Vara. She managed to make it through to early afternoon without running into Lalit or being summoned by her father. Surprised by the latter, she glanced at her message stream and saw that Ruhi had responded to a call request from Pranath.
Sir, before I disturb Ms. Rao, I thought you’d like to know that she is deep into planning the upcoming Jervois bid.
Her father had replied that he’d speak to Payal tomorrow.
That had been clever of Ruhi, to gain Payal time without offending Pranath. Payal sent a note to her assistant praising her for the act. Ruhi seemed to be in Payal’s corner—if only because she knew Lalit never would have promoted her to her current high-level position. Payal’s brother preferred male assistants.
Whether Ruhi was actually “hers” remained an open question. The assistant could have been told to take actions for her boss’s benefit exactly so Payal would begin to trust her. Just as well Payal trusted no one.
Except Canto.
A buzz in her blood, she took a moment to compose herself before going to speak to Ruhi. “I’m heading to a meeting. If Father asks, mention it’s the Mercant matter. Tell Lalit to speak to my father if he pushes for information.” She glanced at her watch. “Actually, have an early day. I’ll let my father know.”
Ruhi didn’t argue—she didn’t like dealing with Lalit when Payal was away. “I have some work to finish, but I can log in from home.”
Leaving the other woman to gather her things, Payal made her way to her apartment. She didn’t intend to change—her wide-legged black pants and simple sleeveless red top with a vee-neck would be fine for the meeting. She’d come down for only one reason—to open up the book of tax law and touch her fingers to the wrapper she’d pressed within.
It wasn’t about the wrapper. It was about the care it indicated.
Obsession, whispered the part of her on which hung her sanity, this is the start of an unhealthy obsession.
Her hand clenched on the book. Closing it and returning it to the shelf before her mind could spiral, she checked her makeup and hair in the mirror—checked her armor—then teleported to the meeting spot.
Canto was already there, waiting for her in the shelter. He’d parked his chair within a circular arrangement of five other seats. So she’d be meeting with four others today.
“There you are,” he said, the galaxies in his eyes warming as if there were a candle within. “Look, I got you this.” He held up a small brown box.
Though she had choices, and even though the scent of him disturbed her on a primal level, even though he could look at her and know too much, she took the chair right next to him. Because it was Canto. “What is it? Something for the meeting?”
“No.” A faint tug of his lips that tore open places inside her that had long scarred over. “A gift.”
She should’ve treated it as a possible threat, but it took all her control not to grab the box with feral glee. After accepting it with conscious care, she lifted the lid. Inside sat a small artwork of a cake, such as she’d seen in the windows of human and changeling bakeries. It was coated in pink with sparkles of silver, and cascading over one side were tiny flowers made of edible material.
She couldn’t breathe.
“You want to try a piece now?” Canto was turning to look over his shoulder. “I have a plate and a knife back there.”
“No.” It came out a rasp. Coughing, she managed to find her voice again. “No. I’ll take it with me.” Where she could be alone with the chaos he’d incited inside her, the raw wave of emotion that threatened to swamp all that she was, all that she’d built herself to be.
Getting to her feet in a jerky movement, she closed the box and put it in one of the small cubby-style shelves built into the side wall of the shelter. Every movement felt jagged and hard, her body an automaton pulled by strings out of her grasp.
Unable to inhale past the shards in her lungs, she strode out of the shelter.
Before
“Well?”
“She’s responding positively to the drug regime. In fact, the results of her cognition and comprehension tests put her in the ninety-ninth percentile of her age group.”
—Report on Payal Rao (age 7) to Pranath Rao
THE SMALL GIRL sat in the room where they’d locked her up and stared at her hands. They bore no scabs or