The moon hung low and heavy, silvering the courtyard. Chandni was bathed again by the elderly women. Warm rose-scented water slid down her skin; sandalwood paste was rubbed into her thighs, her arms, her breasts until she flushed with heat. Then they draped her in crimson silk — the saree tied without any blouse, dangerously low on her hips, enough that even the faintest movement revealed more of her soft curves.

The woman whispered in her ear: