Malini turned her head and peered sidelong at Priya. She could not help herself. She could not offer Priya the position of a general of her army. She did not offer, and Priya did not ask. Their eyes met. The noise of the highborn arguing faded like mist. Priya raised a hand to her chest; a fist, curled against her heart. If Malini touched her own fingertips to the needle-flower on a chain at her throat—if she looked at Priya and felt helplessly thankful, grateful that she was here—then that was no one’s business but her own.
