The next few days passed uneventfully.

Three meals were brought to her daily, by the same three handmaidens—who never directly spoke to her, as ordered perhaps—once when Surya was not yet very high in his daily journey, one when he had passed his zenith and the last when the fiery shades of the day gave way to the night blue.

Lilavati had nothing else to do. She thought, remembered, dreamt and wept—mourning for the lives she had taken and debating fiercely with herself the cause of her actions.

No matter how hard she had tried, she was never able to find the path that had led her out of the gardens again. It was as though it had disappeared, and she was extremely puzzled by the strange occurrence.

She did not see her husband either, after that day in court, but sometimes she felt the fire of his mind touch against her own feather-light, quickly checking in with her. Those moments stood out as a bright star amongst many dulled ones, and she yearned for something more that she could not name.

One day, after a particularly vivid nightmare, she was wandering the palace, simply staring up into the empyrean that was ever-shifting. Her hair hung loose, her tresses brushing her face courtesy of the wind god, and her white saari was tightly wound around her body.

She heard the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet, and did not turn back, half wondering whether it was a hallucination.

Only when a loud crash reached her ears did she spring up, fully alert now, her left hand automatically reaching for her hip and cursing herself that she had no weapon to wield.

Lilavati walked with near-silent footfalls towards the source of the crash, and then paused as she heard the soft sounds of someone crying. She turned the corner and the sight that greeted her was surprising.

A tall brass pot that was nearly half her height was on the ground and beside it was a young child—a boy of perhaps eight or nine winters. His back was turned to her but she saw that he was holding one of his fingers in his hand.

She sighed, relieved that it wasn't an intruder but apprehension immediately followed it when she looked around and found no one else. The boy must have gotten lost.

Gathering whatever courage she had, she sank to her knees beside the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder. The boy turned to her, lip wobbling and he looked at her with some curiosity.

"Are you hurt, child?" she asked, surprising herself with the warmth in her voice.

Unafraid that this was a woman he had never seen before, he held out his little finger to her.

"It hurts," he mumbled, fresh tears gathering at the corner of his eyes and Lilavati felt her heart melt. For all that she was a sinner, the innocence of children was something she truly prized.

She tore the edge of her saari and wrapped the loose cloth around the boy's bleeding finger and then affectionately ran a hand through his hair, to which the child giggled, wrinkling his nose.

"What is your name, Putraka? Who are your parents?"

"My name is Harsha!" the child proclaimed, joyous in a way only children could be. A pang struck Lilavati's heart but she pushed it away.

"And my Pitashri is Vaasudeva Krishna and my Maa is Avantika Mitravinda!"

This made her do a double take and she looked at the child as though she was seeing him for the first time. He was definitely a Yadava through and through, of a wheatish complexion and... she could see it now, the many features of her husband so clearly prominent on his face.

"Who are you?" the child—Harsha asked, cocking his head to the side. "Are you a widow?"

The strange question made Lilavati furrow her brows and a strangled laugh catch in her throat, and Harsha looked at her keenly and immediately mumbled, "Uh oh, that was a bad question!"

She laughed then, slightly wary, saying, "My name is Lilavati, Harsha. And no, I'm not a widow. What makes you think so?"

He looked at her fully again with a keen glance that she was sure he had inherited from her father. Then, quite simply, he said, "You're dressed in all white and your hair is loose. Don't only widows dress like that?"

"Oh. I didn't know, Putraka."

He remained silent for a few seconds, then clapped his hands and grinned.

"I told you something you didn't know! So that makes me superior to you in terms of knowledge! That means you have to tell me something you know and something I don't to make us equal!"

Lilavati then only smiled, feeling light in a way she hadn't since... since when, she didn't know. Perhaps she'd been feeling like this all her life, tightly wound and unable to release herself.

She hummed then, running through ideas in her mind.

"That's a very fine idea, my wise one. What does my wise Harsha wish me to tell him about?"

He contemplated this with as serious an expression as he could muster, then said, flourishing his hands widely and dramatically, "Tell me a story! A story of far off lands, damsels in distress and ugly demons defeated by fair warriors."

She then nodded.

"I'll tell you a story, but let's move somewhere more comfortable."

Harsha happily agreed, and that was how Lilavati found herself settled on the grass in the gardens, in the midst of innumerable flowers, Harsha seated beside her.

She mused to herself. She really had grown warm to the child very quickly, and it may have been as the children tended to gravitate to her in a new village, where no one truly knew who she was and where she came from. Of course, that very swiftly changed as mothers looked on her with distrust and scolded the children that would dare sneak up to her.

It also might have been as the little one was her husband's child, and she trusted him far more than she did herself.

"Tell me your story!" Harsha commanded, mirth glimmering in his pure eyes.

A smile grew on Lilavati's face and she adjusted herself to face him.

"One day, a prince was travelling through the land, and he had stopped to rest in a small village. He did not like the village very much, with its mud houses and straw roofs, the dirt roads and dusty children running about like hooligans. Now, this prince was very arrogant and proud. He considered himself to be very wise and superior to everyone else. When he was walking through the village with his gold ornaments and fine silks, he saw an old woman selling some fruits.

"Normally he would have ignored the old woman and moved on, but there was something strange about the fruits that drew him closer. They looked as juicy and as rich as the fruits he used to get back in the palace. The old woman looked at him and silently offered him a pomegranate. He scoffed. He said, 'Lady, I am a prince. I have been fed with silver spoons and from golden plates since my birth. What will a mere pomegranate offer me?'

"The old lady said nothing again, and broke open the pomegranate, picking out a few seeds and holding them out to him again. His lip curled and he took the seeds, appearing to humour the old lady—what are you doing, Harsha?"

Lilavati stopped her story in its tracks as she saw Harsha gathering a few flowers, then coming to sit beside her and show her the flowers. Proudly, he said, "I'm making a flower crown for my Agrajaa!"

She could not help but smile indulgently at that, fondly ruffling the curls that were so reminiscent of her husband's, but tamer.

"Shall I continue, Putraka?"

"Yes, please!" he said, ever so politely, beginning to weave the flowers together.

"The prince ate the seeds, and they were richer and sweeter than any other pomegranate seeds he had ever had. Without realising his folly, he savoured the taste of the seeds, and then looked at the fruit basket the old woman held. It was filled with mango, pomegranates, guavas and many more fruits that he had no name for. Brashly, he said, pulling out a jewel that gleamed in the sunlight, 'Lady, give me these fruits and you shall have this jewel that is priceless.' The old lady looked at the jewel and back at him, and finally spoke in a hoarse voice, 'I have no need of jewels, prince. I have been eating from banana leaves since my birth, what will I do with a jewel and no food?' She echoed the words that the prince had said earlier.

"The prince did not budge. He held out the jewel. 'I am offering you a priceless jewel, old lady, and you want to refuse it? I can order my guards to put you to death for disobeying your prince.' The old woman stood up, saying, 'Take your jewels elsewhere, I will not accept them.' This enraged the prince and he was about to call for one of his guards that a light surrounded the old woman. In her place was an ever-young apsara, descended from the heavens.

"In a voice as sweet as honey she said, 'Your arrogance will prove to be the end of you one day, O prince. You are also the heir of your father, and a poor heir you are indeed! A ruler must always put his people first, and always behave towards his citizens with humility and modesty. This does not befit you as a Kshatriya, when one of your primary duties is to aid the helpless and respect others no matter whether they be a Shudra or a small child.' The prince stood with folded hands, realising his mistake.

"He said, 'Forgive me, O divine damsel! I have erred, and you may punish me as you see fit.' The apsara smiled and then replied, 'You have realised your folly, and I see that punishment enough once you repent. Never do this again.' And in another flash of light, the apsara was gone. From that day, the prince behaved with newfound humility and always respected others no matter their appearance."

Harsha clapped, the flower crown resting on his lap.

"That was an awesome story, lady Lilavati! Thank you!"

Lilavati felt as though her heart would burst, and she pressed a fleeting kiss to the child's cheek, even as he squealed in fake protest.

Suddenly, she could hear a worried voice calling out a name in the distance.

"Harsha? Harsha, where are you, Putra?"

The child perked up.

"I'm here, Mai!" he called back, rising from her side.

Lilavati looked on as a gate swung open, and a woman entered the garden almost at a run. Her beauty was almost difficult to look upon, but Lilavati shifted to her knees and kept her eyes on the woman. The woman's complexion was of molten gold, her eyebrows knitted together in worry. She was arrayed in a light blue saari that brought to mind a cloudless sky, adorned with gold necklaces and brilliant ornaments. Behind her veil was her hair that was braided and adorned with sweet smelling flowers.

The grass and flowers seemed to respond to her touch, growing towards her as though they wanted to touch her feet. Her lotus-akin eyes were wide as she took in the scene, Lilavati seated on the grass and Harsha beside her.

"Harsha!" she hissed, reaching out and pulling her son next to her, dropping to her knees and checking him over for injuries.

"What have I told you about running off?" There was a strange fear alight in her voice, and Lilavati knew that at least some of that fear was because of her.

Her smile faded.

Harsha then pouted and mumbled, "Lady Lilavati told me a very nice story, Mai! And she helped me when I cut my hand!"

The lady kissed her son's cheek, murmuring something soundless against his face.

She then rose, taking Harsha's hands.

"We best go now, Putra, it's time for lunch. Your Pitashri wants all of us together today."

Harsha turned back to her, waving goodbye with the flower crown in his hand.

"Bye-bye, lady Lilavati!"

Lilavati waved back half-heartedly, her attention more on his mother.

As his mother guided Harsha out of the garden, he began to chatter, "I'm gonna give this to Charumati Agrajaa, Mai! I made it when—"

Lilavati almost, almost missed the look her husband's elder wife sent her, mixed with a strange emotion and gratitude.

She murmured a soft "Thank you" as she turned to leave.

And that meant more to her than any words she could have assured herself with.