Siddhartha was supposed to have arrived a few days before the election in November, but he had developed a fever and had to delay his visit until he was healthy enough to travel. That must have been some fever if it had taken two months to recover.

“I was hoping to meet him at the victory celebration,” Vansh said. He had been totally disappointed when Siddhartha had not shown up.

“It’s pretty amazing that he’s a finalist for the Goodall award,” Nisha said.

“Isn’t it? I can’t believe he’s a finalist again,” India said proudly. “He was a finalist seven years in a row but never won. Then he stopped entering. This year a friend entered him and he’s a finalist again. I’m not sure he’s happy. I don’t think he enjoys the attention and he doesn’t believe he’ll ever win. But I think this year is different. You have to see the picture that finaled. It’s amazing.”

India reached for her quilted backpack and took out a magazine. “He refuses to text or email his pictures. But he always remembers to mail us the magazines. We just have to wait for the mail, and these days that feels like the pony express.”

Vansh had never imagined India Dashwood could sound so gushy. She sounded like his sisters sounded when they talked about Yash.

India started to flip through the magazine until she came to a page with an eagle-like bird. The joint breath of every person in the room drew in as one. It was magnificent.

The bird’s plumage was almost bright red in the sun, and it made a stunning contrast with a head and breast of pure white. The thing that jumped off the page, though, was the obsidian, knowing depth of its eyes. When you looked closer you saw that it was perched on the rusted butt of an old cannon.

Even with that detail, it might have been just another well-taken photograph until you noticed a ring of dragonflies circling its proud head like a floating crown. Every one of them gasped at the sheer power of the captured moment.

Next to Vansh, Esha went utterly still. She reached for the magazine and took it from India, her face drained of color. Vansh had watched Esha have several seizures through his childhood. They were rarer now, and it had been a while since he’d witnessed one. She stood on unsteady legs, magazine clutched so tight it made her knuckles white, eyes glued to the page.

The moment hung on to itself.

No one moved.

Without a word, Esha turned and went into her room, magazine pressed to her chest, and shut the door behind her.

Nisha squeezed Vansh’s hand.

“I hope it was okay that I took out the magazine like that. I’m so sorry,” India said worriedly.