Evening found the haveli honey-lit and humming, the courtyard strung with fairy‑lights that trembled each time the warm wind swept by. Somewhere in the west wing, a shehnai rehearsed the tentative first line of a love song and then lost its nerve. Aanya smiled at the sound, then checked the drape of her midnight sari in the mirror: ink-blue silk slung low on one shoulder, hand‑embroidered constellations skipping across the pallu as though the night sky had chosen to wear her.

“Stop trying to look like a problem,” Saira said from the chaise, chin in palm, a grin small and sharp. “You are the whole syllabus.”