Poison's Kiss (Poison's Kiss #1)(9)

Gita loves to tell the story of how I became a visha kanya. She says that my father presented me to Gopal swaddled in a blanket the color of a ripe tangerine. He watched while Gopal filled a small dropper with toxin and then drained it against the squishy pink inside of my baby cheek. “Bring her back in three days if she’s still alive,” Gopal said.

He never expected to see me again. Most of the babies didn’t make it through the first night.

“But in three days he returned,” Gita says. Her eyes are always bright during this part of the story, her voice filled with wonder. “You’re our miracle.”

The story gnaws at me; what does it say about me that I am a miracle to Gopal but disposable to my father? Even now, I wish it were the other way around.



Deven is already there when Mani and I arrive at the bookshop the next morning. He and Japa are at a table in the corner, their heads bent together, talking so softly that I don’t even hear the low murmur of conversation. Japa raises one hand in greeting but doesn’t look up.

Mani scampers off to find a book and I stand at the front of the shop waiting for instructions. But it quickly becomes obvious that Japa and Deven won’t be finished with their conversation anytime soon, so I grab the broom leaning against the wall and start sweeping, easing the bristles under the bookshelves and pulling out thick piles of dust. Japa obviously hasn’t swept in ages. Working soothes me, the purposefulness of it, the sense of accomplishment.

The next time I look up, Japa and Deven have disappeared. I poke my head around the corner and peek into the storeroom, but there’s no sign of them. Then I notice a swirling pattern of dust on the floor in front of one of the bookcases at the back of the shop. It’s not a bookcase for customers—it’s piled with an odd assortment of cleaning supplies and boxes of unsold merchandise—and the pattern on the floor suggests a gust of air coming from beneath the lowest shelf. I brush my hand along the bottom of the bookcase, and a cool breeze tickles my fingers. There’s something back there. I stand up and see three shiny marks in the dust on the side of the bookshelf at about chest height. I turn my hand and match my fingerprints to the marks. A door, then. I wonder if this is the secret storage room where Japa keeps the more valuable manuscripts, but I don’t dare test my theory. Japa probably wouldn’t look kindly upon me barging into a meeting he’s worked so carefully to conceal. But I can’t help being curious. Why would they need to move their conversation so far away? Do I seem so untrustworthy? Or are they talking about something more important than priceless books?

I rub at the marks with my sleeve until they disappear—no use having a secret entrance that calls attention to itself.

I finish sweeping and then find a soft cloth in the storeroom for mopping. I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing at the floor, a bead of sweat trickling down the back of my neck, when I hear Mani’s name. A ping of alarm zips through my stomach, and my eyes flick to the far corner of the shop. Deven and Japa are back—Deven is talking and Japa is watching Mani, his eyebrows drawn together and down in V-shaped concern. I glance at Mani. He looks like he always does, absorbed in his book. Though his lips are pale at the edges and his breathing is labored. Deven glances up suddenly and I drop my gaze.

“Hey, pal,” Deven says, and his voice sounds so loud in the silence that I jump a little. “I brought something for you.” He holds a pale fruit—almost white—with a blush of pink at the top.

I stand and join them, not sure I want Mani to accept anything from Deven. But I can’t think of a good excuse to stop him. Mani takes the fruit and gives it a sniff. “What is it?” he asks.

“It’s called maraka fruit. My father grows it in his orchard.”

“Your father has an orchard?” Mani says, like this is the most remarkable thing he’s ever heard.

Deven laughs. “Not a large one. Go ahead, give it a try.”

Mani takes a bite and his eyes widen with pleasure. Juice dribbles down his chin, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. “This is so good,” he says, talking around a mouthful of fruit.

I glance over at Deven and he is watching me with the strangest expression, like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. “I heard you talking about him,” I say, tilting my head toward Mani. Deven doesn’t say anything, just raises one eyebrow a fraction and waits for me to continue. “What were you saying?”

“That he looks ill,” Deven says. His voice is gentle, sad. I just nod, because there’s no response. Mani does look sick.

“Why the fruit?” I ask after a moment.

“He looks like he could use something healthy,” Deven says. I prickle at the suggestion that I’m not feeding Mani properly, but then I remember the pastries we keep eating for breakfast and I swallow my complaint. Besides, anything that makes Mani feel better is fine with me.

Mani finishes his fruit and licks his fingers one by one. “You better go wash your hands before you touch any books,” I tell him. He hates anything resembling a bath, so I am expecting an argument, but instead he grins at me.

“Completely worth it,” he says, before skipping off to the basin in the storeroom.

Deven touches my arm. “Marinda,” he says. “Are you—”

The bells at the door jingle, and a man and woman walk in. “Customers,” I explain to Deven before I head to the front of the shop. I can still feel his hand on my arm, can still feel the exact placement of his fingers as I ask the couple if there is anything I can help them find. They browse for a while before they bring their selections to the counter—two beautiful books of fairy tales, leather-bound, gold-tipped and stunningly illustrated. I wonder what child will be lucky enough to read them. I wrap the books in fine paper and reluctantly trade them for a handful of coins. The customers leave, and Deven is still standing where I left him, as if he’s waiting for me to come back. I busy myself stacking coins. Each one has a sun in the center with four rays that shoot toward the edges, dividing the circle into four parts. Each segment depicts a member of the Raksaka. I stack the coins and then twist them so that the bird is closest to me and the snake is farthest away. It’s a silly childhood superstition, but the snake has always felt like bad luck. By the time I nestle the coins in the wooden money box under the counter, we have, to my great relief, more customers. It’s several hours before the shop empties.