The royal bedchamber smelled of sandalwood paste and rosewater. Oil lamps flickered against sandstone walls, casting long shadows over the silk-draped bed. Pratap stood by the window, his broad back to the doorway, watching the moon rise over the palace gardens.

Khushbu entered barefoot. Her wedding silk had been replaced with a thin muslin cloth, almost transparent in the lamplight. Her hair fell loose past her waist. The handmaidens had bathed her in milk and saffron, braided jasmine into her hair, anointed her wrists with musk.