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Thedrawingroom.
Momma’s idea of a joke. It’sliterallya room for drawing—more accurately, painting—not the traditional drawing room for greeting guests. Hardy, har, har.
The room contains easels, stools, blue-and-red cabinets splotched with every shade of paint, along with shelves lined with art supplies. The astringent smell of paint cleaner and the dull smell of paint envelop us. I rub my hand back and forth against my nose. Ew. Artists might have acute sight, but their olfactory senses have to be diminished.
Two artists sit on stools, painting at easels. I wasn’t expecting this. I’d thought only Momma would be here. The kid is all skin and bones and stiff shoulders. Someone from the school? Maybe. But whatever Momma sees in this frail girl makes her special indeed.
Momma has taken off her niqab, revealing her scars. Mostly she doesn’t, not even with her daughters. She only shows her scars to girls so broken that they find comfort with people as wounded as themselves. Just one more way Momma makes herself vulnerable to strengthen others.
That’s Momma. The woman who rescued me. She isn’t perfect, but she does want to do good in the world, and I’m going to be making sure that includes Bridget. “Momma, Sandesh and I are here to speak with you.”
I expect Momma to put on her niqab before turning around.
She doesn’t. She turns from where she paints a colorful landscape dotted with wildflowers.
The slight spasm of Sandesh’s hand is all he gives at the sight of Momma’s horrible scars.
The vibrant beauty Momma paints only seems to highlight the peaks and valleys of her damaged skin.
“Come in, Justice. Sandesh.”
Technically, we are inside, but Momma means for us to stop lurking in the doorway.
I let go of Sandesh’s hand, walk over, then kiss her cheek.
Momma grasps my hand and looks at the band woven with the garnet on my wrist. Her eyes travel to Sandesh’s wrist and the matching band there. “I see it worked.”
He winks at her.Hewinkedat Momma?Conspirators. How many of my family were in on this whole get-Justice-to-marry-Sandesh thing?
“Thanks for the advice,” he says. “Short and sweet.”
Hmmm. Guy had had a freakin’ army on his side.
“Nice to see you approve of the whole wedding thing because I’m here about a wedding present.”
Momma raises one damaged eyebrow where the eyebrow should’ve been. “Okay. But first—”
“Nope. No. I need—”
Momma puts up a hand, silences me. “If it is in my power to give, it will be yours.”
Oh man, she’s going to regret that.
I grin at Sandesh as if to say,Told you.
He shakes his head in disbelief.
“I interrupted,” Momma says, “because you are being rude. You have not said hello to your newest sister. I believe you have met.”
Huh? I take a closer look at the other artist and suck in a breath. It’sCee. Cee, who I saved. Cee who, in turn, saved me. Not only from that drunk man the night we first met, but by giving me someone like me, someone to truly save. After Tony, I needed that.
Cee pushes her stool back with a scrape and stands. Same bony body. Same half-challenging, half-wary-tiger, red-brown eyes.
I lick lips gone dry, move toward her, then pause. I’ve got to take this easy. She’s been through a lot.
In many ways, Ceeisn’tlike Hope. Not physically. Hope had lighter skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. Cee is Latina, with dark eyes, hair, and skin. And yet, she reminds me of Hope. In the tension of her shoulders. In the take-me-on-and-you’ll-get-more-than-you-bargained-for gleam in her fierce eyes.
That’s how Hope had protected me, by standing in front of me when Aamir came for me.
