A moon’s cycle had passed since the Three Days of Nakedness. Urvashi’s body had settled into its new rhythms, marked not by the turning of seasons but by the ebb and flow of possession—the private, intense couplings with Ishin, the occasional, rougher visitations from Ronan to “maintain his claim,” and the steady, casual use by villagers who now treated her accessibility as a natural fact, like drawing water from the well.

But a new change was upon her. For weeks, the elder women had been feeding her a potent, bitter paste of Shatavari, Fenugreek, and other galactagogue herbs, mixed into her meals and drinks. Her breasts, always full and sensitive, had begun to feel heavier, tighter, the veins beneath the skin more prominent. A dull, persistent ache settled deep within them. Yesterday, a thin, clear fluid had beaded on her nipples when Ishin squeezed them in play. Mata Prakriti had been summoned, tasted the droplet, and nodded with grim satisfaction.