The Library of Fates(4)

“How come you never went back to Macedon?” I asked my father now. It was an obvious question. My father traveled all over the world on diplomatic trips, but he had never returned to the place of my birth.

Papa continued to look out past the horizon. The parade in honor of Sikander’s visit was thinning now, the tide receding, and most of Sikander’s advisors were already within the palace walls, waiting for us to come greet them.

I looked at my father expectantly, waiting for his answer, well aware that there was something else embedded in my inquiry about his time in Macedon. It was a question within a question, like those dolls I played with as a child—the ones that nested inside larger versions of themselves. I was really asking him to tell me something, anything about my mother, whom he had met in Macedon during his time away.

I wondered now if Sikander had known my mother too.

“There was no reason to,” he said as he looked back toward the walled city. I followed his gaze, noticing the way whitewashed homes blushed in the early evening light, an empire of pink. That was what my father was talking about when he mentioned the light.

I thought about things like that sometimes—how many elements it took to create the simplest of things—a pink sky, an unusually perfect day, a happy family, a deep friendship, a moment of pure delight.

I wondered too what it took to undo these things. It seemed to me that undoing something was far easier than creating it.

“I wish your mother were here now, to explain things to you.” Papa abruptly interrupted my thoughts.

I glanced at him in shock. He had never mentioned my mother before, and as much as I had hoped that he might, that day it still stunned me to hear those words coming from his mouth.

She was the mystery I most wanted to unlock. It called to me in my dreams, a vision of her, green eyes just like mine, and her voice telling me how much she loved me, how much she missed me. How desperate she was to meet me, wherever she was . . . if she was even still alive.

“What . . . kinds of things?” I asked carefully.

“Amrita, what’s about to happen . . .” My father shook his head. “I wish I could go back in time and undo things.” He paused before he added, “And I wish your mother were here to tell you about marriage . . . I have so many regrets, and now it’s coming back to haunt me, the past, and I—”

“Your Majesties?” Arjun’s low voice called from the doorway. My father and I both turned, and I found myself doing a double take when I saw him.

He was handsomely dressed in a crisp blue and gold khalat rather than his everyday kurta pajamas or slacks. His hair, usually a mess because he was always running his fingers through it, was combed down. He looked taller somehow, more like a man than the boy who chased me around the mango grove outside his parents’ quarters.

“It’s time,” he announced to us, a tight smile on his lips.

His eyes caught mine for a moment before he quickly looked away.

“Go on, Amrita. Arjun will escort you,” my father said, before he gave me a kiss on the forehead.

I squeezed my father’s arm to reassure him. His words about my mother lingered in my mind, what he had said about his regrets. I opened my mouth to ask him more, but the moment was already gone.

“Go on,” he said again, more gently this time. “They’re waiting for you downstairs. I’ll be there soon.”

I nodded slowly before I crossed the library toward Arjun, noting his broad shoulders, the stubble on his jaw, the loose smile on the edge of his lips, his dark eyes examining the shelf to my right. I followed his gaze: Something sparkled amid the tomes. I discreetly ran my fingers across the dark wood till I discovered something cool and delicate wedged between two books. I realized what it was even before I saw it.

A ring.

I gasped, turning to look back at my father, making sure he didn’t notice me snatching the bauble into my palm. I quietly inspected the treasure that had been hidden expressly for me. In the place of a gemstone, the gold delicately curved into the petals of a jasmine bud. I slipped the ring on my finger. It fit perfectly.

“Thank you,” I whispered, looking back into Arjun’s face, returning his smile.

“For good luck,” he responded, his eyes twinkling.

Hidden gifts: It was our language; it always had been.

It started when we were children. Arjun was allowed to leave the palace whenever he wanted, something I envied. I was allowed to leave, but going out into the world beyond the palace walls was such a fraught production that on most occasions, I avoided the entire nuisance of it. For one thing, at my father’s insistence, I had to cover my face with a veil.

“We have to protect your identity,” my father insisted. “We don’t want you to lose your anonymity and not experience life in a normal way. Or worse, become a target,” he always added, his voice stern.

And then there was the matter of my having to be escorted by a member of the palace retinue, which made leaving the grounds decidedly less fun than I hoped. But Arjun had traveled the world with his parents and, more recently, on his own.

When we were children, every time he went away, I cornered him upon his return, demanding to know what he had seen. Every time, he was vague.

“I went to a temple.”

“Which temple?”

“It’s high up on a mountain, with a slanted roof and lanterns hanging from the rafters.”