“Whatever you gave me doesn’t live in that insipid flower,” Malini gasped, furious that she was crying, furious at the salt on her face, the way her heart hammered as she edged back, back, fighting Priya’s magical grip on her, as Priya circled her, the mothers’ fire flickering palely strange in the lamps, in the pit. “Don’t say it,” said Priya. “Don’t.” But it was too late. “It lives in me,” Malini said. Furious. “It lives in me, and you cannot take it.”
