“I’m dying anyway,” Priya added. “What does it matter?” I’ve served my purpose. “What indeed,” Malini said, in a voice that was too sharp by far. Suddenly she wasn’t sitting back against the tree trunk. She was leaning over Priya, gaze intent, something fierce in the curl of her mouth. That held Priya’s attention, even through the stupor of fever. Malini was often vulnerable, or cunning, or as blank as glass. But fierce? No. She was rarely that. “You don’t have to believe that I care for you, Priya. You only have to believe that I need you. And I do need you.” “You have the needle-flower. You
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