Poison's Kiss (Poison's Kiss #1)(13)

The walk to the bookshop doesn’t take nearly long enough, even though I walk slowly, even though I try to wish it away. I can see Japa through the window. He sits at the reading table sipping a cup of steaming liquid and flipping through the pages of a book. He looks so content, so at home. I wonder if my face has ever known that expression.

After yesterday I never thought I’d be back, so it feels like a gift to see Japa for one more day. I feel a sudden rush of affection for him with his silver mop of hair, his easy smile and the papery crinkles around his eyes. He looks up and waves, and so I can’t delay any longer. I have to push the door open.

“Good morning, Marinda,” he says.

“Good morning,” I say. I try to smile, but it feels tight on my face. Japa’s expression falters for just a moment, and I wonder if he can see something in my eyes. Something that tells him I’m about to kill one of his customers. Something that reveals me as a monster. But then the moment is gone and his smile looks just as firm as it always does.

“You’ve been here almost every day this week,” he says. It’s true. Before, I came only once or twice a week, and now I’ve been here three days in a row. Japa scoops up his teacup and drains it in one swallow. “You cleaned the shop so thoroughly yesterday that I hope I can find enough for you to do today.”

A spark of panic shoots through me. What if Japa sends me home? What would Gopal do to me? This was foolish of him to arrange a kill in a circumstance that I can’t control. Reckless. He is trying to send me a message that he owns me. That he has power to take anything from me, that I should have stayed isolated and not dared to carve out this small space for myself. But what if he has gone too far?

Japa lays a hand on my forearm. “Don’t worry. I received new books yesterday that need shelving.” He has misinterpreted the concern on my face. He thinks I’m worried about money and I don’t correct him.

The stack of books is small, so I move slowly. Each time the door opens, my stomach pitches forward, my hands begin to sweat. But so far no one has presented me with The History of Sundari. At least Deven isn’t here. I don’t want to have to do this in front of him.

The bells on the door jangle. I shouldn’t have tempted fate. Deven walks in and gives me a small wave before he strides away. Probably to have another secretive conversation with Japa. I groan. His timing couldn’t be worse.

I shove the books onto the shelves. Why is he always here? I am tense enough without having to worry about Deven, who seems to notice everything, lurking around the corner. The door opens again. My gaze snaps up, but it is only a mother with two small boys. I pace up and down the aisles and I feel like I’m pulled too tight, like a rubber band that could snap at any moment.

“You’re going to worry a hole in the floor.” I spin around to find Deven smiling at me with only half his mouth. He’s infuriating.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask.

He raises one eyebrow and I wonder if only half of his face is capable of expression. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No, I’m just starting to worry that you’re homeless.”

He laughs a big, full sound that makes me feel a little pleased with myself even though I wasn’t trying to be funny.

“Are you always this charming?”

“No,” I say, because I’m not. It’s Iyla’s job to be charming. I only know how to be likeable for a moment. A moment is all I ever need. All I ever get.

My vision is blurry with unshed tears, but I refuse to cry. I start taking books off the shelves, stacking them in a pile on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Deven asks.

I don’t look at him. “I need to dust.”

“You dusted the shelves yesterday.”

“Not underneath the books.”

He sighs, but he starts helping me. We make a waist-high stack, and then I wipe each shelf, moving in small circles, wedging the cloth into the corners to get every bit of dust. Then we replace the books and start on the next bookcase. The door bells jingle and I jump.

It’s a man.

My mouth feels like I’ve swallowed a handful of dirt. I don’t say anything to Deven. I just hand him the cloth and make my way to the front of the shop. I hope this will be quick. I hope Deven isn’t paying attention. I watch the man walk up and down the rows of books, trailing a thin finger over each spine, like he might know the volume he’s looking for by touch alone.

My vision is filled with those same fingers trembling later, wiping beaded sweat from his high forehead and his bushy eyebrows before finally falling still as he takes his last breath. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to picture something else. Anything else.

“Are you okay?”

My eyes fly open. The man is standing in front of me, holding his book. He has a look of concern on his face. I couldn’t mess this up any more if I tried.

I give him a smile, as genuine as I can make it. “I’m fine. Just a little headache.”

“Ah,” he says. “I’m sorry. My wife gets headaches too. Horrible stuff.”

A wife. He has a wife. My knees feel shaky and I’m sure that I have the wrong expression on my face. “It is,” I say, and my voice sounds foreign and wrong. “Horrible.”

He rubs the top of his head right where his hair is thinning, like it’s a nervous habit, and I find myself wondering if you can handle your hair so much that it falls out.