Two months had passed since the intense, challenging delivery, and a strange, quiet tranquility had settled over Rani. The fierce protectiveness that had driven her during the nine months of secrecy had now morphed into a deep, abiding maternal devotion. She was physically recovered, her strength slowly returning, though the memory of the agony in that room remained a sharp, private scar.

She was now sitting on a low, ornate stone bench in a secluded corner of the haveli garden. The air was soft and fragrant with blooming jasmine. Her son, Trishan—was sleeping soundly in the chamber. With her, however, was Trisha, Priya’s daughter.