CHAPTER 29
Yamini woke up to light.
She blinked at the carved ceiling above her bed, and then her eyes moved toward the clock.
Her heart stopped, and she bolted upright.
“Oh God.”
She threw the heavy covers back, and her feet hit the cold marble floor. The temple rituals. Rani Suchitra. The valley gathering. Her first public appearance.
And she was running late. Very late.
They were supposed to leave by seven-fifteen at the latest because the temple rituals were scheduled to begin at 7:30.
She spun toward the door and immediately saw that she was not alone in the room.
Four palace maids stood near the far wall in absolute silence. They had clearly been there for some time.
Yamini stared at them.
“Why,” she said, her voice still rough with sleep, “did nobody wake me?”
The maids exchanged a very small, very careful glance.
Savita spoke first, her tone apologetic but careful. “We were ordered not to disturb you, maharani.”
Yamini's eye twitched. “Ordered?”
“Yes, maharani.”
“By whom?” Yamini said, although she already knew the answer, and her jaw was already tightening.
“Maharaja gave instructions last night,” Savita said. “He said you needed rest and were not to be woken before you were ready.”
He said you needed rest.
Yamini stood there for exactly two seconds, her hair in complete disarray, her nightclothes wrinkled, the clock reading 6:53, and somewhere downstairs, Rani Suchitra Devi was probably already dressed and composed and had been for the last hour and a half.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered.
The man had stood in the dining hall and told her not to wait for him and then gone ahead and decided, at his own absolute convenience, that she needed rest. Not once considering that rest would make her late in front of his mother. Again.
Inconsiderate, controlling, infuriating jerk!
“Maharani,” Savita said gently, “shall we begin?”
Yamini took a breath. “Yes. Quickly. Please.”
The next twenty minutes passed in controlled chaos.
She took a quick, hot shower and stepped out.
Savita shook out the red pheran with careful hands.
The garment was heavier than it looked, layers of fine wool lined with silk, the kind that had been made for mountain winters and mountain ceremonies both.
She stood still long enough to be helped into it.
The gold tilla embroidery ran the full length of the wide sleeves and along the hemline in an intricate pattern of paisleys and chinar leaves that she recognized from the Jogra royal crest.
Another maid worked quickly through her hair with practiced efficiency while Savita moved to the jewelry tray.
Heavy gold earrings, long, crescent-shaped, set with rubies, came first. Then the layered dejhoor, the traditional Jogra ear-to-head chain that connected the earring to the hairpin, with its fine gold links set with small emeralds.
Thick gold kangan bangles were slid onto her wrists.
A broad gold aath, the traditional waistchain, was fastened at her waist over the pheran.
Her eyes fell on the nightstand.
The emerald fish pendant lay exactly where she had placed it the night before.
Her fingers moved toward it before she consciously decided to wear it. She fastened it around her neck over the pheran's embroidered collar and straightened.
“The mathapatti, maharani,” Savita said, already holding the traditional gold headpiece. Its fine chains spread like a crown across the forehead, set with small rubies that matched the earrings.
Yamini held still while it was pinned and arranged. “How do I look?”
“Like the Jogra maharani,” Savita said, simply and with complete confidence.
Yamini looked at her reflection.
The deep crimson pheran was luminous against her dusky skin, the gold tilla catching the light with every small movement.
The sindoor was neat at her hairline. The dejhoor swept elegantly from ear to crown.
The mathapatti sat straight. The emerald pendant rested against the embroidered collar, its green color contrasting vividly against the red and gold.
“Thank you,” she said to all four of them, meaning it. “All of you.”
They beamed with bright smiles.
She was escorted out quickly, moving through the palace corridors where the usual morning sounds were quiet.
At the main entrance, a guard held the door.
Yamini stepped outside.
The mountain air hit her immediately — cold and clean, carrying the particular sharpness of high-altitude morning. The sky was a pale, cloudless blue above the peaks, and the snow gleamed white below it.
Bharat stood near the helicopter.
Traditional clothing suited him far too much.
The black and dark-gold pheran-style royal clothing made him appear less like a businessman and more like one of the warrior kings from the palace portraits.
Broad shoulders. Tall frame. And controlled posture.
Power seemed to cling to him naturally.
Only the sunglasses slightly ruined the illusion.
Her heart betrayed her with one stupid flutter.
She walked toward him with her chin lifted and her bangles chiming softly with each step.
“Where are Rani Ma and Mira?” she asked.
“Already at the temple,” he replied. “My brothers are also there.”
Yamini stared at him.
Brothers?
The entire family would know she was late.
“You shouldn’t have given instructions not to wake me!” she snapped. “Now, we are late, and everyone is already waiting.”
“We are not late.”
She was annoyed by his calmness. “We are supposed to have left ten minutes ago—”
“The helicopter takes six minutes,” he said. “We are not late.”
Yamini's jaw tightened. “Still, you shouldn’t have commanded the staff not to—”
“You needed the rest,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“You needed the rest,” he repeated. “And you look fine,” he added, in the same tone one might use to confirm a meeting time or a weather report. He was already turning toward the helicopter. “Come.”
Yamini stood there for one second, entirely deprived of the argument she had prepared.
Fine.
She was wearing rubies, ancestral gold, and an heirloom headpiece, and the man had the emotional range of a weather report.
Fine.
The helicopter door opened.
Bharat stepped in first and then turned back with an efficiency that suggested this was simply the logical sequence of events. He reached across, took her hand briefly to help her step up, and let go the moment she was seated.
Her heart gave one loud, unnecessary thud.
She settled into her seat and arranged the pheran around her.
He leaned forward. His hands moved to the safety belt at her side with practiced ease, clipping it into place without his fingers once grazing her. The click was quiet and final.
Then he moved back and sat across from her, reached for his own belt, and fastened it.
Yamini looked out the window.
The rotors began.
Below, the Jogra palace grew smaller. The snow stretched out in every direction, the mountains rising sharp and white against the pale sky.
In a matter of minutes, the helicopter would land. She would then stand beside the Jogra maharaja at his ancestral temple in front of his family, his brothers, and whoever else was waiting.
And later that day, she would stand in the Jogra valley and be introduced to the people as the Jogra maharani.
Her heart beat fast.
She pressed her hands flat against the crimson fabric of her pheran to stop them from trembling.
Across from her, Bharat looked out the opposite window. The ceremonial sword at his side caught the light. The sunglasses reflected the pale blue of the sky.
He looked completely unmoved.
She looked away.
Fine, she told herself.
Everything is going to be absolutely fine.