Star Daughter(26)

Radhikafoi twisted away. “Don’t touch me!”

“Couches shaped like turtles,” he continued, undaunted. “Couches made of turtles! Couches shaped like teeth, like roses, even one like the golden thrones Lord Indra and Lady Indrani sit on in their kingdom of Svargalok.” His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “I have reason to believe the piece in question originally belonged to Lord Indra himself. It would be perfect for a discerning lady such as you.”

Sheetal had to tell Dev about this. He would die laughing.

No. She caught herself. Why couldn’t she get him out of her head?

The rakshasa had snagged Radhikafoi, not her arm but her will. Radhikafoi, who had done her best to shield Sheetal and Minal from the glamour of the Market, who hadn’t let herself pick up even a single trinket or talisman, hesitated. “I—I can’t,” she stammered. “My brother—”

At the same time, harp strings sounded from afar—insubstantial, airy as cotton candy, each chime a key to a hidden door—and the luminescence in Sheetal’s blood intensified, shining out from her skin.

The harp sisters. They were playing the sidereal melody, or at least a version of it, and it reached deep within her, sparking the flame at her core until the part of her she’d spent the last ten years bricking off, the part that was all star, flared to life, impatient to ascend.

Somewhere inside, Sheetal had known it couldn’t be as simple as just finding a potion, that her auntie was right and she would have to travel to Svargalok and confront Charumati.

“That way!” she cried, pointing. “Come on!”

But Radhikafoi hadn’t looked away from the rakshasa, and the silvery notes were fading, lost amid the chatter of the Market and the rakshasa’s expert salesmanship.

“You go, Sheetu,” said Minal. “I’ll stay with her. You keep looking for the harp sisters, and don’t let anyone trick you. Meet back at the entrance?”

Sheetal barely nodded before heading farther into the bustling Night Market.

Bold dyes glistered at her, delectable aromas teased her nose, and laughter meshed with the lilting of hidden instruments, always just skirting the edge of hearing. Here the bowing of a sarangi, there the strumming of a sitar. The strains of song, high and melancholy, were enough to make her heart burn flame-bright.

And just beneath them, the transcendent sound of the harp, soft as the breeze that bore it.

The rows of stalls were arranged in interconnecting spirals, and Sheetal dashed right in, catching glimpses as she ran. One stand was entirely peacock-themed, selling peacock feather crowns, peacock feather saris, miniature peacocks that leaped into the air, even pairs of peacock wings that allowed the wearer to fly. Only as high as peacocks could fly, of course, which wasn’t that impressive, but still.

Another displayed fruits she had never seen before, all strangely shaped and colored. The vendor held up a slice of something blue and faceted that made her think of tropical oceans. The whole fruit looked like an uncut geode.

Sheetal, though, kept running, following the music, only pausing when a scattered rainbow of powders glowed an invitation from within a white kiosk. They ranged from the earthy palette of ground cumin and black mustard seed to the brilliant colors thrown at Holi: magenta, beryl, goldenrod, sunset orange, claret, royal blue, grape jelly. Sheetal ate them up with her eyes and imagined the hues swirling through her, casting mysterious incantations.

The purveyor, sensing weakness, swore all the spices were edible—even the dusts of gold, silver, and copper. “Won’t you tarry awhile and avail yourself of all I have to offer?”

Sheetal’s taste buds hungered for the untried flavors. Crafty as these people might be, they were her people, with the magic that Radhikafoi had denied her all these years. Dad, too.

They should have told her. It was her right to know.

Dad . . .

She reluctantly shook her head at the spice seller and ran even faster. Above, the twenty-seven nakshatras stretched across the sky. Sheetal visually sifted through them one handful of stars at a time, hunting for hers. There it was—with her mother blazing at its center.

Something burst open in Sheetal then. Fireworks sparked in her vision, leaving behind orange and green spots. Like at Radhikafoi’s house, her hands sparkled, but this time, she let it be.

It was the call again, the one her mother had mentioned in her letter. The starsong.

The sooner Sheetal found what she was looking for, the sooner she could appease her core’s need to rise. Resisting was like trying not to breathe. It felt like someone had squashed her forehead in a vise.

How had she ever thought she could ignore this?

Sheetal massaged her temples. When her sight cleared, the stalls stood at a remove, and silver vines curled over the ground, each laden with plump glass pumpkins in a kaleidoscope of colors. In the middle of the pumpkin patch sat a pair of long-haired women with harps.

The women wore kajal around their eyes and crimson bindis on their foreheads, but were otherwise bare to the night. Sky-clad. “Who is this strange, searching young child? Her heart beats so silver, so wild.”

The harp sisters! Sheetal could have hugged them. “Charumati said to find you when I was ready to go to her.”

“I am Amrita,” one sister said, her long black tresses draping over her like creepers. Her smile was kind.

“I am Vanita,” said the other, equally long white locks veiling her body. The voracious moue of her mouth sent a tremor through Sheetal.