She should have burned

Alaric heard the villagers’ shouts outside the bungalow and descended at once to investigate. Before leaving, he gave Anastasia a look that made his displeasure unmistakable.

When he reached the ground floor, he found a group of villagers waiting below- faces contorted with anger.

The lead man stepped forward, brandishing his baton

and told -

"That girl belongs to the pyre, Sahib by law and Dharma, you've no right to keep her"

Alaric's hand rested on his revolver

"You will disperse now, or I will report this to assembly as unlawful. The collector does not look kindly on sedition..."

At Alaric's firm, menacing words, the villager's withdrew, muttering curses under their breaths.

Alaric was Displeased with Anastasia's conduct. She had always been compassionate, but Hindu customs were strictly observed in these districts, and anyone perceived to have descreted them risked provoking violent retribution.

Alaric noticed how the headman's eyes lingered at the Bungalow before leaving as if he was preparing something.

Upstairs, Anastasia heard everything loud and clear...

She didn't move.

Alaric was pacing to and fro. His boots pressed against the floor as he turned away. His voice came without looking back...

"Do you know what they do to women who interfere Anastasia?..."

"I saved her life!"

"No", He said quietly "You signed for her death warrant and possibly yours"

Anastasia hesitated, and her eyes flicked to window where The Ganges river ran silent and steady, indifferent to the noise on its banks

Alaric spoke again

"You think kindness protects you here? Hindu custom's isn't debated Anastasia. It's enforced and you just spat on it infront of fifty men. This is not England, Anastasia. This is Calcutta, and here, you will abide by its rules"

Alaric stepped closer, Voice low enough that she could hear.

..."By sunrise, either that girl walks back to the pyre, or we all will burn with her."...

The girl Anastasia had rescued sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands as though they belonged to someone else.

When Anastasia entered, the girl spoke, her voice quiet but edged with determination.

"He is angry at you because of me."

"Because he is afraid," Anastasia replied.

For the first time, the girl looked up, startled.

"Afraid of what?" she asked, confusion tightening her brow.

Anastasia knelt before her and said softly,

"Of losing control—of me."

The words hung in the air, too large for the small room. Outside, the murmur of the street had died to a watchful silence.

  The girl did not answer at once. She studied Anastasia’s face the way one studies fire—drawn to it, wary of being burned. The lamplight caught the faint tremor in her fingers.

Finally, Anastasia broke the quiet. Her voice was low, careful, as if speaking too loudly might shatter something fragile.

"What do they call you?" she asked.

The girl’s eyes flickered. For a moment, defiance flared there, quick and bright. Names were power here. To give one was to be seen, to be claimed.

"Why does it matter?" she said. "I am no one now."

Anastasia did not look away.

"You are not no one. You are the girl who chose to breathe when the world told you to burn. That deserves a name."

The girl’s throat worked. She swallowed, and when she spoke, it was barely above a whisper, as though the sound itself was a secret she had not used in years.

"Tillotoma"

Tillotoma looked down at her hands again, but this time, They seemed steadier

She said nothing

But when Anastasia repeated her name, the girl's fingers curled slightly against the edge of the bed -- the only sign that she had heard

Anastasia did not answer at once

She only reached out, stopping just short of touching the girl's hand, and withdrew it

"Rest now" she said. "We will speak of names another time"

Tillotoma's fingers clenched against the edge of the bed. The lamplight threw shadows across her face, and for a moment the composure she’d been clinging to slipped.

"Wait "she said, the word coming out rough, unpracticed. Her voice dropped, almost ashamed of its own urgency.

"I told my name… Shouldn't I know yours too?"

She said it without looking up, as if saying it too boldly would make it vanish.

"Your name," Tillotoma added, quieter still. "Please."

Anastasia stilled. No one had asked her that since she’d stepped off the ship in Calcutta. Here, she was Memsaab,the Englishwoman,Alaric’s fiancé . Never just a name.

"Anastasia," she answered, and for the first time it didn’t feel like a mask.

"Anastasia," Tillotoma repeated, testing it. The syllables sat awkwardly on her tongue, foreign and careful.

"It does not sound like fear," she murmured.

Anastasia’s lips curved, faint and brief.

"Then I have done something right."

Outside, the house shifted with a low creak of settling timber. Neither of them moved.

Then the floorboard outside creaked.

Both of them froze.

A shadow moved across the thin line of light under the door.

Alaric’s voice came low and cold from the hallway:

"Anastasia. Outside. Now."

Anastasia’s hand twitched, halfway between Tillotoma and the door. She didn’t move.

Tillotoma's eyes darted to her, then to the door, and she went very still—like a cornered animal that knew running would make it worse.

Anastasia’s hand twitched, halfway between Tillotoma and the door. She didn’t move.

Tillotoma's eyes darted to her, then to the door, and she went very still.

The name hung in the air.

Anastasia. Not Ana. Not theirs.

His.

Tillotoma's breath hitched.

Anastasia didn’t answer him. Not yet. She was watching Tillotoma, waiting to see if the girl would say her name again before she left.

She stepped out and pulled the door shut quietly behind her.

Alaric was waiting in the dim hallway. He looked gutted. No sharpness, no rigid posture. Just exhaustion and something close to fear.

"Ana," he said quietly. He hadn’t used that name since she arrived in Calcutta.

Anastasia stopped. Her stomach dropped before he said anything else.

"What is it?"

Alaric swallowed hard and held out a folded letter with a black border.

"It came this morning. From London."

Anastasia stared at the black edge. She didn’t take it yet.

"Mother?"

He nodded once, voice rough.

"She passed three weeks ago. Fever. It was quick."

The hallway went silent.

Three weeks. Anastasia had blamed the delayed post, the monsoon, a hundred small things. None of them were this.

"Why didn’t you tell me sooner?" she whispered. Not angry. Just needing to understand.

"Because today only the letter came" Alaric said. "And I didn’t know how to say it without everyone hearing. I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone but me. I wanted to get it right, and I didn’t."

He looked down. "I was a coward, Ana."

Anastasia’s fingers finally closed around the letter. It felt too light for what it carried.

"Quick," she repeated. The word felt wrong. "She hated being ill. She would have hated that."

Alaric’s throat worked.

"The letter said she asked for you. At the end."

That landed harder than anything else.

Anastasia pressed her forehead against the cool wood of Tillotoma's door, eyes closed. London, her mother’s room, the sound of her voice — it all rushed in at once. The house, Tillotoma, everything else went quiet.

Alaric didn’t fill the silence. He just stood there. For the first time in months he wasn’t trying to manage her. He was just there.

When she spoke again, her voice was low.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing more than that," Alaric said. "She asked for you. That’s all we have."

Outside, the rain started against the shutters, soft and steady.

Anastasia opened her eyes. She looked at Alaric and saw the same grief in him.

"I need to go back in," she said.

He nodded.

"Do you want me to sit with you?"

He’d never asked that before.

Anastasia hesitated, then shook her head.

"Not yet".

Anastasia closed her bedroom door behind her and leaned against it until the latch clicked.

The hallway was silent. Alaric hadn’t followed.

She didn’t light another lamp. The single candle on the desk threw shadows across the floor, and in that dim light she looked down at the letter with the black border.

She passed three weeks ago. Fever. It was quick

Anastasia’s knees gave out.

She slid down the door to the floor, the letter clutched in her hand like it might disappear if she let go. For a moment she just sat there, breathing too fast, trying to make the words fit.

...Three weeks. ...

Three weeks of letters that never came. Three weeks of her writing to London about the heat, about Alaric, about Calcutta, and her mother never reading a single one.

"Why?" The word broke out of her, rough and raw. It wasn’t for Alaric. It wasn’t for anyone in this house.

She tipped her head back against the door, eyes burning.

"Why her? Why now? Why when I’m not there?"

The question hung in the air, and no answer came. Just the sound of rain starting against the shutters again.

Anastasia pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She thought of Tillotoma down the hall—safe, breathing, alive because Anastasia had pulled her back. And then she thought of her mother, alone in London, asking for her at the end and getting silence instead.

It didn’t make sense.

She’d come here to help, to do something that mattered. But what was the point if the one person she’d wanted to make proud was gone before she could even try?

"Was I wrong to come?" she whispered into the dark room. "Was I wrong to leave you?"

Her voice cracked on the last word.

She hated that she didn’t know whether to pray or shout. Hated that every prayer she knew felt hollow tonight. Hated that the only thing she could feel clearly was the weight of being too late.

The letter slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.

Anastasia sat there a long time, staring at it, not moving. Outside, the storm rolled closer. Inside, it was just her and the silence where her mother’s voice should have been.

And for the first time since she arrived in Calcutta, she didn’t know what to do next.

...Her father....

She hated him for it. Hated him for forcing her hand into Alaric’s name when she was nineteen and didn’t know how to say no. Hated him for calling it duty, for calling it security, for calling it what was best for the family name.

Hated him for making her leave Thomas.

Her knight. Her beloved. The one man who’d ever looked at her like she was more than a contract to be signed.

"Marry where it matters," her father had said. "Not where it feels good."

So she’d married obedience instead. Left London, left him, left everything that had ever felt like home.

And for what? For this?

For a foreign land where the air was thick and the customs choked her. Where a woman’s voice was too loud if she spoke above a whisper. Where even grief had to be quiet, or it became a scandal.

Now her mother was gone.

The one who’d taught her to read, to argue, to stitch a wound and a torn dress with the same steady hands. The one who’d whispered you’re stronger than they think you are when Father wasn’t listening.

And Anastasia hadn’t been there.

She couldn’t even attend the funeral. No ship, no post, no time. She was trapped here, in this suffocating place, while her mother was put in the ground without her.

"Was I wrong to leave you?" she whispered into the dark room, voice cracking. "Was I wrong to listen to him?"

She hated her father for making her choose between duty and love.

And she hated herself for choosing wrong.

The letter slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.

Anastasia sat there a long time, staring at it, not moving. Outside, the storm rolled closer. Inside, it was just her and the silence where her mother’s voice should have been.

And for the first time since she arrived in Calcutta, she didn’t know if she had anything left to hold onto.

^^^This is the moment where the girl who obeyed starts asking why^^^

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