to watching her dance. They hung in soft shadows around the edges of the shelter, shaping themselves to the swinging arc of her own shadow as she moved through the sigils and steps of each rite. She froze the first time she saw them—saw the glow of their golden eyes, the whisper of their talons—and hesitantly offered them a gesture of respect. But when they remained unmoving, simply watching her, she returned slowly to her practice of the rites. When they remained complacent, unmoved, she grew more confident.

If they were content to leave her be, she would do the same for them in return. This was their desert, after all. Mehr was merely an interloper, as all humans were, on this land that belonged to sleeping Gods. If the daiva wanted to use their new strength to simply watch her, well then, that was their right.

The daiva finally acted when foolishness—foolishness and the force of habit—led Mehr to err.