Three days of feasting and ceremony, of Siya playing the perfect hostess with folded hands and a serene smile while her feet screamed and her back ached from standing. Three days of instructing servants, of overseeing kitchen fires, of nodding through endless village gossip from the old aunties who pinched her cheeks and asked when she'd give Thakurji a son.

Now the house breathed quiet again. Oil lamps flickered low in the corridors. The last bullock cart had creaked away an hour ago, dust settling on the path in the twilight.