Chainbreaker

by Tara Sim

  Maybe there was an Urdu or Hindi dictionary nearby. She tried walking through the billet, but Partha kept at her heels. He reminded her of an old toy she’d had as a child, a yellow wooden duck attached to a string. She’d clutch the string and the duck would roll along behind her, following her every step.

  “You don’t have to come with me everywhere,” she eventually said. “You should go rest. Have some tea.”

  Partha looked skeptical, but said that he would have someone posted to her door until he returned. Daphne rolled her eyes when he was gone. Finally, a moment to herself.

  Maybe Akash would know where to find a dictionary. She asked a few servants if they knew where he was staying, but they shook their heads, eyes lowered, before they hurried on with their chores. Down another hallway, she nearly ran smack into a dark-haired Englishman in uniform. He gripped her arm to steady her.

  “Here, love, I’m sorry about that.”

  “It’s no matter.” His hand lingered too long on her arm, and she glanced at it distastefully. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Where you off to, love? Looking for some lunch?”

  “I already ate,” she lied.

  “All right, be on your way, then. You ever want to play cards, my room’s thirty-one on the first floor.” He winked.

  Making a mental note to never go near room thirty-one on the first floor, Daphne hurried up the stairs to her own room. Just as Partha had promised, another sepoy stood guard at her door, and let her in with a silent nod.

  Once she was alone, she rubbed her arm and scratched vigorously at the spot the man had touched. She had learned to ignore the leers men gave her in London, the occasional grope on the streets. She’d been taught it was only men being men, that they couldn’t help their urges. That she was only something nice for them to look at, to feel, as if that were her only purpose in this world.

  She ripped off her bodice and looked for one with longer sleeves. Changed, she sat on the edge of her bed and yearned for another cigarette. Or tea. Better yet, sherry. But she was afraid to ask anything of the sepoy outside. She didn’t want her door unguarded for even a second.

  If only she could be doing something useful, anything to take her mind off these churning thoughts. But Crosby wouldn’t dare let her out by herself.

  She decided, suddenly, that she didn’t need Akash’s help after all. Or that of any of the soldiers. She would figure this problem out on her own.

  Daphne squandered the day pacing her room and writing a long letter to her mother that she didn’t plan to send. It would take nearly a month to deliver, and her mother would have difficulty reading it in any case. Still, it helped to steady her hand and her mind. She jotted down her thoughts, laying them before her as if they were pieces of a puzzle she had yet to solve.

  Night fell and her restlessness returned. She wanted to visit Narayan again. She wanted to understand what was going on with the towers.

  To blazes with it.

  Daphne carefully opened the door to find that Partha had returned to his post.

  “I’m going to take a turn around the billet,” she lied. “No need to follow.”

  But as she walked down the hall, he did follow. She sped up her pace, and he lengthened his stride.

  “Miss Richards, where are you going?” he finally asked. “I must tell the lieutenant—”

  “Just for a walk, as I told you.”

  “I will still have to inform—”

  She yelled in frustration, then took off running. Partha’s boots pounded behind her. Startled soldiers turned their heads, and one of them laughed. Daphne rounded a corner sharply, barreling down the stairway toward the exit.

  “Miss Richards!”

  The night embraced her. She inhaled a lungful of cooler air and kept up her pace, running, running, directionless but lured by the pull of the clock tower.

  “Miss Richards!” Partha grabbed her elbow and swung her around. She struggled, but he was far stronger. “Stop, please. Lieutenant Crosby will have my head if I do not keep you in the billet.”

  “I need to go to the tower,” she growled.

  “Why? Is it in danger? Do you know something?”

  “No, I …” How could she explain it? How could she tell this man that in a place where she felt unwelcome, unappreciated, unprotected, she had only one comfort: the clock tower, and the complexity of its time? It was written on her bones. They ached.

  “If there is no pressing need, I must bring you back,” Partha said.

  “Please,” she whispered, half-ashamed when her eyes filled with tears. “Please, may I see it? Make sure it’s all right?”

  He wavered. There was something complicated in his expression, in the way his fingers twitched. He looked over his shoulder at the billet’s glowing windows.

  “Only if you cover up,” he said at last. “Wait here.”

  She stayed in an alcove until he returned with a long muslin scarf, the sort that Sikh women wore. He helped her wrap it around her head, covering her fair hair.

  They walked to the tower in silence. Daphne’s legs were thankful for the exercise, her heart beating a slow, insistent rhythm. She wasn’t sure why Partha had agreed to her request, unless he had reason to escape the billet himself. She’d noticed that he seemed distant, even lost at times.

  “How long have you been in the army?” she asked him.

  He lifted his gaze from the ground. “Five years.”

  “How did you come to join?”

  Partha looked around, as if he didn’t want anyone overhearing. There were only a few people on the streets in this quarter, including a couple men relieving themselves against a brick wall.

  “My father was in the army,” he finally said.

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure how to politely ask more.

  He sensed the question, though, and answered anyway. “He took part in what the British call the Mutiny.” He made a face at the term. “Unfortunately, he was caught and executed. The group of rebels he was part of were strapped to the front of cannons that were then fired.”

  A dark feeling stole across her chest, making her shudder.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I shouldn’t speak of such a thing.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’m sorry for your loss. It’s … terrible, what happened.” The words were inadequate, but he nodded. “I’m sure Her Majesty becoming Queen-Empress doesn’t help.”

  His face fell into that complicated look again, but he didn’t respond.

  “Are you going to the celebration in Delhi? Will you be helping guard the tower there?”

  “No, Major Dryden does not want to spare many of his men. You and Mr. Hart are not to go under any circumstances. It might be dangerous.”

  She was about to ask more about the tower guard when they rounded a corner and saw a few British soldiers standing under a statue. As they got closer, she realized it was a depiction of the Queen. Her arm was held before her, a large jewel cradled on her stone palm.

  The statue must be new, no doubt to celebrate the upcoming coronation. It seemed oddly out of place. Almost garish. Without realizing it, Daphne made a face.

  The street was lit with torches, so Daphne could plainly see the faces of Lucknow citizens glaring up at the statue and the soldiers standing beneath it. The street felt like the string of a violin, taut and ready to sound. Partha sensed it, too, and put his hand protectively near Daphne’s elbow. The soldiers laughed at something, ignoring the incensed crowd.

  Then one man stepped forward and threw a head of rotting cabbage at the statue. “Down with the Queen!” he yelled. “Down with the British!”

  One of the soldiers grabbed his rifle. “What was that, now? I can barely hear you under that swill you call words.”

  The Indian man was small and stick-thin. He clenched his hands as the British soldier, large and broad-shouldered, stalked toward him.

  “I asked you to repeat yourself,” the soldier demanded.

  T
he Indian spat Hindi at him, then literally spat—right at the soldier’s feet. Before Daphne could blink, the soldier had knocked the man to the ground and pushed a boot to his neck. He aimed his rifle at the man’s face.

  “Say it again,” the soldier snarled. “I dare you.”

  Some of the Indians put their heads down, walking faster. Others had stopped to watch. Now they roused as one, muttering and yelling and finding other things to throw: a shoe, a rock, a piece of garbage. The other two soldiers drew their guns, trading worried looks. They were clearly outnumbered.

  The soldier pinning down the Indian man fired a warning shot in the air. The whole street fell deadly silent.

  “Run to your homes, or whatever piss-stained alley you use for your beds,” he ordered, “unless you want a hot bullet for your supper.”

  The Indians retreated slowly, malice flaming in their eyes. One man seemed to look in their direction, and Daphne stiffened, but he only gave a grim smile before he lost himself in the crowd.

  The soldier let the skinny man up, and he scrambled away as fast as he could. The soldier aimed his rifle as if to shoot him in the back, thought better of it, and shouldered it again.

  Partha had dragged Daphne into the shadows, away from the commotion. When he gently tugged her arm, she realized she was shaking. “We must go back to the billet,” he whispered. “Please. It’s not safe.”

  A riot had almost broken out. Either the Indians would have been shot, or they would have torn the British soldiers limb from limb.

  And she would have been helpless to stop it.

  “Miss Richards, please.”

  The fingers on her arm trembled. She looked into Partha’s eyes. They were wide, frightened, but shone with the same fervor of the crowd, a current of hatred under subservience.

  At least they had something in common, then.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  He swallowed and swung his head from side to side. “Do not worry yourself. But we must go. Now.”

  The clock tower. Was it all right? Had this been a distraction to attack it? As they walked back in the direction they’d come, she focused on the energy of Lucknow’s time and found it unchanged. Narayan Tower was still functioning.

  “Please do not tell the lieutenant,” Partha said.

  “I won’t. You have my word.” But even if she never spoke of this to another soul, it would still play through her mind in grim horror, searing a brand that she would carry forever.

  The next day, Daphne all but ran to the clock tower and found Narayan waiting for her. She tried to speak to him again, but had no more luck. The most she could make out was that he had seen more visions.

  She needed a translator.

  Back in her room, she sat stewing in her own irritable thoughts, hating her circumstances, until a rap at the window made her jump. Akash waved at her from the other side of the glass.

  Her room was on the second floor.

  Her heart leapt as she flung open the window. “What are you doing? How—?”

  “Don’t worry, there’s an overhang here. See?”

  Daphne leaned out and saw that he was, in fact, standing on a slanted ledge. “You’re going to fall and break your neck. How did you even get up here?”

  “Meena and I used to run across rooftops when we were little. We stole kites.” Daphne raised an eyebrow, and he grinned. “I don’t think the sepoy at your door likes me,” he went on. “He wouldn’t let me in.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I would have welcomed the company.” But then the events of last night returned to her, biting and surreal. No doubt they bit at Partha, too.

  “Since the lieutenant won’t let you out without an escort, I will gladly be your escort if you would like a tour of Lucknow,” Akash said.

  “Thank you, but maybe some other time.”

  His smile dimmed. “Are you feeling well, Miss Richards?”

  “Honestly, I just want some tea.”

  “I can bring you tea.”

  “How?”

  “I will think of a way.”

  “Don’t you dare climb up here with a teacup on your head.”

  “I climbed down, actually. And I could hold the saucer between my teeth, if you prefer.” He flashed those teeth in another brilliant smile.

  She scoffed. “Good luck with that. I can’t wait to see your shirt soaked with tea.”

  “Then I will return quickly.”

  “Wait wait wait!” He had actually started climbing back up to the roof, as if he had every intention of delivering piping hot tea to her window. “Are you mad?”

  “Meena usually says so.”

  “Well, Meena must be right. You’re not bringing me tea.”

  “All right.” He put his hands on the windowsill. “Then come out here with me, and we’ll get it from a chai wallah down the street.”

  Daphne considered her options: stay trapped in her room, eaten away by fear and loneliness, or go outside and risk seeing another episode like last night’s. She might be able to find a Hindi dictionary, though. And there was the promise of tea.

  Carefully, she climbed out the window and onto the roof, balancing beside Akash. He grinned at her, as excited as a little boy. A spark of that excitement caught flame inside her. She wanted to run, but not from Akash; from this building, from herself, from everything she had ever known.

  “Teach me how to climb,” she heard herself say.

  “Haan, Miss Richards.”

  The chai was sweet and hot, and Daphne closed her eyes in bliss after the first sip. The chai wallah’s cart was busy, so to avoid being jostled by impatient customers, Daphne followed Akash as he weaved through the crowd. Although it was warmer, Daphne was glad she had changed into her long-sleeved bodice, even if she still attracted stares. Mostly, it was her fair hair and skin that drew curious eyes. She wondered what it would be like to blend into the crowd, to immerse herself without fear of standing out.

  “Do you like the chai?” Akash asked. She hummed her approval. “Are you at all hungry?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Then what would you like to do?”

  “I’d just like to walk.”

  Akash didn’t exactly lead her. He didn’t know the city well, though he said he had been there a few times for deliveries. But he walked at her side, sometimes choosing which way to turn, sometimes letting her steer their course. Daphne was amazed to realize that aimless wandering with tea in her hand was exactly what she had needed.

  They saw a sign for the botanical gardens ahead. They exchanged a look.

  “Would you like to go?” he asked.

  “I would.”

  Daphne had been to the gardens in London and found them beautiful, if boring. It had been more fun when she had gone with her mother and father. They would spread a blanket on the grass of Regent’s Park and feast on a picnic, watching bumblebees hover over bright blooming flowers as swans drifted easily over the water. She had dared her father to race her, crowing in victory every time she won, though she knew now that he had let her win, dramatically staging despair at losing only to make her grin.

  The gardens of Lucknow were laid out neatly, interspersed with bright emerald patches of grass and dark, leafy trees. Sometimes the paths curved, following a hedge or a large planter filled with multicolored flowers. Tiers of plants were arranged like a stage, showcasing the Indian breeds of flora and fauna. Indian and European visitors alike chatted around them, some heading home as evening approached, others taking their time lounging on benches or on the grass.

  “It really is a beautiful country,” Daphne murmured, “though often a sad one.”

  “There are many unpleasant parts of India. If you can still see the beauty, then I am happy.”

  “I do see it.” She brushed a flower with her fingertips. It felt good to breathe warm air and have her body sing with exercise. She wanted to sweat out the impurities of her body and mind. To be clean, inside and out.

  “My f
ather was half.” The words spilled out of her before she could staunch them, and suddenly the evening air was popping and electric, her heart pounding a ragged rhythm. It was foolish, she told herself. She was being foolish.

  But when she managed to look at Akash, he was waiting for her to continue.

  “Half-Indian,” she clarified. “I don’t look it, I know. And I … honestly, I don’t feel it. But here, I … I don’t know. It’s a little closer to me, I think. I can understand it in some way.”

  The world was quiet around them again, quiet save for her heart. She had been too afraid to voice her feelings before, too scared to bare this sliver of herself that no one else could possibly understand. Some days, she was sewn together like bits of cloth, squares and threads unraveling in different places. Some days, she wondered what comfort meant, and if it was something she would ever learn.

  She had decided long ago that being what she was meant living in a constant state of unknowing. It was yearning for a world that was not meant for you.

  Akash didn’t dismiss her words. He didn’t exclaim about how British she looked. He didn’t even ask about her father.

  Instead, he said, “Thank you. I’m glad I know this.”

  Relief flowed through her. “You are?”

  “Yes. I think I understand you a little more, now. I always feel as if you care more than the others. Now I know why.” He glanced at her shyly. “May I ask you something, Miss Richards?”

  “Please just call me Daphne.” She had been begging him to call her by her first name for weeks. “What is it?”

  He tapped the spot next to his temple. “This mark. What is it?”

  Daphne touched the diamond-shaped tattoo. She’d expected a much different question. “Oh, that. It’s only a tattoo.”

  “Yes, but why that symbol?”

  She lowered her hand and slipped it into her trouser pocket. Danny had asked her the same question, and she hadn’t answered then. But something about Akash made her want to tell him. She needed at least one person to understand her reasoning, silly as it seemed now.

  “The diamond means invincibility. I was at a point in my life where I wanted to be invincible, so I got the tattoo to remind me. I had to be firm, unbreakable.” She breathed in deeply. “It was a way to face my fears.”