I don’t need to worry over Rushil anymore. Soraya will take care of the ship docking fees and everything else to do with him. And maybe, since the fees are so little to her, she might help me buy a ticket to Khajjiar. I can let myself think on finding Luck again. I can let myself hope.
CHAPTER
.30
I wake to the full brightness of the midmorning sun and make my way downstairs. Miyole sits on back steps, facing the purple tree. She wears one of Soraya’s button-down blouses like a dress, and someone has combed out her hair and coaxed it into four springy braids. A book rests open on her lap. She doesn’t hear me through the thick glass doors.
The kitchen is empty and quiet, except for a machine on the counter making a burbling noise.
“Hello?” I call. “Sor—so missus?”
Only silence. I look back along the hallway where Soraya said her room would be. At the end stands a dark wood door.
“So missus?” I say again, softer this time. My bare feet sink into the carpet as I edge down the hall. Is that the door to her room? I can’t remember half of what she told me last night. Most of the other doors in Soraya’s house slide sideways into neat pockets when they open, but this one is heavy wood with an aged brass door knob and a tiny glass eye fitted into the wood at head height. I turn the handle.
“Ava?”
I spin around. Soraya stands at the open end of the hallway, staring at me.
“I—” My face goes hot. The door on the right, I suddenly remember. She said the door on the right.
“There’s nothing in there,” she says sharply. She pulls the door shut. And then, softer, “Are you hungry? I have breakfast ready.”
I follow her, shamefaced, to the dining table. What was in that room? Something private, I s’pose. Something you don’t show to a girl you’ve known for less than a full day, even if she is your half-sister’s daughter.
Soraya hands me a plate of golden potatoes mixed with rice and a small bowl of papaya. She sits across from me at the table and sips her tea as I eat.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Right s—I mean, yes, thank you.” I’ve never slept so soundly in my whole life. It was like falling asleep on a cloud.
“Would you like some tea?” She gestures to the carafe in the center of the table. “Miyole and I already drank a whole pot earlier.”
“Thank you.” I reach for the tea, but Soraya waves me away.
“You sit. Eat. Let me pour.”
I watch her fill my cup. Should I ask her about Khajjiar? Last night everything seemed so simple—I thought it would be nothing to ask, but now I don’t know. I’m a stranger here, living at her expense. I can’t afford to ask for too much, especially since the roof over Miyole’s head depends on it, too. And what if I press to go to Khajjiar and he isn’t there?
Soraya finishes pouring my tea and settles herself back in her seat. “Whenever you’re done eating, we can go. We have plenty to do to make sure you’re ready for Revati Academy and your residency papers are in order.”
“Right so, missus,” I say and smile. Whatever she wants us to do, I’ll do, so long as it keeps Miyole safe.
“Please,” my modrie says. “Soraya.”
I nod. “Soraya.”
Miyole comes in from the garden, places her book on the table, and leans her head against my shoulder. Her hair is soft and clean, and it comes to me what a poor job I’ve done of caring for her. When was the last time I made sure her hair was washed or her clothes properly scrubbed? I lean my head against hers.
Soraya pushes back her chair and carries the dishes to the kitchen. “I need to stop in with my lawyer to start my custody registration for you and Miyole,” she calls over her shoulder. “And after that I thought maybe we could go pick out handhelds for both of you, since neither of you seem to have one.”
“Really?” Miyole perks up.
Soraya comes back around the corner. “Yes, really.” She smiles at Miyole, and I can read her pleasure in sorting these things clearer than any words. “You’ll need one if you’re going to be at school all day.”
“Crow-crow-crow. My very own crow,” Miyole sings to herself. “My very own, very own crow.”
Soraya laughs. “You are such a goose!” But then she looks over at me and frowns. “Ava? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I put my smile back in place. “Nothing at all.”
The first place Soraya takes us is a woman doctor, who makes us dress in paper gowns and fills our arms full of shots. The doctor asks me all sorts of questions about how I lived in the Gyre and on the Parastrata, and again if I was married and if any men ever touched me or hurt me. I’m glad I never asked Soraya about Khajjiar. I don’t want to have to explain to her or this strange woman about Luck, about what passed between us. That shame is mine alone. As for Khajjiar, I’ll find another way. So I lie and lie until at last the doctor frowns and says she believes me.
After, Soraya takes us into the heart of Mumbai to buy clothes.
“I don’t need anything more, so missus,” I try to tell her.
“You can’t wear that to Revati, Ava.” She shakes her head at my faded Gyre shirt, my secondhand boots, and Perpétue’s knife looped through my belt. “Maybe it didn’t stand out in the Salt with all the foreigners passing through, but you’re in the city proper now. You have to dress like it. And I told you, you don’t have to call me missus.”
We take the floating trains into the terminus nestled in the heart of the center city and step out into one of the crowd-choked canyons cut between skyscrapers. Powell-Gupta is in an older district, so I’ve only ever seen the city center in passing. The streets run thick with people and cows, bicycles, horses, elephants, and solar-powered rickshaws, all weaving around one another with quick precision. The rich waft of spice and oil-fried dough from the food carts swirls together with the smell of animal dung and the faint metal tang the trains leave in their wake. Herds of street sweepers roll along behind the cows and horses, chirping and banging to a halt when the animals stop.
We fall into the flow of traffic. Miyole gapes at the towers as Soraya leads us up from the ground level, onto a walkway arching gracefully over the train trough in the center of the street. A tier of smooth-planed pathways connect the buildings on opposite sides to one another, and covered gangways lead into the shops. Above us, still more walkways lead to higher and higher walking tiers, with hanging vines and flowers trailing from their undersides. Glass pods full of passengers slide up building faces and stop gently, poised above the street as the people inside empty into the buildings.
Soraya leads the way up to the third tier, to a high-ceilinged shop on the top floor of an older building.
“Conditioner’s broken. Sorry,” the woman behind the counter calls out as we come in, fanning her face with a heavy piece of foil. The shop’s barely hotter than outside, but I’m beginning to learn the rich folk of Mumbai pride themselves on not letting on they sweat.