Iceland worked as a nanny for two blonde-haired, dull-eyed children of an overseas family aching with money, a surrogate motherhood that encouraged her inner cynic. But the parents paid well, enough to live like Kavi had longed to since her cramped New Delhi childhood: as deposed princesses in exile, tasteful but plain. No running water, no electricity, certainly no internet. Just two women who adored the dresses off each other, a giggling river, and a cat named Amelia Bedelia.

And the crag witches.