“Never try to become a poet, Pri,” Sima said. She’d spent the day tending to the running of the mahal and was about as tired as Priya, but mellowed by liquor. She smiled a little. “I was a poet to her,” Priya said quietly, letting the confession slip free. “I . . . I wrote to her, you know.” “How is your empress?” “Who knows.” Priya shrugged. She suddenly felt a little exposed. Her face was warm. “But we’re not talking about that.” “You’re the one that mentioned her.” “Look, she’s—she’s not important. What matters is this, okay? I can’t fix a field,” said Priya. “Not of rot sufferers, I don’t
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