A/N: Welcome to the flashback within a flashback as we go back in time to the days when Priya Bloomsdale ran young and wild and free. This part contains Maxon slander that borders on some (tasteful) character bashing. If you are a Maxon stan, this chapter is not for you. Also trigger warnings for toxic relationships, infant death, and multiple levels of emotional abuse. Priya and Zachary Bloomsdale are NOT a love story, please do not try to find a soulmate like this.

A Hundred Summer Suns Part III

Four days ago, a small envoy from Illéa touched down in Jaipur, and so for four nights they partied. The festivities would continue so long as the envoy stayed, each night a celebration of music, food, and drink.

Tonight, the party was held in the Pink Palace. All the banquet halls were occupied, all patios and balconies and gardens full of laughter and entertainment. Dinner had long since been served and cleaned up, the hour well into the early morning. The sky turned the pale blue of pre-dawn, the stars winking out of existence as the sun creeped towards the horizon. That did nothing to stop the singing, the dancing. Small children ran around the dance floor of the great hall, sneaking between everyone's feet before they could trip and running trips to the bar for their parents. They danced their own circles in the spaces left between adults, too small for anyone else to fit, jumping out of time to the strings of the sitar while lovers spun round to a slow song.

Priya hated slow songs. She tapped her foot, impatient for the beat to pick up. Like the children, she had energy to expend that was better suited to shouting and jumping.

She had to be on her best behavior, though. Her mother, the Duchess, would be proud to see Priya standing so properly, shoulders high and nose tilted up, dressed in her finest sari of sapphire blue. Looks were easy to fake, though, and Priya was confident in her beauty. It was her tongue that was hard to stay when she saw a counselor get too handsy with his secretary, saw a servant steal a samosa from the tray and shove it down his pocket along with a woman's ruby bracelet, saw a member of her own family enjoying themselves a little too much.

So carefree, these men. So bound to their fickle whims and standards, she was.

Janki, however, was as carefree as the others. The privileges of being a princess, Priya supposed, though she did not hold that against her nearest and dearest friend.

"I love this song!" Janki cried, pulling on Priya's arm.

It did not matter how crowded the dance floor. It did not matter who saw or who judged them for being blatantly, drunkenly revelrous. Nothing could stop their dance.

They crossed their arms out in front of themselves, holding on to the other's hands as they spun as fast as they could. The rest of the room faded into a blur of color and smoke. Nothing stood out amongst the vortex save for Janki's blinding smile, her eyes screwed shut as they spun so fast they could be flying.

Janki let go too early.

Priya tripped and stumbled, squeaking out a warning to the man she was about to fall into. She didn't get a good look at him, all the colors of his face blurring into the wall, into the ceiling that was rapidly moving away the closer she got to the floor. The man was deceptively strong and caught her by the elbow, steadying her before her head hit the ground. His fingers were a vise, uncomfortable and pinching, yet she did not allow herself to move. Not on her own.

The stranger pulled her up to her feet, the colors of the room rushing by yet again. Priya stumbled - still dizzy, still drunk - and placed a hand on the stranger's firm chest to steady herself. The hand on her elbow still remained, fingers digging into her skin and turning it as white as his. A white hand trailed up a white arm to a crisp white shirt, until Priya had to elevate her gaze past a square jaw, sharp cheekbones, and the coldest blue eyes she had ever met. Those eyes held her in a trance, unblinking, unflinching. Just like his grip.

Why hadn't he let go?

"I am so sorry," Janki apologized, rushing over and taking Priya's other side, assessing the nonexistent damage, fretting over her like the mother hen she was.

"Who is your friend?" the stranger asked Priya in a voice that was more commanding than it had any right to be. He didn't spare a glance to Janki, didn't look anywhere but at Priya.

The way this man stared at her mouth, the way his eyes never deviated from the anticipated shape of her words...she wondered if he might kiss her. But then she blinked, breaking the eye contact, and the room stopped spinning. Colors came into sharp relief. The world righted itself. The stranger let go of her arm, finally, and Priya knew there would be bruises in the morning in the exact shape of his fingertips.

Janki's touch was sweeter, gentler, and far more fleeting. Like the kiss of butterfly wings against her skin. Priya hated the way it tickled.

"Zach! There you are! Making new friends, I see."

Another interloper came up and clapped a hand on the stranger's shoulder. Priya did not miss how the stranger flinched, how those cold eyes hardened further into icebergs until they melted just a fraction at the recognition of the voice behind it.

"I swear you call me that just to irk me."

"Of course I do. What are friends for?"

These men were not friends. Perhaps the King was too drunk to see it, or too starved of genuine friendship, but the man in his arms was no more a friend than a starving dog. And yet, this man let King Maxon laugh at his expense, let him pull him closer as if they shared an inside joke.

Then, King Maxon let the man go to turn his attention to Janki.

"Princess," he greeted with a flourish and a bow. He held a drink with one hand, likely not his first going by the flush on his face and the lack of buttons done up near his throat. Drinks weren't allowed near the dance floor, but it wasn't like anyone was going to tell the King of Illéa no.

Janki flushed as King Maxon took her hand and kissed it. She was so innocent like that. Everyone fell in love with her doe eyes and joyful face. Like a fairytale princess, the kind you read about in stories. No doubt she would be married by the next year to a man - a prince or a king - just like this. It was what she deserved.

"What should we call you, then, milord?" Janki asked, all good fortune and high spirits. She could not see the snake in men's clothing writhing in agony against the hold of his master. All she could see was a man too drunk for his title and a man too put out to have a good time.

"No title, Your Highness. My name is Zachary Bloomsdale." He gave a respectful bow, far more put together than the King's. Again, he spared only the briefest of glances to Janki but directed most of his attention to Priya. "I recognize you, Princess, from the day's proceedings, but your friend - "

"Cousin," Priya interjected, tired of being spoken of as if she were not there.

"Sister," Janki amended, taking Priya's hand and giving it a squeeze. Priya squeezed it back.

Zachary Bloomsdale looked confusedly between the two women, as did King Maxon. Privately, Janki and Priya both confessed to finding joy in confusing people about their relation. It was so much easier to say sister to describe the bond they shared - closer than any friend or confidante - yet remain faithful to the blood that ran through their veins. Priya would never be a princess, and Janki was meant to inherit the Earth, yet between them was a sisterhood stronger than any throne or power.

"Priyanka Anuradha Rajkumari Malhotra."

She did not offer her hand to kiss. She did not respect him with a bow. She did not want anything from this man other than for those cold, blue eyes to leave her in peace.

Recognition dawned, melting the man behind the ice a fraction. "The Duchess's daughter. Of course. I hear you are a formidable opponent in the courtroom."

"And I have not heard of you at all."

His expression darkened, hardened. Priya could not help but smile.

"You know, your English is remarkably good...given..."

Bloomsdale choked, a dribble of moonshine slipping from his lips back into his cup. Priya felt a surge of anger roll through, down her toes up her spine all the way to the tip of her tongue.

"Given what?" she challenged, too angry to be sweet. She was never good at gentle rage. She was a raging inferno, burning hot and fast as a flash. "Finish your thought."

"Given the circumstances," he said with an uncoordinated wave of his hand. He was far more drunk than he should be. White men never knew how to hold their liquor. "I mean, education in India isn't the greatest. Not many educated women out there, I take it. Except for you. Christ you're gorgeous - "

King Maxon reached out and tried to touch Priya's face. She slapped his hand away, sending it colliding into his drink so that the rest of it spilled down his rumpled button-down. The King and his man stood with mouths gaping like fish caught fresh from the line. Priya could not keep the feral grin from her face, rage displayed in the only way that was acceptable.

"Worry about your own women, Your Majesty."

.o.O.o.

Heather let out a snort.

Of course Maxon Schreave was a racist. Not a blatant one, but a subtle one. Her mother was a brave woman for calling him out, pride blooming in Heather's chest reading her snappy retort. She could imagine her mother's expression: brows high in alarm, eyes narrowed into slits while her white teeth poked out from behind a false smile. Heather had seen similar looks her entire life...usually before an ungodly fight broke out.

A pang of guilt kept the humor at bay, tainting memories with knowledge of hte future. Sure, Maxon Schreave might have been problematic, but that didn't mean he deserved to die. Heather still killed him.

That was your father's fault, she reminded herself, put the diary down, and breathed in deep.

.o.O.o.

The morning after the party was a sullen one. The skies had opened up before dawn, dumping a monsoon of rain on the city of Jaipur. The gardens were all but invisible behind curtains of rain, tree limbs whipping into the walls and scattering leaves in slick carpets across the balconies. There would be no chai on the patio, no afternoon sitar sessions or walks by the river.

Not that Priya was eager to do any of those things while their guests were still lurking about, watching.

"Did you see how that smug bastard just stood there, laughing?" Priya fumed, ripping her brush through her hair. "The nerve!"

Janki laid across Priya's bed, fiddling with the tassels of a pillow. She pulled on the golden string until it came loose, winding round her finger like a coiled ring.

"It was a difficult situation."

"I cannot stand Illéans. I'll be glad to be rid of them and their egos."

"Perhaps you are taking this a little too hard."

"I am holding the King of Illéa responsible for his sexist, racist assumptions about Indian women," Priya asserted, poking the brush at Janki. As usual, her sister was too easy on people, never holding them accountable for their actions. She was too quick to forgive and forget, something Priya never could. They balanced each other this was, tempered each other. "Just because the rest of this country lacks the balls to stand up to that immature, playground bully doesn't mean I will tolerate such abuse."

"Or, King Maxon was drunk and didn't realize what he was saying."

"A drunk tongue is an honest tongue. No excuses, sister."

Janki sighed, defeated.

"Very well. If mother asks, I cannot say I didn't try." Janki got up from the bed to stand behind Priya at the vanity. She took the brush from Priya's hands and placed it on the table top, delicate hands going atop Priya's bare shoulders. Her skin was soft and warm, like her dark eyes which held a plea for mercy. "Please tell me you won't make a scene in Council?"

"Of course not," Priya said with her sweetest smile, lying through her teeth. She planned on dragging Maxon's good name through the mud before burying him six feet under his own narcissism.

"With that attitude, how do you ever expect to find a husband?"

Reflected in the mirror was Priya's brother, Rahul, standing in the doorway. As always, he wore clothes two sizes too big and had a mustache that was in desperate need of shaving, a dead ferret upon his upper lip. A desperate bid to appear more a man than a child, to appease a father who died too soon and too strangely. India would be well and truly fucked the day he took the throne. The buffoon was about as antiquated in his beliefs as a steam-powered engine and as eloquent as a circus monkey.

Rahul had been at the party, of course. He had lurked around the corners and kissed the cheeks of all the aunties who peppered him with compliments, squealing, "look how handsome you've grown!" Priya had felt his judgmental eyes on her the whole night through, just as she did now.

"Gods have mercy on me if my only goal in life is to tie myself to a stranger in marriage."

"Lord Subramani has taken interest in you."

Priya whirled around to face her cousin, shocked at the notion that the most pretentious, antiquated, oppressive nobleman in the court wanted to pursue her.

"It's true. I saw his eyes on you the whole night through," Janki confirmed, an apology in her tone.

"You would be wise to entertain him."

Just the thought of spending time with the man made Priya's skin crawl.

"I would sooner entertain a pack of rabid wolves. After all, that is what he reminds me of with all his ranting and raving in council."

"Do you ever know when to shut your mouth, cousin?" Rahul droned, obviously annoyed.

Priya smiled. "I only open it when you say something stupid, cousin."

"Heather!" Janki cried, swatting at Priya's shoulder. "The council is waiting on a response. Heather!"

.o.O.o.

"Heather! Earth to Heather..."

Heather blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the light streaming through the council chambers. For the first time in her recollection, all the eyes of every fat old nobleman were fixed on her. Of course it was for something as embarrassing as daydreaming.

"Sorry, I - "

Daydreaming wasn't the right word. More like hallucinating her mother's diary, picturing how things would have gone down. Priya's words were so descriptive, so lifelike and visceral that it was hard not to get sucked in, especially for someone as starved as Heather. Her entire life, her mother was a mystery, and now she was allowed this unfettered access into Priya's deepest darkest thoughts. It like giving drugs to an addict.

Heather might have gotten three hours of sleep last night, and obviously it was showing through her thick layer of foundation.

"Everything okay?"

From his throne of lies, Rahul smirked. He didn't even pretend to care about her wellbeing, his question full of thinly-veiled smugness.

"Fine. I'm fine."

"We were talking about redistricting. For your caste project."

"Right. The project."

The project was important. The future of India's lower classes depending on her sorting the mess out. But right now, the caste system was the furthest thing from her mind. Her mind, and everyone else's. Chuckles erupted out around her, and then came the whispers. The comments in Hindi and Farsi and a dozen other dialects they thought she couldn't parse together.

Silly girl. Bastard. Outsider. Just like her mother.

Lord Subramani was one of those voices; she could hear his raucous laughter, his smoke-rough voice from across the room. This man, who her mother was intended to marry and likely never got over the slight so now felt it his mission to tear down her daughter. It was laughable, how so much time could pass and how someone could main so terribly the same.

And Siddhartha sitting there by his father's side, doing nothing. Was Heather bound to be stuck in the same cycle?

"Perhaps you need more time to reconsider your options," Rahul suggested, stroking across the anemic smattering of fur he passed off as a mustache (some things never changed). "I am aware I have asked a lot of you in a short period of time. It is understandable that you are not able to deliver. Besides, we all have much more important things to discuss, such as the rani's funeral and my coronation."

More chuckles and snickers from the peanut gallery. As if they had anything better or more worthwhile to contribute. As if they lived for doing anything other than judging every single person with a thought outside the norm.

Heather didn't have the patience nor the will to sit through another minute. She gathered her things and left.

.o.O.o.

A cold and stormy morning bode bad omens for the council session that day. The first official day of negotiations and no parties was bound to be a raging failure if everyone's good mood was drowned out by the rain. Thankfully (unfortunately) for everyone, Priya thrived off of the misfortune and chaos of hungover men.

She was the only one with half her wits collected, awake and studying the documents provided. Even Rahul looked a little glassy-eyed, nursing coffee instead of chai. Coffee that was likely spiked with brandy to ease the pressure on his frayed nerves. Poor baby didn't do well when his beauty sleep was stolen from him.

Too soon, the room was filled with idle chatter and soft voices, groans and yawns, none of the usual boisterous sounds of a council session. Some week of partying indeed to knock nearly every lord on his ass - the visitors as well. She surveyed their green faces, their eyes lined with bruises. Even King Maxon was looking a little peaky, his tie hanging slightly crooked and his watch on the wrong wrist.

Next to him, someone went to adjust that tie, and Priya nearly lost her grip on her teacup.

It was the cold man from the party, the one with painful grip and piercing blue eyes. Zachary Bloomsdale.

Or, at least Priya thought it was him.

He was different now. Instead of the coldness of a viper, her showed the warmness of the Rani's most agreeable dogs, smiling at all the right moments and shaking everyone's hands without leaving indents in their palms. It was unnerving to pick up on the cadence of his voice as he introduced himself to all the men, his tone light and friendly, always a step behind King Maxon.

Of course the king would remember her. As soon as he came to her, his smile faltered. A small misstep, but one Priya picked up on with the sharpness of a hawk. She executed a perfect curtsey, a pleasant smile, but as their eyes met she made sure her communicated she remembered every detail of the night before. She would not let the King of Illéa get away with any more racist bullshit. Not in her council chambers.

She expected much of the same from Bloomsdale, but instead of surprised familiarity, he feigned ignorance. He took her hand in his - now softer, gentler - and placed a kiss to her knuckles as a true gentleman would. She snatched her hand away, bewildered. This did not faze him, did not offend him. He merely smiled - more a smirk around the edges - and moved on to the next person.

Blood roared in Priya's ears. Was she living in the Twilight Zone? Had she met this man's evil twin the night before, the one who looked as though he could burn the whole palace to the ground and leave without a moment's hesitation. The man before her now was so different, so easy where the man from the party was rigid. Perhaps it was because he was out of his element, but even unfamiliar circumstances could not change a man so completely.

No, whoever she was looking at was a chameleon. A panther in sheep's clothing. Something dangerous and deadly lurking in their halls, not to be underestimated. How lucky the King of Illéa was to have this man as ally and not adversary, as he was ignorant to the creature he kept close, and Priya was fairly confident the creature was his true form, not the charming politician swaggering about the room.

"Shall we all take our seats?" King Maxon suggested.

"We will wait for the Rani to sit first," Priya said primly, enjoying rubbing the cultural lapse in to highlight his ignorance.

"Then it is a good thing I am here," Riya announced as she walked into the room, all heads bowing in her direction.

She took her seat at the head of the room atop her mountain of piled cushions and everyone else followed suit, some more gracefully than others. It pleased Priya to watch King Maxon struggle, to nearly trip on his shoelaces on the way down. Infuriatingly, Bloomsdale was just as graceful as his snakelike nature, coiling into a cross-legged position in one fell swoop.

Priya swept her skirts aside and let the servants pour her chai, which she drank in a rage. She needed to figure out Bloomsdale's angle before he sunk his fangs in too deep. She had already read the dossiers a dozen times, finding holes and gross oversteps within their paragraphs. There was much to be addressed, but she was no fool. There was always more. These people, these white men with their fine suits and cocky attitudes, they always wanted more than they could chew.

"Now, if we could turn our attention to page one..."

Ah, Priya knew this page well, had already marked it in red pen and circled the necessary figures. She smiled and gulped down the dredges of her chai. Time to get to work.

If these angrazees wanted something from her country, they would have to bleed for it.

.o.O.o.

"Wait!"

Heather turned to find Siddhartha running after her. Like, full blown hair to the wind and sweat down the forehead running.

He stopped before her, hands on his knees.

"We are making a habit of this: me chasing you down halls."

"So do not follow me."

"We still have not set a date."

"Excuse me?"

"In your schedule. To collaborate on the project." He frowned, his brow furrowing in the most annoyingly endearing way. "You do remember that we are now partnered on your crusade to abolish the castes."

"Believe me, I've tried to forget."

Something of a nightmare, if she were being honest. This whole week had been, the ruination of her pet project only a tiny sliver of the shit cake.

"I would also like to give my condolences. Formally. For the loss of the rani."

"Thank you."

"If you need anything, anything at all, I'm here for you."

He reached for her hand and she let him take it, too tired and too outside her own mind to process why that was a bad idea. His hands were large and warm and slightly calloused. They chafed against hers, covered them entirely until she could not see her hands at all. And he was steady, not a tremor in a single muscle while Heather was sure she was shaking apart.

"Here for another booty call then?" Heather joked rather meanly, flinching as he did but she didn't take it back. "They say grief is a hell of an aphrodisiac."

"I'm serious. I'm worried about you." There was that adorable little furrow again. It made Heather want to punch him. Or scream obscenities. Or both. "No one expects you to show up to meetings. Rahul has to because he's the raj. Not even your uncles are - "

"I have to do this. I have to be here. If I'm not then... "

"Then what?"

Too many things to explain. Too many feelings wrapped up in each other to pick out and examine. She could say something about her insecurity, her lack of purpose, her unstable housing situation. There were a great many reasons for her to feel the need to stick this out, to show up when she wasn't wanted. To make sure no one forgot about her like they did her mother.

But where was the time to explain all that to a man like Siddhartha? A man who didn't know her six months ago and would likely never know her beyond the council chambers. A man who would be expected to court and marry a nice, not fucked up Hindu girl and make nice, normal Hindu babies to inherit his title. She was a passing fancy, a thorn in his side, a project to undertake. He didn't like her. He didn't really care. He couldn't understand. No one ever did.

She took her hand back, let his hang limp between them, a wilted olive branch.

"I'll text you about the date."

.o.O.o.

"That was a rousing debate."

"Was that what that was? More like a slaughter."

"I know when I am right. It is you who does not know when to relent when you are wrong."

"You were right? You are aware that treaties are meant to be a compromise. How do you expect us to sign anything when you won't budge an inch?"

"I will not give India away to colonizers. We did that once, to Britain. Never again."

"You have to give us something. Some kind of incentive to protect you from New Asia."

"Bold words from a man whose country only just got out from under their thumb."

"I don't want to debate this anymore."

"I don't believe you."

"Fine. I like arguing with you. I like making you angry, and I think you like making me angry too."

"You infuriate me."

"The feeling is mutual. Let's discuss it over dinner."

"I'd rather starve."

.o.O.o.

Heather moved the peas around her plate, letting them grow cold as she flipped the pages of the diary.

She was already half way through, immersed in her mother's world of politics and romance that looked scarily like her own. As if nothing had changed, only they had. This palace, the features Heather could pick out from the entires: the halls where Priya and Janki liked to run, the fountain where Priya and Zachary shared their first kiss, the council chambers where they debated with the same chips in the parquet. It was haunting, seeing her mother's ghost around every corner.

There were so many secrets here, so much history in the walls and ceilings and floors. Heather needed to excavate it all.

"My my, someone is busy," Hemali sing-songed, flicking a pea with expert aim into Heather's forehead.

That finally caused Heather to look up. Both Hemali and Ananaya were staring at Heather, bemused and curious. Heather flicked the smashed pea off the pages before the juices could stain the old ink. Ananaya leaned forward, trying to peek over the pages.

"Whatcha got there?" she asked.

"None of your business."

"Is it one of those dirty books that Mama reads?" Hemali asked, her eyes alight with something naughty.

"It's not porn," Heather scolded, both girls laughing at the vulgar word. Or, at least Heather hoped things didn't get that graphic. If she stumbled upon her parents doing the deed in written word, she might have to burn the pages.

"Whatever it is, it must be good. You've scarcely even breathed since you sat down."

"Or eaten." Hemali eyed the perfectly tender lamb, the curried rice now gone cold. "Keep this up, cousin, and you will be nothing but skin and bones."

Heather wanted to tell them that she was nearly busting out of all the clothes she brought from Illéa thanks to all the hospitality since she'd arrived, but she kept her mouth closed. She scooped a bite up with naan and made herself chew, careful not to stain the pages with sticky fingers. Cheeks full, she bared her teeth and Hemali, who merely sighed and shook her head.

"Hopefully you'll be finished by the weekend," Ananaya said, sopping up the last of her curry. "Naina is coming back from her honeymoon and I want to hear all about it."

Was it that time already?

"Oh, I hope she brought us back something good!"

"Like she is even thinking about us," Ananaya scoffed, a conspiratorial lift to her lips. "She has much bigger things on her mind."

Hemali squealed and threw naan at her sister. It made a remarkable trajectory right to the center of her face. Squeals turn to laughs which turns into a food fight, bits and pieces flying past Heather's face.

She registered none of it, already buried in the past.

.o.O.o.

Late at night, Janki lay with her head in Priya's lap, a long comb raking through her dark tresses. Priya was careful not to let the comb catch on any knots. Janki had long hair - one of her most prized features - and would kill Priya if she were to yank a chunk clean off her scalp.

"I do not trust that man."

"Oh?"

"He scares me. His words are so vicious."

"You should come to council some time, hear how he talks in session. It is unlike anything I have ever seen."

Like a storm rolling over the sea, dragging up waves to create a great monsoon, unaware of the destruction it was about to wreak. Or terribly aware. So much of Zachary Bloomsdale was so carefully controlled, but the moment he let his passions take over he became something else. Something elemental. Something that drew Priya in close and made her want to push his buttons. Push him over the edge.

There was a satisfaction to it - making him undone. The way his face reddened with each escalation in volume. The way he had to stand in order to catch enough breath to make his voice carry. The way his fists clenched pale white at his sides, the only way he was able to keep them there.

"I have seen that kind of behavior before."

Janki's eyes fixed themselves up towards Priya's face. Priya did not have to look down and meet that dark, teasing gaze to know that Janki referred to Priya, herself. It was remarkable how similar she and Bloomsdale were. Scary, even. Like twin flames born of the same spark.

"The rani seems to like him."

"She admires anyone who is willing to fight. If she were younger, I am sure she would challenge him to a duel."

"She may challenge him now." Priya grabbed a bottle of jasmine oil and dripped some carefully into Janki's hair, dark strands shining as she worked it from the scalp down. "The rani is strong. Mother says she will reign as long as the gods."

"Then the country is in good hands. As much as I love Rahul, could you imagine him on the throne?"

"I shudder at the thought."

The girls devolved into a fit of giggles.

.o.O.o.

Heather stared up at the ceiling, watching shapes and colors from in the corners of her eyes, her mind whirling.

Sleep would never come, not like this. Not with so much to think about. Not with the allure of the diary sitting on her bedside table. Heather was getting used to these nights, nights of sleepless, restless, unending hours. Sleep was her enemy ever since the rani died - earlier, if she were honest with herself. It was a relief to have something to distract her, something to pass the time.

Giving up on rest, Heather sat up, thin linen nightgown slipping from her shoulder, and reached for the diary. Once her fingers grasped the buttery leather, the old musk of the pages, the agitation under her skin calmed.

The spine crackled as Heather opened the diary, silk ribbon marking where she had left off. There was so little left, no more than a handful of pages, and yet it felt like Heather had spent so little time in her mother's world. She was greedy for more.

Before she could finish the first sentence, there was a knock at her door.

Carefully, she marked her spot and put the diary down. Its siren song beckoned her back even as she walked towards the door. She pulled a shawl from off the back of her vanity chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. Funny how careful she was to mind her modesty now, something she had rarely thought about in Illéa.

On the other side of the door Siddhartha stood with his hand poised to knock again, a look of shock on his face as if he did not expect her to respond.

To be fair, Heather's face was likely a matching mask of surprise. She had expected Hemali or Ananaya seeking comfort from a nightmare, or Janki with more explanations. Hell, maybe even Rahul to threaten her into a midnight escape to rid himself of her presence.

"What are you doing here?"

"Uh, you said you'd text."

"About the booty call?" Heather rolled her eyes. "I was joking."

"Oh." More surprise washed over Heather as she watched his genuine disappointment. "Well, then I'll just go..."

He turned back towards the hall and Heather was met with even more shock at the sinking feeling in her gut. She didn't want him to go.

"Don't." He turned back around, one brow arched in a way she was sure he copped from her. "I don't want...that. But will you stay anyway?"

There was no hesitation when he said, "Okay. I'll stay."

.o.O.o.

Priya didn't know how she got here.

One moment she was fighting with Bloomsdale - always fighting with voices raised and arms flailing, violence always a hair's breadth away - and the next she was pushed up against the desk, pencils flying and papers falling to the ground in unorganized messes. He kissed her and it only made her hate him more. It had taken her hours to file those papers correctly, their order specific to their importance and now they were all shuffled together.

Unimportant.

Nothing mattered except the man in front of her, on top of her, pulling at her clothes as if they offended him. And perhaps they did, seams ripping as he got to the skin of her shoulders, her breasts. Breath punched from her lungs, stars blooming behind her eyes as he kept going down, kept exposing more and more skin, her skirts pooling to the ground around her feet.

"I hate you," she hissed, gooseflesh prickling behind his ear.

Teeth sunk into the column of her neck hard enough to hurt. Priya cried out in pain, in the pleasure of knowing it would leave a mark, in knowing now that she said something, he would never let go.

"You should have conceded to the neutral zones."

"You should fuck yourself." Nails raked down his spine, pulling at the lapels of his jacket - perfectly pressed. "The rani would never - "

"The rani was going to do as I suggested until you - "

"Until I reminded her who we are and what we stand for."

Lips on her jaw nipped at her skin. He'd leave a mark. Bastard. "Instead you cost your people more."

"I'll get it all back tomorrow."

She pulled away long enough to see his pupils consume his eyes, not a trace of ice blue. Those black, fathomless depths were hypnotizing, filled with a hunger she felt in her own gut. A hunger and a fire she just had to stoke.

Jacket hit the floor, and it was easy enough to get her hands on his buttons. One by one, so slow and careful a takedown. Driving him madder and madder.

"How does it feel to have all your carefully crafted plans come falling down?"

"Shut up."

Fingers on her hips tightened. Just yesterday, that hand was around her throat, making her see stars.

"How does it feel to lose?"

He snapped, and his fist went flying into the wall right next to Priya's head so hard it broke the plaster. White dust and chips of paint fell onto Priya's cheek, puffed in the air like clouds of smoke. When Bloomsdale pulled his hand away, his knuckles were coated in grime and bleeding. His hand shook but nothing looked broken. He started to laugh, and Priya's throat closed.

"Look at what you do to me," he said, hysterical. His eyes lit up with something unhinged, something dangerous.

Priya's breaths came quick and sharp, her heartbeat fast as a rabbit's. She knew what she felt like: prey, trapped. But Bloomsdale never lost his smile, his eyes so clear and blue - blue with a hunger that had nothing to do with her - it was impossible to look away, impossible to run.

He leaned in to kiss her, vicious with his love, and she knew it was safer to let him carry her away.

.o.O.o.

Heather was surprised to wake with the sun. Not before it, not with dark circles under her eyes from hours of missing rest, but with it. Rested. Well.

Grains of sand itched at her eyes. When she went to wipe them away, she felt a heavy weight holding her arms down. It wasn't scary, wasn't binding, easy enough to move. By her side, Siddhartha lay with his head tucked under her chin. His weight was a warm one, the soft cotton of his shirt pleasant under her fingertips as were the coils of his hair, the stubble of his chin against the sensitive skin of her throat.

Kaden had laid with her like this, once. The memory was fuzzy, tinged by fear and sadness and too much champagne. She remembered bits and pieces: soaking rain, broken china, and warm damp arms around her, grounding her when she felt like she was flying away.

Her next breath was sharp with the pain of the past. It was hard to think about without thinking about the what if's. Without thinking of the texts she'd been ignoring, the number she had yet to block. Childish, she knew, but what else could she do? She wasn't sure if she was over him yet, wasn't sure if she'd ever be over what happened during the Selection. Those events changed her forever.

Just as meeting Bloomsdale changed her mother.

The diary still sat where Heather left it on the bedside table. Siddhartha was still fast asleep on her chest; he may sleep for hours more. Plenty of time to read.

.o.O.o.

"You are acting foolish."

It was Janki's voice that startled Priya out of her thoughts. She stood in the doorway, hesitant to come in. Strange behavior from someone who so often shared her bed as a girl, hours spent curled up on the mattress Priya now lounged across, their bodies tucked against one another as they traded giggles and secrets. But Priya did not recognize this Janki. Since when had her sister become a stranger?

"Foolish?" Priya repeated, sitting up. "I do not follow."

"Do not play dumb. You and the Illéan politician. The king's man."

Priya winced. It was not that she meant to deceive her beloved sister, it was that she knew this was how she would react. How everyone would react. They were such a sheltered bunch, such a traditional family. It was better to keep things secret. Better no one knew. But it was too late for secrets. They bled between Priya and Janki, open like a wound, hemorrhaging too heavily to be saved.

"He is his own man."

"See, this is what I mean. You are too close to him, too involved."

"I would think you'd be happy, making allies instead of scaring them away."

"Except the talks are ending. The treaties have all been signed. And we all know there is more to it than that."

"All?"

Priya's heartbeat ticked up with the lilt of her question.

"The servants gossip. Mother has caught word. I worry."

"Do not worry about me. I have never once needed protecting."

"Yes but your name can only go so far. Once your reputation is ruined - "

"Oh so now talking to the foreigners is cause to ruin my reputation?"

Priya knew anger was not the answer, but it was hard not to take offense at words unspoken. Anger would only make the situation worse, and this was not Janki's fault. But anger was all Priya knew; it was all she had been taught. To argue was to survive. To set aflame, to cause a scene, was to be seen.

Priya saw Janki now: jaw set, cheeks red, eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"Ay, Ganesha!" she cursed "Rahul caught you kissing!"

All anger fled, replaced with sinking dread.

"What?"

"Soon enough, the whole court will know the two of you have been sneaking around." Janki breathed in heavily, her own anger dwindling to sadness. "You can see how this looks badly upon our family."

"Perhaps it is time the family changed."

"Are you mad? This family?" If she weren't so shocked, Priya imagined Janki would laugh. "What nonsense has he put in your head?"

"Nothing! They cannot command who I can and cannot see."

"Except they can." Janki looked out the window as if she were looking for something. Someone. "Rahul has called for his banishment and mother agreed. Once the King of Illéa has left, his man is no longer welcome back on our soil."

"All this to control me?"

The thought was abominable. Laughable. Like something out of a movie set three hundred years ago. Priya felt as though she were caught in a bad dream, the walls of her home turning into the walls of a prison.

"All this to keep this family safe." Janki rushed forward and took Priya's hands in her own, imploring. "You nearly cost us our treaty by engaging with that man. He embarrasses us by seducing you. It is a game none of us wants a part of."

"None of us?" Priya yanked her hands back, burned. "You are against me as well?"

"I have only ever wanted what is best for you."

"What could you possibly know about what is best for me?" Tears smarted at Priya's eyes. She found it hard to breathe, her head spinning. Without thinking, her hands fluttered to her newest secret: the subtle swell of her stomach hidden behind layers of lehenga. But Janki was observant. Her eyes tracked every move, and widened. There were no secrets between them, not even this. "I am pregnant."

"I...I did not - "

"Had you asked, I would have told you. You did not, and instead you send the father of my child across the world to keep him from us."

"Rahul - "

"I do not give a fuck what Rahul thinks!"

"Then perhaps you care what your sovereign thinks."

Riya entered the room with the grace and gravitas of a wrecking ball.

Immediately, both girls dropped their heads in respect. In that moment, Priya would have fallen to her knees if only to avoid the shame she felt radiating from Riya. It was enough to choke her, drive the fight from her entirely.

"Had you asked me for his hand, I might have considered. But this? You have embarrassed this family, this nation, and this treaty by parading yourself around as a common whore. Do you think these people will forget? You are the daughter of a Duchess! You carry a title! You are supposed to be better than this!"

Each word sliced like a knife. It would have been kinder had Riya simply stabbed her.

"Rani - "

"Guards!" Riya cried, her orders echoing down the halls. "Guards! Take this wretched thing back to her rooms and keep her there."

The hands on Priya's arms were cold and firm, leaving no room for negotiation. They did not care they touched royalty. They did not care so long as the rani did not, and there was no love left in those dark, flinty eyes.

"For how long?"

"For however long it takes to wipe this stain away."

.o.O.o.

Nausea rolled through Heather in waves.

She had finished the diary - cancelling meetings and shutting herself in her room - had read the last few sentences with rabid eyes, and then thrown the whole thing against the wall as it ended abruptly. With exile. With imprisonment. With so much injustice. It wasn't fair. That wasn't how the story ended. Heather was the proof of that.

She needed more.

There were letters, letters Heather had discarded and shoved in a drawer upon seeing her father's handwriting. It was one thing to open wounds up with her mother's name on it, another completely to allow anything from that man into her life. But there was no choice now. She needed answers.

The letters were love letters. Poetics waxed through secret code and metaphor in case they were intercepted. Completely one-sided from her father's perspective. As if he expected them to be read and never delivered. Burned maybe. It was sad in a romantic way. Insane and possessive in a psychological way.

Heather knew now that her father was both. That was what made him so dangerous.

There was only one reply - no post mark, never sent. It rocked her to the core, so much so she had to read the simple paragraph three times before the words sunk in.

The dates didn't add up. Nothing made sense.

Nausea pushed Heather up and out of bed, scrambling for a light. Nighttime had fallen, the halls dark and shrouded. She had missed dinner, her whole world shifting as she realized how dehydrated she was. Her stomach clenched and growled. Vomit was close on her tongue, but she held it back.

She could be sick later.

Heather ran through the palace like a mad woman. She knew where she was headed, knew which room she wanted, but in the haze of hunger everything looked the same. The courtyards ran together. The stairs seemed an insurmountable height. Servants passed and gave her wide berth. One stopped and offered to escort her back to her room, but she pushed past him, unhearing, unseeing.

Drunkards were more graceful, but everyone already thought the worst of Heather. Even if it was unfounded. Even if it was wrong. Even if the cause of all her family's pain, her taboo reputation, was standing right in front of her.

"I didn't die."

The words were out Heather's mouth before she could stop them, before she could rearrange them into an ironclad argument. But Janki was not a politician. She needed no fancy words. Only the cold, hard truth.

"Pardon?" Janki's smile was blinding, a mask to dazzle the aunties around her, all likely coming from a late-running dinner. The mood was light, airy, and full of life. Heather was loathe to ruin it, but she had to. This was too important.

"I didn't die."

Janki's face fell, her skin blanching until all the color was leeched from her, lively as a corpse. She shooed off those who had followed her, their footsteps scattering into the night along with their conspiratorial voices. No doubt, they ran to spread rumors about the forlorn foreigner cornering their beloved princess in the cloisters. Another late night secret to keep between the women and the walls.

They stepped towards each other, pulled in by gravity. Janki moved like a ghost, skirts swishing around her ankles. Her anarkali suit was impeccable, pressed and peachy pink with fine gold detail. Such a vibrant outfit for someone in mourning, but then again, royalty always had its different rules. Heather, in contrast, wore a simple white night gown. A specter in her own right. The lantern in her hand did nothing to detract from the image. If anything, she felt like she was the protagonist of one of her favorite Bollywood movies.

Lantern light cast long shadows across the walls, the halls, their faces. It was so hard to tell what Janki was feeling, but Heather could see the shine of tears. That spoke volumes enough.

"I don't understand." Heather felt small as a child clinging to her auntie's skirts, desperate for some semblance of the familiar. "I didn't die when I was born. I was healthy. Mom talked about how she cried when she held me. Was all that a lie? Was she told I was dead and had to find me later? Was Dad kept from me?"

"You're right. When you were born, you are happy and healthy and whole."

"Then why did she say such terrible things?"

Zachary, the letter read, I regret to inform you of the loss of our daughter. She was beautiful. Her eyes were your eyes. Her nose was my nose. A perfect mix of us. She was perfect, and so, so still. They took her from us. I'm sorry.

Heather thought she knew her mother, but she had never felt more distant. Like her mother was a stranger. A clone of the woman who raised her. Something alien and sinister, that the woman in the diary couldn't possibly match up with the one who tucked her into bed and sang her lullabies, who combed her hair when it got knotted from hours at the beach and kissed blisters on her toes from ballet.

Was her whole life a lie?

"Sweet girl, darling Heather." Janki's eyes were full of tears as she cupped Heather's face in her hands. "Those things she said, they weren't about you. They were about your sister."