Letting the cleaning service go a year ago had been an easy decision. It’s how she had avoided cutting Mandy’s salary or hours. Mandy, who thought there was a trust fund to cover all this. Well, that wasn’t how royal wealth worked.

The physical exertion of cleaning made Ashna feel alive.

The mosaic floors needed a good buffing, the velvet jacquard on the chairs was frayed in places, and the teakwood tables could use a coat of varnish, but as she wiped and scrubbed, everything got a little brighter and took on the familiar gleam of long-owned artifacts. New things were overrated anyway.

Baba had hand-selected every fitting and fixture to his exacting standards. Every little thing here was a handprint he’d left behind. With Bram Raje at the helm, Curried Dreams had been Palo Alto’s hottest spot, the Bay Area’s first fine dining Indian restaurant. Reservations had been a coveted prize, favors Ashna’s father handed out in his magnanimous Prince Bram way.

Ashna switched the vacuum cleaner off and wrapped up the cord. She refused to turn toward the half flight of stairs that led to Baba’s office, where she had found him in a rapidly growing pool of blood. If she let the darkness knock her down, who would keep Curried Dreams alive?

“What are we going to do?” she whispered to the beloved walls. She was all out of options.

A ping sounded in her ear, interrupting Alicia’s rapture over New York City.

We’re at the door. A text from her cousin Trisha.

In a mad dash Ashna put away the cart, rubbed rose-scented lotion into her hands to cover the chemical smell, and ran to the door.

It was just past midnight, but a visit after closing time from one of her cousins or her best friend, China, was a common occurrence. Everyone Ashna knew worked too hard and too late, and after all the restaurants in the area closed she was everyone’s favorite food source. She opened the door and found herself to be right twice over. Both China and Trisha pushed their way into the kitchen.

“We’ve been knocking for five minutes!” Trisha said accusatorially.

“You’re still here, thank God!” China added.

“Where else would I be?” Ashna headed for the fridge. “You hungry?”

They shook their heads. “We ate,” they said in unison.

Very strange. A midnight visit without a food agenda.

“We’ll take some tea,” Trisha said, even as she found Ashna’s cup and took a sip. “I can never drink chai anyone else makes. You’ve ruined me for substandard chai.”

Ashna smiled. Most people did murder tea. They didn’t understand how spices interacted with leaves and basically just threw stuff together and called it a blend. Some even had the gall to call it “tea” when there was no tea in it.