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“From the Sethi mansion auction,” Ravi said, wiping his brow. “Only two hundred rupees. A bargain.”
Almost.
Meera scrambled, nearly spilling the boiling cardamom tea onto her fingers. She set the brass tray on the low table just as her father, Ravi, ducked under the lintel. He was a tall, quiet man who smelled of dust and office files. But today, he wasn’t alone.
Meera felt the warmth first. Then the smell of mothballs. The woman was younger than Meera now, beautiful in the way a sharp knife is beautiful. She placed a cool hand on Meera’s shoulder.
Behind him, wrapped in a mustard-yellow bedsheet, was the aaina .
“It said: ‘I saw my mother in this glass every night until I forgot her face. Then I saw my daughter. Then I saw no one. That is the curse. You will always see the woman you failed.’ ”
The woman finally turned.
The woman smiled, and her teeth were tiny, perfect mirrors. “Your father saw his wife. Your mother saw her sister who died as a child. But you, Meera—you saw a stranger. Because you have failed no one yet.”
