Malini stared at it. Then she looked at Priya. “I know something of medicine made of needle-flowers,” Priya said, voice quiet. Pramila, hovering by the door, was unlikely to have heard her. There was a message, in those brown eyes, in the way she held out the wine as if it were a gift instead of poison; as if it were something precious cupped between her palms. Trust me, her face said. That was the problem with making allies. At some point, inevitably, there came a moment when a decision had to be made: Could this one be trusted? Had their loyalty been won? Was their generosity a façade for a
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