My mouth drops open. “That’s not fair. I didn’t steal anything.”
Iyla pinches the bridge of her nose. “Deven was going to get me out. He was going to protect me. You were supposed to kiss him, Marinda, and then I planned to tell him who you were, what you’d tried to do, so that he would take you down with all of the rest of the Naga. Instead you made him fall in love with you and ruined everything.”
“You wanted him to hate me,” I say.
She fixes me with a cold stare. “Someone should.”
My hands curl into fists. “Is that why you lied to him and told him I had you beaten?”
Her face is stony. “That wasn’t a lie.” I feel like she’s slapped me. She blames me for every time Gopal punished her, even though he was the one holding the whip. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should have done more to protect her. But then the full realization of what she’s done settles over me and sweeps away my guilt. She’s planned this for months—to escape at my expense. To have me captured by the Naga’s enemies and be…who knows what? Tortured? Killed?
The betrayal tastes bitter at the back of my throat. “Do you hate me so much that you wanted me dead?”
“Of course not,” Iyla says. And then after a beat, “Maybe. I don’t know.” She sighs. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I tried to turn Deven against you and it didn’t work. He loves you. And now you’ll be living in the house that was meant for me.”
I press a hand to my forehead. Of course. That’s why Deven had such a quick solution for my escape. He’d already prepared a place for Iyla in the Widows’ Village.
I don’t know what to say and so we keep walking in silence. It’s astonishing, really, that her hate for me was as strong as my love for her. My heart feels heavy with loss today. Worry about Mani is pressing at the forefront of my mind. And when I saw Iyla in the cavern earlier, I was so relieved—I thought she would help me cope. I thought I’d found my best friend again. But it turns out I lost her long before I knew I had.
“Deven doesn’t love me,” I say after a few minutes, because it’s true and because I think it will make her feel better.
She laughs humorlessly. “Yes, he does. When he saw me in the circle of Naga, he pulled me aside and told me to shove the cloak in my bag. I thought that he was trying to protect me from being discovered by the soldiers. I thought it was proof that he cared about me. But, no. He threatened that if I didn’t help you escape, he would let the Raja know that I was Naga and I would be executed. Once again, my life matters only if it can save yours.” Her voice breaks. She loves Deven. It didn’t occur to me until this moment that any of her feelings might be real. I think of seeing her kiss him that day in front of her house. I was so worried that he loved her, and now she’s afraid he loves me. But she doesn’t need to worry. Deven is only thinking of Mani. When he finds out that I killed his brother, he will want nothing to do with me.
“Why did you come back?” I ask her after a few minutes.
Her eyebrows draw together. “Come back from where?”
“From wherever you went when you ran. I went to your house. All of your things were gone.” I can’t quite keep the bitterness out of my voice. “You escaped without me.”
“I didn’t escape. Gopal moved me. He hoped it would draw you out. He thought that you’d come to him panicked and ask for help finding me. But you never did.” A look of hurt crosses her face. “I really thought you would, but you never did.”
Her comment makes me wonder how much of our anger toward each other is because we’ve been looking through a window in the dark instead of in daylight—we thought we were seeing each other, but it turns out we were only seeing ourselves.
Iyla and I name our cottage the Blue House, even though every other house in the village is blue too. It amuses us, and there is so little to be amused about anymore. Over the next few days we settle into a routine. Iyla cooks, and I do the dishes. The jobs suit us. Iyla can make even the most boring ingredients desirable, and I can’t get enough of plunging my hands into soapy water and watching the stains lift away. Washing dishes is like witnessing redemption over and over again.
The cottage is cozy—not as lavish as Iyla’s old house, but not as spare as the flat I shared with Mani.
When Iyla and I stumbled through the mountain pass, the widows greeted us with open arms and a conspicuous absence of questions. “You’re safe now,” one of them whispered as she led us to the cottage, and I wondered if we weren’t the first ones to seek refuge here. The women have taken us under their wings—spoiling us with home-baked treats, teaching us how to mend ripped saris and boil fruit with sugar to make a spread for chapati.
It’s like having three dozen grandmothers and is so far removed from my life as a visha kanya that it feels like a dream. The women say it’s good to have young people in the village, which always pinches my heart because it makes me think of Mani. They would love Mani. I examine their faces and try to figure out which one of them is Deven’s grandmother, which woman shares his crooked nose, or his dark eyes, or his chin. But age has erased their features and made them all look alike. I don’t dare ask questions. Even here, it isn’t safe to draw attention.
One of the younger widows, Vara, is teaching us how to grow our own food—how to plant the brinjal seeds two knuckles deep, how to water just enough to nourish but not to drown, and how the things that sprout first and most easily are the very things that, if not eliminated quickly, will destroy our efforts. More and more Iyla and I find ourselves out here with Vara, our hands buried wrist-deep in the soil, luxuriating in the silence. It such a hopeful thing—gardening—the faith that we’ll be around long enough to enjoy the harvest.
I’m holding a handful of earth in my palm when I hear the rumble of a caravan coming through the mountain pass. My fist tightens around the dark soil, but the harder I squeeze, the more it slips through my fingers. Iyla’s gaze finds mine and together we turn toward the south and the cloud of dust that is rolling into the valley. My first thought is of Mani—I haven’t heard from Deven since we got here, and so my mind is preoccupied with my brother every moment. There’s an empty space in my middle that aches like only emptiness can.
But the dust cloud belongs to a group too large to be Deven and Mani, which means it’s likely the Raja’s men.
I scramble to my feet and brush my palms against my sari. My chest constricts at the rush of disappointment and then fear. Iyla and I need to make a decision. Do we run? Or do we stand and face our fate?
Iyla’s eyes are wide as she fumbles for my hand—even after everything that has happened, we still reach for each other when fear tugs at us—but she’s intercepted by Vara, who pulls both of us into her arms. “It’s only a supply caravan, girls. Don’t be frightened.”
“A supply caravan?” I ask. “But couldn’t it be the Raja? Or his men?”
Vara shakes her head. “The Raja doesn’t visit here, janu. And neither do his men. But we do need deliveries of fabric and meat”—she dips her head toward our gardening supplies—“and seeds. You are safe here. I hope one day you’ll come to believe that and find some peace.”
But I’m not convinced that the Raja won’t come looking for us one day. And even if he doesn’t, I’m not sure peace is enough anymore.
I know I should be happy here, tucked away far from anything resembling my old life. A year ago I would have been. Escape would have been enough. More than enough. But something restless is stirring inside me, and every so often it sits up and stretches and I feel as trapped as ever. Now I long for freedom.
Weeks pass without word from Deven and I start to worry that he’ll never bring Mani back to me. And maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe Mani is safer without me. After what happened in the cave, I’m not sure my brother ever wants to see me again.
On my worst days I worry that Mani didn’t survive and Deven doesn’t know how to tell me. The thought makes me ill, and so I try to push it away, to think of Mani as vibrant and happy and living in the
palace like a prince. It’s a big upgrade from his purple cushion in the bookshop. The bookshop. I think of Japa often too.
Reminders of the Naga are everywhere—a glint of copper in sunlight, the hiss of the wind through the trees. And just today Iyla found a silver hair sprouting from the top of her scalp, long and shiny against the velvet black of the rest of her hair. She plucked it out and held it in her trembling palm. We both stared at it, wordless. Years and years of her life gone and we both blame me.
And so I decide to take Iyla to the first place I ever glimpsed what a different kind of life might look like. The first place I ever felt hope. I take her to the waterfall. The air is cooler than it was when Deven and I hiked here so long ago, and the trees are alive with hues of orange and red. I rub my arms for warmth.
“How much farther?” Iyla asks.
“I think we’re close,” I tell her. “Last time I came from the opposite direction, so I’m not exactly sure….” Just then we round a bend and there it is, every bit as beautiful as I remember.
Iyla and I sit on a grassy area near the edge of the water. This time it’s too cold to lie back with the sun in our faces, so we pull our knees to our chests to stay warm and I tell Iyla the legend of the waterfall. When I get to the end, where the maiden and the prince are in love but never see each other again because they are both too stubborn, Iyla sighs.
“It’s so sad,” she says.
When Deven told the story, I didn’t think it was sad. I thought it was romantic. But now I agree with Iyla. I think it’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard, and I’m not sure why I liked it so much. We sit in silence for a while, and I wonder if I’ll ever see Deven again. And I wonder if that’s what Iyla is wondering too.
I’m dozing on the sofa after our hike when I hear a knock.
“No more sweets!” Iyla shouts from the other room. Because we both know that is what awaits us on the other side of the door—a widow with jalebi or sandesh or sweet flour dumplings. I get up from the couch and stretch. I’m still rubbing my eyes when I swing the door open. And then my heart leaps in my chest.
It’s Deven.
And he’s brought Mani.
First I squeal. And then I cry. I gather Mani into my arms and hold him close to me. He’s crying too, and then he’s laughing, and I can’t imagine how we must sound to the neighbors. It’s not until I let go of him that I see it: his left arm is missing below the elbow. Mani sees me notice and I can feel him studying my face, measuring my reaction. I smile. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
He smiles back shyly, but there’s something guarded in his expression that wasn’t there before and it’s a splinter in my heart. “I’m getting used to it,” he says, lifting up what’s left of his arm. “I can do lots of stuff I couldn’t do a few weeks ago.”
My eyes are teary. “I’m sure you can, monkey.” I ruffle his hair. His complexion looks better than it has in a year. His cheeks are rosy and his breathing is effortless, just like breathing is supposed to be. “You look so healthy.” I pull him to me for another hug. “I missed you.”
Deven clears his throat. “I’m sorry it took so long,” he says. “He was pretty sick for a while there.”
Mani makes a face. “Deven made me eat maraka fruit at every meal. He even told the cook to add it to my bread.”
My eyes flick up to Deven. “Thank you,” I mouth. He nods.
Iyla steps into the room, and for an awkward moment no one says anything. It’s Mani who moves first, who circles his good arm around her waist and wraps her in a hug. My heart swells at his compassion. He had to have seen her in the circle that night in the cave, and even before that he was never very fond of her. I wonder if he sees her differently now that he’s witnessed the worst I have to offer. Iyla stiffens at first, and then a sob rips from her, a scratchy, feral thing that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. She hugs him back, her whole body shaking with sobs. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her cry. “I’m sorry, Mani. I’m so, so sorry,” she says.
“I know,” Mani tells her.
I prepare a thick stew for dinner, and we eat and talk. Mani tells us about his recovery and about all the new friends he’s made at the palace. Iyla and I fill the boys in on the village and our never-ending supply of dessert. Finally Mani’s eyelids start to droop, and so I take him upstairs and tuck him into bed. His eyes are closed before I make it to the door.
When I get back to the kitchen, Iyla has already gone to bed. And just like that, Deven and I are alone. He stands up and wraps his arms around my waist. “I missed you,” he says. And I missed him too, but there’s a lie between us and I can’t pretend there isn’t. I put a hand against his chest and gently push him away.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
He bites the corner of his lip. “Okay…”
I hold out my hand. “Come and sit on the sofa with me.” He slides his palm against mine and I try to memorize the feel of it, the warmth of his skin, the shape of his fingers. He sits on one side of the sofa and I sit on the other. I tuck my legs underneath me and stare at my hands while I try to find the words.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I gaze at his face for a moment before I answer. I want to see him one more time when he looks like this—all boyish and kind—before hate twists his features. And then I gather my courage and clear my throat. “Kadru—she’s the woman who made me a visha kanya—she told me something the last time I visited her that I think you should know.” His eyebrows pull together, but he just waits for me to continue. I wipe my palms on my thighs. I nearly tell him that I’m the only visha kanya, but the words stick in my throat. It’s dangerous information to risk the Raja discovering, that he could have stripped the Nagaraja of his biggest advantage just by killing me.
Not that I don’t trust Deven; I do. But he didn’t stop his father from imprisoning me, and the image of him standing there, horrified, as they took me away in chains still haunts me. I swallow hard and frame the thought as a question instead.
“What if I’m the one who killed your brother?” I stare at my hands so that I don’t have to see his face.
There’s a long silence, and I think he may have left. Then he asks softly, “Is that why you won’t let me touch you?” I meet his gaze, and my eyes fill with tears. I can’t speak, and so I only nod. Deven shakes his head. “You didn’t kill my brother, Marinda.”
“But I must have. Kadru said—”
“He was fifteen years older than me. I was only two when he died. You weren’t kissing boys as a baby, were you?”
“No,” I say. “I wasn’t.”
For a moment I just sit there. It’s a new sensation, discovering my innocence instead of my guilt, and I’m not sure where to put that knowledge—where it fits or what it means. Of all the horrible things I’ve done, I didn’t do this one. Some of the heaviness that’s been pressing on my chest for months lifts away. It’s not everything, but it’s something.
“I didn’t kill him,” I say, as if the words will make it true.
“No,” Deven says. “You didn’t. And you didn’t kill me either. You could have, and you didn’t.”
“No,” I say, “I really couldn’t have.”
Deven scoots closer to me and lays a hand on my cheek. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says. “And then I’m going to continue living and so are you.”
My heart skitters forward. Deven brushes his lips softly against mine and then pulls away and searches my face like he’s making an important decision. My cheeks are warm and all my limbs feel heavy and loose. Deven strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers, then he takes my face in his hands and kisses me again. And this time the kiss is passionate and soft and all-consuming. Something inside me trembles and then splits wide open.
I have kissed dozens of boys, but I have never been kissed. Until this moment I didn’t know there was a difference. I didn’t know kissing could be like this—like creating instead of destr
oying, like beginnings and not endings. Like melting. Like love.
The restlessness I’ve been feeling for months wriggles and expands in my chest. It takes shape—and it is hard and courageous and defiant.
Deven pulls away and trails his fingers down my neck.
“I want a meeting with the Raja,” I tell him.
Deven’s eyes widen as if that was the last thing he ever expected me to say. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he starts. But he must see something in my expression, something where the fear used to be. “Okay,” he says. “When?”
I lay my head on his shoulder. “Soon,” I say. “Tomorrow.” But for tonight I just want to stay right here—curled up in Deven’s arms and basking in the feeling of being loved, of Mani being safe, of being free.
It’s likely the last bit of peace I’ll have for a long time.
This time when I enter the Raja’s throne room, I’m wearing Iyla’s cloak. I took it from her satchel months ago, when we first arrived at the blue cottage. If she noticed it was missing, she never said anything. I don’t know why I did it. Only that it felt like it belonged to me and I was tired of people taking the things that were mine.
Deven warned me that wearing it to the meeting with his father was a bad idea. He was right, of course. When the Raja sees me, his face goes white with rage.
“How dare you?” he says. His hands are fists at his sides. “You escape from my prison, undermine my plans to apprehend the Naga with a half-baked rescue effort, and then have the nerve to show up here wearing a cloak of scales?” He motions to the guards. “Put her in chains,” he says.
But Deven holds up a hand. “Stop,” he says. The guards hesitate and look uncertainly between father and son. “Hear her out, Father.”
The Raja’s mouth twists. “You will not defend her,” he says. “You know what the Naga are, what they do.”
“But Marinda is not—”
This time the Raja’s words are a roar. “You will. Not. Defend her!”
Poison's Kiss Page 21
