The silence in the haveli was thick, a living thing that pulsed with the aftermath. Siya moved through the evening routine on autopilot, her body a symphony of dull aches. A bath at the stone tank in the inner courtyard had washed away the physical evidence — the sticky streaks, the sweat, the scent of him and their coupling — but it couldn't touch the deeper marks. The memory of his possession was a brand on her nerves, a hum in her blood. She dressed in a simple soft malmal nightgown, the pale fabric whispering against her sensitive skin. It was modest, high-necked, covering the faint pink marks on her throat from his hands earlier. A shield, however flimsy.