She thought of Bhumika, pregnant and wed to a murderer, using everything she had to give a handful of orphans a modicum of life, and Ahiranya a modicum of stability. She thought of Rukh, who had thrown his lot in with rebels, who had rot-riven hands and no future to speak of. She thought of the Hirana. A heartbeat beneath her feet. Maybe wanting more than what she had was selfish. Maybe it was a mistake. But she thought of all she had suffered, and all Ahiranya had suffered, and felt the kernel of anger in her chest bloom open. “Yes,” she said. “Brother. I suppose I will.”
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