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She sticks her tongue out at me, her only admission that the bowl works. Then I sing to her, quietly, the way Mama used to sing to me, and brush my fingertips through the stray hairs that fall upon her forehead.

Under our blanket, she reaches for my hand. Squeezes it. “Good night, Channi.”

I set down the fruit bowl, my throat suddenly clogged with emotion. It’s been years since I last sang my sister to sleep.

Footsteps thud from an inner chamber I haven’t yet explored. I hear water. Someone must be inside drawing a bath.

At first, I assume it’s Lintang. Then a short, scarfless shaman with curls steps into view, and I let out a silent groan.

“I’ll see to her,” says Oshli to the other servants emerging from the bath chamber. “Her spirit needs cleansing.”

The servants bow, clearly relieved that they won’t have to tend me. “Yes, sir.”

They leave, and my mood instantly sours.

Oshli, who used to throw stones at my face with the other children, who tried to exorcise me with nonsense prayers his father taught him. Then who became infatuated with Vanna like everyone else, and spent every waking moment he could with her, pretending I didn’t exist.

Obviously, I’m not fond of the young priest, but I am curious why he has come. About the way Vanna’s expression changed when I mentioned him in the carriage….

“What are you doing here?” I greet him blandly. “Have you come to accuse me of murdering your father? Well, I hate to disappoint you. It wasn’t me.”

“I wouldn’t have helped you through the gates if I thought you’d murdered the High Priest of Sundau.”

Oshli never refers to Dakuok as his father, even now that he’s dead. I can understand what it’s like having a father you don’t respect. We used to confide in each other about ours, back when Oshli was my friend, not Vanna’s. When we used to dig holes in the dirt and search for worms, when I lived in my old house and knew no one else my own age. So long ago the memory’s all but a dream. I tuck it away, bury it deep. I doubt he remembers.

“Then what do you want?” I say.

The young shaman observes Ukar. To my surprise, he gives the snake a respectful nod—then he turns to me, and simply replies, “You lost my scarf.”

“Ask Vanna’s guards where it is,” I reply tartly. “They’re the ones who tore it off.”

Little perturbs Dakuok’s son. I might as well have told him that pigeons flew away with it. He changes the subject. “I hear you’ve been ordered to bathe.”

So he knows about Vanna’s newfound power. It seems she’s acquired it just in time to be a princess.

Oshli gestures at the tub, filled with steaming water, fragrant with freshly plucked jasmine petals and lotus blossoms. It’s supposed to be a luxury, but the only time I’ve bathed with flowers is in a pond full of frogs.

“I don’t need any spirit cleansing.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

He’s right. No matter how I fight, I cannot resist Vanna’s command to bathe. As the water rises, so does my resentment. I should be out scouring the palace, hunting for Angma, not lounging in a lacquered tub, soaking away my dirt and stink with perfumed bubbles.

Ukar doesn’t hesitate. He slithers into the bath, letting out a pleasurable sigh. It’s warm, he says. And bubbly. Are you just going to stand there trading barbs with the shaman? Get in here.

I tug at my clothes. “I might look like a snake,” I snap at Oshli, “but I’m still a woman. I could use some privacy.”

My remark succeeds in breaking the shaman’s stony demeanor. He whirls, retreating behind a wooden folding screen. “I’ll stand watch from here.”

“I can protect myself.”

“That’s not the story I heard from home.”

I have an itch to throw him in the tub and drown him. But he is a priest, so I mind my manners. Well, my hands mind their manners. My mouth has different ideas: “Aren’t you the head shaman now that your father is dead?”

“I am.”

“Then shouldn’t you be at the temple with my sister? Or does she not want you there?”