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“Enough,” Malini said. The men fell silent. Good. At least she had power enough still for that.
Come, she thought, and my sister and I will deal with you again.
Priya couldn’t lie to herself: Malini would do what was necessary to ensure her own success, even if it cost her Priya. She’d burned priests, people said. And Priya had thought of Malini’s face after they’d kissed in the forest—the fierceness in her eyes—and thought, She would. She would.
“I will not waste the lives of my allies, when they may yet be the death of my enemies.”
Her hair was wild darkness all around her shoulders, unspooled. You are like ink, Malini thought helplessly. Ink, and all I want is to make poetry of you.
She knew better than to say it. You do not confront a powerful man with his failures.
And this did seem—somewhat hopeless, didn’t it? Oh, they were in the shit.
Priya had saved her, as Priya always saved her.
“I barely understand it, the way I would willingly kneel for you, anywhere, for anything. The way I would fight for you. The way I want to be at your side. Is that what love is, Malini? Is that how awful love is? Because if it is, then I love you, the way that roots love the deep and leaves love the light. It’s—the way I am. And no matter how much I try to be good, to do right—I’m all flowers in your arms, for your war, for you—
Malini wanted to say—Your gifts are you and you are your gifts, I don’t love you in pieces, I don’t separate you into parts.
She did not want to love Priya the way Priya loved her—that devotion, that terrifying gravity that took a person to their knees. But some things were not in her control.
“I am capable of keeping myself safe,” she said quietly. “And if I can’t, I would be happier knowing that someone I trust remains behind, alive, to deal with the consequences.”
You want so much, and all I want is for you to have whatever you desire.
I will remember that we are not what is done to us. We are, and always have been, more than that.”
How can you look at me so tenderly, and ask me to die for you?
She cupped Priya’s cheek. Said nothing, as Priya whispered battle plans to her like they were love stories.
I’ve dreamt of naming you my own. My heart. My wife.”
Faith was submission. Faith was obedience to a higher power, a baring of the neck to a knife,
“You know nothing of true cruelty, Chandra. Perhaps one day I’ll teach you.”
She wanted to laugh. She did not laugh. Did not scream with the joy of it, either—the sudden lightness in her chest. The savage beauty of it.
Priya, she thought. Priya was not human at all. It was awful to still love her.
