Star Daughter(27)

“Our songs are the same, but one sister heals the listener,” said Amrita.

“And the other sister steals the listener!” cried Vanita.

“Uh, great. Listen,” said Sheetal, her excitement waning, “my mom sent me—”

Exchanging an impenetrable look, the two spoke in unison. “Who is who, you wonder? That you must ask the wiliest of ladies herself, our maiden Chance—or simply listen well. We sing the answer you seek but once.”

As if on cue, they began to play pedal harps carved from blue-white ice and strung with honeysuckle.

The song both jarred and charmed Sheetal, its notes twisting together in a struggle for dominance. Her stomach roiled in protest, then calmed, then roiled once more. She’d never had her own instrument turned against her before, and she didn’t like it.

“There is the milk of cobra fangs, tinctures of nightshade and rue,” chanted Vanita, plucking at the strands of honeysuckle. Its sweet, heady nectar lulled Sheetal like a drug.

“There is lead-laced vermilion, and black swan’s adrenaline, too,” added Amrita.

Sheetal’s head grew woozy. She had to get away. Yet part of her wanted to grab her own harp and join these devious sisters, be the third in a pair of two, the gray that separated black and white, the balance between them.

But Dad.

“Stop it!” she cried, her words meaningless against the shining music. “My mom told me to talk to you when I was ready to find her.”

Amrita giggled. “They will have you sing for art and for power.” The strings trilled beneath her fingers.

“But who will sit in the silver tower?” Vanita sang out. Now she was the one with the kind smile.

“Surely that is just an old wives’ tale.” Amrita’s malicious stare grated on Sheetal, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t even look away. “For wherever might a star’s blood be for sale?”

“Just a single drop,” said Vanita. She lifted her hand to reveal a fiendishly sharp thorn. “A simple prick, a simple pop.”

Amrita threw back her head, and Sheetal glimpsed mercy and mayhem in her eyes. “Just a drop, just a drop! Plop, plop, plop!”

Together the sisters howled, “And what of you, little star, little star? Is your blood still as thick and dark as hot, sticky tar?”

“Surely you know only star’s blood heals . . .”

“. . . All star-inflicted burns and weals!”

The harp sisters smiled. “Stellification,” said Amrita.

“Catasterization,” said Vanita.

“The process of becoming a star,” they said together.

Sheetal shook free of her paralysis. “Please, just listen. I need you to tell me how to get to the sky.” If they rhymed more nonsense after this, she’d leave and find her own way.

Amazingly, Vanita produced a carved silver box. “You need only have asked.”

Somehow Sheetal kept her eyes from rolling right out of her head.

With a snap of her wrist, Amrita opened the lid to reveal a wad of translucent white silk. Sheetal squinted at it. A handkerchief?

But as she watched, the silk expanded. One petal after another unfurled until the object had blossomed into a pale, gently illuminated lotus. Sheetal’s guilt, her grief, subsided beneath its tranquil light, and she could even smile again.

The lotus was made of moonbeams, subtle and silvery white. In it, she heard the song of the stars, felt the summons of the sky. Her blood fizzed, frothy as champagne bubbles. She longed for the comfort of the lotus; she hungered for it.

No wonder her mother hadn’t trusted Radhikafoi with this. She never would have handed it over, not when she knew Sheetal could just leave whenever she wanted.

“Perhaps I will journey to the heavens,” Amrita mused, stroking the flower.

“He loves me.” Vanita reached for a petal. “He loves me not.”

Oh, no, you don’t, thought Sheetal, and sprang. Maybe they were just playing, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

Then she was holding the moonlight lotus, pressing it to her cheek. It was smooth, sleek as sugar glaze, and the rest of the Night Market dissolved before its rich radiance. The sheen on her skin was cool water on a parched tongue, soothing the ache of not being enough. Of failing.

The lotus shone softly, its lambent petals pledging she would soon fly.

Sheetal peeked at the harp sisters, with their keen, cutting smiles. What had Charumati given them for helping her?

But it didn’t matter. Sheetal had the lotus now, her way up, and with its silver glow pooling over her, nothing else mattered.

Amrita and Vanita spoke as one. “This is our counsel: if you would rise, if you would take to the skies, you must hold this near and have no fear.”

“That’s it?” Sheetal asked, not hiding her skepticism. “It’s that easy?”

In response, the sisters reached for their harps and launched into an eerie tune that made her think of the story of the Pied Piper. The moonlight lotus clutched to her heart, she turned away. Time to get out of here.

“Go and soar now, little sister,” Amrita and Vanita called after her. “And do take care not to blister.”





8


Just outside the Night Market, as the giant peacock watched over them, Minal showed Sheetal her purchase. She’d found a stall wreathed in all manner of wings from dragonfly to condor, and had successfully haggled with the owner, a garudi with the body of a muscular human woman, metallic golden skin, a white face, an eagle’s beak, and feathery red wings looped back over themselves so they fit in the stall. In exchange for the two cloud barrettes, Minal had received a thumbnail-sized corked glass bottle filled with a fragrance that would allow her to walk on actual clouds.