The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(42)

Her eyes flickered to her knives on the table next to her, within grasp. She set her jaw and took a calming breath. No one knew she was here.

But she was unable to reclaim the calm she had felt moments before, and decided to get ready.

Esha emerged from the water, patting herself dry with a long length of woven cotton. The room was clearly loved and lived in—scrolls and letters, jewelry and trinkets were strewn about. A silver mirror was propped up in the corner, with dust fingerprints over it, as if someone constantly peered at themselves with that mirror.

This was a home.

She might’ve grown up in a house like this if the coup had never happened. Esha wandered around, taking stock of the contents of the room as she dried her hair. An ivory comb sat on top of the wardrobe and Esha picked it up, letting memories wash over her.

She’d once had a comb like this. The thought made a part of her heart ache—the part she hid under rage and revenge.

Esha took a deep breath, willing away those old thoughts and wishes, combing her wet hair. Through the hanging folds of multicolored silk that hung from the lushly curved window, Esha could see that the sun was beginning to descend.

Day faded in broad purple streaks across the sky and Esha could see the rolling curve of the Ghanta Mountains to the east and the green jungles that thicketed the valleys below the mountains. In the far distance, the snowcapped peaks of the Aifora Range glittered.

Everywhere were signs of the end of the day—women in the distance hauling out their washed clothes from the river, men pulling down woven straw covers to protect their wares. It never failed to warm her heart to see that the real soul of Jansa, the people, hadn’t changed.

The two countries were so similar, Esha thought. Either here or there, the men and women rose every day with the same burdens weighing on their shoulders, the same responsibilities and sorrows and joys. She would never understand how Vardaan had convinced people to see the differences between them, rather than the similarities.

Away from the capital and the Blood Fort, the old ways were remembered and the people still spoke of the lost princess with hope. Another memory came to her, unbidden.

Esha had been with the princess on the night of the coup. Her family had been the princess’s royal companions on her trip to her aunt’s house. On the Night of Tears, she had been in the Great Library with Reha. Esha had been the one to grab the princess and race to her family’s room, where she sent her and her nurse through the passage that led to the city’s tunnels.

When the soldiers found Esha and her parents later, they showed no mercy in trying to capture her, one of the Senaps having seen Esha earlier from the library window.

Her father had been the first to go, trying to save his beloved daughter. Her screams had been so loud, her grief so keen, that one of the soldiers had made the sign to ward off the Lord of Darkness. She remembered little after that, or tried not to.

Esha inhaled deeply, letting the humid air from the bath fill her lungs, warm away those cold, bleak memories. What good did it do her to indulge in the past? Esha put down the ivory comb and stepped away, trying to bury the memories the room seemed determined to drag out of her.

In the distance, she could hear the song of the cleaning women.

It was called the Lament of Naria—a song passed from mother to child in every home in Jansa. It was a song she had learned when she had lived at the summer palace as a child.

Esha hummed quietly as she helped herself to the clothes in the wardrobe, letting the sumptuous silks distract her mind from death and grief.

It wasn’t until her stomach let out an ungainly growl that Esha remembered to eat.

She had taken note of the food that had been stored on the lower levels of the house when she had brought in Tana—some salted fish and dried fruit. It would be enough for now.

Esha opened the door of the bedroom she had claimed as her own and looked both ways out of habit. Arpiya always said she was a bit too suspicious. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the noise, soft yet noticeable. Like a shuffling of feet.

Esha grabbed her knife and flattened herself against the wall.

Had the occupants returned early? There was no squeak of wheels outside, no chatter of children. And the servants would have arrived first to prepare the kitchens.

She inched up the stairs, taking care to step as light as a leopard.

It had to be Laksh, the soldier from before. Perhaps he had returned, hoping to catch her attention. A besotted boy would do such a thing.

Or worse, he had seen the whip mark on Tana’s neck.

Another noise, a slow yawn of wood, but this time from above. Esha froze, paralyzed as she realized she was no longer sure what direction the noise was coming from.

Take the chance and go down? There were more entryways there, but that also meant more ways to escape. She could come back for her hidden pack.

Or go back up, try to leave by the rooftop?

Whoever it was, their tread was light, as if they had practiced sneaking about. Esha held her breath and made a choice, tiptoeing back up to her room. She had her weapons there.

The hall was empty as she turned the corner.

But she had misjudged.

Footsteps bounded behind her. The soldier grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm around her back in a swift motion, his other arm coming around her neck. His breath was hot against her skin and it shot shivers down her spine.

His hands tightened around her own, and she pushed down the immediate frantic energy that coursed through her body, searching for the calmness in her core that had gotten her through a number of tight spots.