Through the shady trees, Natesa and Yatin bustle about. Brac, Mathura, and Chitt help them set up for tonight’s feast in celebration of the arrival of Princess Gemi and Datu Bulan, as well as Chief Naresh and Tinley. The lot of them flew in this morning. This is our first reunion since we left Samiya.

I was in terrible shape that day. I spent the entire flight back to Vanhi holed up in my cabin on the chief’s airship, refusing to see anyone except Indah for my healing sessions.

Somedays I wish I had never left that cabin.

Setting down the lime, I back out of the atrium before my friends see me and invite me in. I ascend the staircase down to the main entry hall. Before I make it out the main palace door, Indah calls to me. She and Pons catch up, their bundled newborn cradled in his big arms.

“How was your visit with your father yesterday?” I ask Indah. Admiral Rimba and his wife came ahead of the datu and princess to spend more time with their daughter and grandchild.

“Better,” Indah says, leading us into an alcove off the entry. “Whenever he’s grumpy, I pass him the baby. Little by little, he’ll accept our new family.”

I heard the admiral’s fit of temper while aboard the airship. He was none too happy about his daughter expecting a child out of wedlock, which evidently was more shameful to him than what Pons would experience from most Janardanians. Natesa told me later that he tried to wed Indah and Pons right then, in the air somewhere over northern Tarachand. But Indah would not allow her father to pressure her into a life-changing commitment like marriage before she was ready.

The three of us, or four, including the baby, enter the hushed chapel. Burnt offerings lie in ash on the stone altar, the scent of sandalwood in the air. The chapel has rarely been empty since our return. Natesa and I burn sacrifices every day for those who perished on the mountaintop. I spend more time here than I do my bedchamber.

Pons holds their swaddled infant out for me to see.

I peer down at her. “She’s already growing.”

“She’s twelve days old, and you haven’t held her yet,” Indah replies.

“Oh, I don’t think—” Indah extracts her daughter from Pons’s arms and places her in mine, and then pauses to see how I do with just one hand. I cuddle the sleeping baby snugly. “Have you decided on a name yet?”

“We chose Pons’s mother’s name, Jala.” For a moment, I thought Indah said Jaya. “Pons and I discussed it. We’d like you to be Jala’s godmother. I never told you, but when I was carrying Jala, I felt at peace around you. Perhaps that’s why I took to you, despite our being competitors. Odd as it may be, my feelings strengthened as Jala grew. Even seeing her with you now feels right. Look how happy she is. It’s as though she recognizes you.”

Tears burn behind my nose. I cannot say if this little soul is Jaya come to her next life, or her contentment with me is Indah’s imagination, but holding Jala does feel right. Nothing remains of the Samiya temple, but this little girl . . . she feels like home.

“Will you accept?” Pons asks.

“Of course.” Although they both forgave me for parching Indah, I have still wondered if such a violation could or should ever be forgiven. Their entrusting me with Jala’s welfare rids the last of my doubts, and I promise myself never to question them again.

The supper gong rings. Indah reaches for Jala, and I pass her to her mother. I will not wait another twelve days before I hold her again.

After I slip an incense stick into my pocket, I trail them out of the chapel.

“Are you coming to the feast?” Indah asks.

“I have something I need to do.” I pretend not to notice her and Pons’s frowns.

Indah gentles her tone. “Kalinda, you need to try to move on.”

At some point, all my friends have given me this advice. But they do not tell me what I should move on to. They just want to push me over a cliff and see where I land.

“Thank you for letting me hold Jala,” I say, and then resume my path out the front entry.

Palm fronds rustle beneath a quiet dusk. The palace gardens, recently restored to their prewar grandeur, are empty. Everyone is gathering for the feast. Natesa will spoil our guests with decadent dishes and desserts. She even arranged for dancers with bells on their ankles and wrists. My absence will disappoint them, but this is a happy occasion, and I cannot bring myself to fake a smile tonight.

My mother’s tomb lies between the two eucalyptus trees on a pathway lined with sweet- and fruity-scented marigolds. My fingers tremble as I trace the newly carved names on the door beneath hers.

KISHAN ZACHARIAS.

GENERAL DEVEN NAIK.

I skim the rough imprint of Deven’s name but feel only emptiness, as if the tomb were made of his body. When I awoke on the airship on the flight home from Samiya, my first question was: Who? Who washed ashore? Indah told me the Aquifiers brought back Ashwin, and then ice reformed over the lake, sealing off the gate. But I cannot accept that Deven is gone.

Pressing my palm over his name, I loiter on the threshold of the dead. The shadows around me deepen from dusky hues to inky velvet. I inhale their dewy scent. Nighttime has become my haven. I can be myself in the dark.

An awareness prickles up my arms. Someone is watching me. Maybe it is wishful thinking, yet I strain to see through the shadows.

“I like that you still wear trousers,” Ashwin says from behind me.

The sensation of being watched passes as I turn toward him. “You’re late to the feast.”

“As are you.” He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets. He is dressed in his finery for supper, a gold embroidered scarlet tunic jacket with a stand-up collar and matching turban. “Everyone is having a grand time. Chitt offered to train Brac for his position. I want him for my bhuta ambassador.”

“He’ll be perfect,” I say. Brac will ensure that all bhutas feel welcome in Tarachand, but also keep them in line. Recent squabbles have raised questions about how to enforce laws for those who misuse their powers. Bhuta children, especially, need proper rearing and training. I am certain that Brac’s first assignment will be to create a fair solution.

Ashwin swings his shoulders casually, searching for something else to say. “Natesa and Yatin asked to hold their wedding here.”

I do not believe his nonchalance. “They asked or you offered?”

“I may have suggested it. They don’t have much means, what with their inn opening soon.” Ashwin plucks a bloom from the neem tree and twirls it in his hand. “It’s odd to plan a wedding that isn’t mine. I’ve chosen four Virtue Guards but cannot commit to a single bride. The ranis and courtesans are growing restless waiting. I told them they can all stay . . . but there’s only one name I wish to announce as my kindred.”

“Ashwin,” I say tiredly, “it’s time that I step aside and let there be another.”

“If the role of the kindred is unappealing, be my second or third wife.”

“You know I cannot.” My duty to the throne ended when I vanquished Kur. “I’ll serve as your Burner Virtue Guard, though you really should choose one with two hands.”

He sobers some. “How is your sketching coming along?”

“Slowly.” I have sketched every day since returning to the palace, and have shown improvement, but my poor drawings are not much to boast about. “Ask Gemi to marry you, Ashwin. She’ll be a good wife, and your union will strengthen foreign ties.”

And as an heir, Gemi will understand Ashwin’s need to place the empire first, above even her.

“You’ve thought through all the advantages,” he says, tossing the flower aside.

“You know I’m right,” I reply in kind. “It’s time for you to marry. The empire needs ranis, and you’re ready.”

Ashwin skims his finger across my cheek. “I wish it could be you.”

“You’ll always place the empire first. That’s how it should be. But I . . . I have a different dream for myself.”

My attention strays to the shadows, to the sandalwood incense in my pocket, to the sketch in my bedchamber that I have been working on for a fortnight.

Ashwin takes my hand in his. “If you ever change your mind . . .”

“Thank you.” I squeeze his fingers lightly.

He releases me without any more provocation. “Are you certain you won’t join us? Yatin’s older sisters are going to recite tales of the gods.”

“That does sound divine, but I really am tired.” This is my customary excuse to reduce his disappointment in my absence or lack of interest about the happenings in the palace. “Please send our guests my regards.”

“I will.” Ashwin tucks his hands in his trouser pockets and strolls off.

I pick up the bloom he dropped and lay it in front of the tomb. “Good night, Mother and Father.”

By the time I return inside, the lamps are lit, and the aroma of rich spices from the feast permeates the corridors. The balcony doors in my bedchamber are closed, the room stifling. Asha has been busy as of late. She is apprenticing to become a healer under Baka. I kick off my sandals and open the exterior doors. A wind ripples the draperies. I remember a time when Deven and I cocooned inside them, tangled up and—

I stop myself before I cannot breathe, and I return to my bedchamber.

Parchment and charcoal sketches are spread out across my table. I light the lamp, casting a glow over the sketch on top. An intriguing portrayal, mostly finished, stares up at me. His angular jaw that I have grazed, sweeping cheekbones that I have cupped, full lips that I have kissed, and kind, resolute eyes.

His nose still is not straight. My left hand struggles with the evenness of the charcoal strokes that my right hand could once perform so deftly. It took me nearly three days to replicate the thickness of his eyelashes. But the effort must be put in.

The sketch will be of no use until his nose is correct.

I sit and try once more. Tiny trembles shake my left hand. The first line is wrong. I rub it clean and try once more. Then again . . . and again . . .