Yash’s theory was that people rose to the levels you expected of them. Ashna wasn’t sure that was true; she was certain it wasn’t how recent political campaigns had worked. But Yash knew what he was doing, and he would only do things the way he believed they should be done, not in ways that would get him elected.

That was why she had the urge to shake anyone who didn’t get him. Definitely a terrible strategy.

“We’ll know when the right person comes along. Yash knows what he’s looking for,” Mina Kaki said with the kind of certainty that dissipated every iota of doubt in Ashna’s mind about the existence of such a paragon who combined strategic wizardry, ideological integrity, and the family’s nonnegotiable requirement: trustworthiness.

“Until then, I can totally handle it,” Nisha said, part bravado, part desperation. “So long as I don’t have to travel.”

“Only, you can’t run a gubernatorial campaign without running from district to district at the drop of a hat.” This from Esha. Such an uncharacteristic thing for their ethereal cousin to say that they all burst into laughter.

“What?” Esha said, her always peaceful face quirking with humor. “It’s time for Nisha to loosen the reins.” She patted Nisha’s hand when Nisha pouted. “Don’t worry. The person you’re waiting for is almost here.”

There, that was much more like Esha. All would have been well with the universe had Esha not reached over and patted Ashna’s hand too, as though the words were also meant for Ashna.

Chapter Five

As a child, Rico had always had a hard time with waiting. Patience had not been his best virtue. As an adult, he prided himself on his composure. He’d worked hard to harness his restlessness, focus it, and set an example of decency and grace on and off the pitch—a tribute to his father, whose sportsmanship was just as legendary as his football moves. Right now, however, waiting to get his cast off was making Rico so restless that he had visualized himself ripping it off with his bare hands more than a few times.

It had been just a couple of days since he’d been back in London, but waiting another day for it to come off felt like pure torture. If he didn’t stop pacing (okay, hobbling) around his flat, he was going to cut a trail in the floor. Kneading the knot at the nape of his neck, he made his way onto the balcony. Usually, the perfectly synchronous white facades of Kensington calmed him. Today, the sun was too bright, a complaint another Londoner might smack him upside the head for. He went back inside and held down the button that pulled the shades. They descended far too slowly.

My impatient baby. He heard his mother’s voice in his head.