With leathery green skin and an oblong body that flattened toward the anal segment, it looked like an enlarged form of the pill bugs she’d played with as a child. She hoped the adult form wouldn’t disappoint Owen. She knew some of the most beautiful butterflies came from the plainest caterpillars.
“What are you hoping for?” she asked.
Owen lifted the jar and held it aloft. The larva had attached itself to a leaf and was steadily chomping its way through it, storing up energy for its coming transformation. “I haven’t any idea.” He set it down and picked up another jar, where another ugly caterpillar lived. “I have two of them left, one in a cocoon. My previous three have already hatched Tachinidae.”
Nora’s lips twitched at the disgust lacing his words. It was common enough, waiting a week or two for a butterfly to hatch, the anticipation jangling nerves and setting the pulse racing with curiosity, and then watching as a parasitic fly emerged. Owen’s voice held real insult, though, as if the wasps had purposely ruined his great moment.
“Hopefully at least one will result in a butterfly.” She lifted her cup and sipped, the tea making a warm trail down her throat and into her belly, sending sparks through her limbs. Or maybe that was the result of Owen’s smile, warmer than the tea.
“Kalai! Kalai!” Pallavi’s shrill call roused the rest of the men from their tents.
Mr. Alford stumbled through the flap of his, poking his fingers into his ears like a little boy. “English, Pallavi. How many times must I tell you?”
Pallavi whirled and banged her wooden spoon against the pot, filling their little settlement with its cacophonous summons. “Kalai!”
“Breakfast!” He charged forward, stopping feet from Pallavi. “The word is breakfast.”
Pallavi jerked her spoon toward Mr. Alford’s face, sending a spray of potatoes across his cheek. She grinned. “Breakfast.”
Mr. Alford slapped his hand across his face and rubbed the food on the leg of his trousers. He slumped into a chair and buried his head in his lap.
“What’s wrong with him?” Owen asked.
“I don’t know, but I hope he’s not in an even worse temper than usual,” Nora said.
They approached the circle of chairs, Nora making a wide berth around Mr. Alford, and took their seats while Pallavi dished up yet another stew over yet another mound of rice.
Nora took the tin plate and smiled her thanks, but as soon as Pallavi turned back toward her pot, Nora grimaced. She lifted a bite of potato to her lips and chewed. Mustard seed, chili, cumin. She pushed the rest around with her fingers, making saffron-colored trails across the plate.
“Do you not like it?” Owen whispered.
“It’s delicious. Just . . .” She glanced at Mr. Alford, who stared miserably at his plate, and understood what he felt. “Sometimes I want toast and jam for breakfast.” Pallavi walked past and dropped a banana in her lap, and Nora smiled, certain their cook was softening toward her. She peeled the fruit. “It’s early, isn’t it, to eat such heavy, spicy fare?”
Owen, his cheeks stuffed with food, nodded. His eyes said I commiserate with you, but the way he shoveled the potatoes and rice into his mouth said I have no idea what you’re talking about.
He finished swallowing and took a swig of tea. “Are you homesick?”
Nora’s initial desire was to refute it. She wasn’t a fragile maiden, in need of coddling and familiarity.
But Owen shrugged and said, “Because I’m a little homesick. I miss the smell of roasting meat—surely not everyone in India is a vegetarian, right?—the sound of Cascadilla Falls, the morning chill, and turning leaves.”
“Maybe.” She wrinkled her nose. “I miss Bitsy and Rose, the laboratory at Cornell, and baths.”
“I’d love some bacon and eggs with that toast and jam.” He scooped another large lump of breakfast into his mouth. “But this isn’t so bad if you don’t compare it.”
“I’d love that banana,” Mr. Steed, sitting beside Nora, said. Before she could take a bite of her fruit, he grabbed it with his thick fingers and ate it in three bites.
Nora stared at him, mouth open. “Why do you keep doing that? Get your own fruit.” She waved at the mound of bananas near the rest of the food Pallavi had purchased for the day’s meals.
He chuckled and licked his lips, but his mirth twisted into disgust at the sound of retching. Mr. Alford purged his previous night’s dinner onto Mr. Steed’s shoes, who cursed and leapt from his chair so quickly, it fell over with a clatter.
Another one had fallen to whatever tropical illness was sweeping through the camp. Nora bit down a smile. Justice served.
Mr. Alford turned the color of a mantis and darted into the trees.
“It’s not my kalai.” All heads turned toward Pallavi, who stirred the potatoes in the pot.
“No one thinks that,” Owen said. “I’m sure he has what made Leonard and William ill. I hope no one else comes down with it.” He cast a glance at Nora, concern shading his eyes.
She stuck her thumb in her mouth, removing the mustard-seed-studded sauce with her tongue, and rejected the impulse to smooth the worry wrinkles from his forehead. She pulled her thumb free. “I’ll be fine.”
He reached toward her and rubbed the pad of his thumb over the corner of her lips, making Nora wish she hadn’t resisted her desire to touch him. He licked his finger clean and grinned at her, as though knowing a shudder sighed its way across her body.
Leonard—he’d told her to call him by his given name after she nursed him during his illness—tossed his dirty plate into the metal bucket near the fire, then clapped his hands against his knees. “Well, looks like we’re on our own today.” In typical Leonard fashion, he pressed his lips together into a firm line, gave a terse nod, and strode with purpose toward his tent. He remerged a moment later in his gaiters and carrying a net.
Owen grabbed Nora’s arm. “Spend the day with me.”
Kodaikanal bustled with activity. They walked down Bazaar Road, Nora holding on to Owen’s elbow, and sidestepped a huddle of boys in white dhotis dashing past. Owen secured her more firmly to him with a hand on hers when one of the boys bumped into her and flashed a brilliant smile.
Moss-covered trees overhung the crooked little shops that lined the dirt street, absorbing the calls of hawkers and the steady pounding and squeaks of ox-pulled carts. Nora’s skirt swished around her legs, stirring up dust. She eyed Owen’s breezy, lightweight pants with a frown before lifting her gaze to the Palani Hills rising above the town. They were swathed in hazy blue clouds, looking like something out of a fairy tale. She sighed, wondering what interesting things those hills contained, then looked down the street hemmed in by tightly packed shops.
“What are we doing here?” she asked. Outside of the trips she’d made with Pallavi to the market, Nora hadn’t had much opportunity to explore the town.
He glanced at her and teased the inside of her wrist with his fingers. “Do we need to be doing anything? Let’s just enjoy being halfway around the world for a while.” At her frown, he rolled his eyes. “I have a plan too. In a bit. After we walk around with no agenda.”
“No agenda? How will I survive the day?” She bumped him with her elbow, a self-deprecating smile making her words sound playful. Flirtatious, even.
“I have no idea, but I mean to find out. Let’s start there.” He pointed across the street at a building that seemed better kept than the rest, with curved glass windows and scrubbed, whitewashed bricks. The sign hanging above the door proclaimed Butani Jewels.
They paused to allow a man pulling a blue-painted cart to pass in front of them, and when Owen tugged her forward, Nora asked, “Why are we going into a jewelry shop?”
“To look at jewelry.”
She huffed. “But why?”
“Because it’s interesting to see what the artisans produce. Don’t you want to bring home something no one else has? Something you can’t order from the Bloomingdale’s catalogue?”
&nb
sp; Nora had never in her life ordered jewelry from the Bloomingdale’s catalogue. In fact, the only time she’d even looked through one was when her mother asked if she’d rather have a Thomson’s ventilating or Ball’s Health Preserving corset. Not that she intended to tell Owen that.
He pulled open the shop door and ushered her inside. Nora turned in a small circle, taking in the hand-printed calico covering the walls, the dark wood cabinets showcasing brilliant gems—necklaces, rings, bracelets—and the lush carpets beneath their feet. The street sounds didn’t come through the thick door or closed windows, and Nora imagined herself in a little jewel box come alive.
A man behind a low cabinet put his hands together in greeting. “Welcome.”
Nora smiled and wandered toward him. Beneath the glass of the display case, rubies, diamonds, and sapphires glinted in settings of gold and silver. “They’re beautiful.”
The merchant smiled. “What can I help you find? A necklace, perhaps?” He turned and pulled out one of the drawers from the towering cabinet behind him. Lifting a heavy piece dripping with rubies, he brought it to her. “With your dark hair and fair skin, this is the perfect piece for you.”
Before she could pull away, he draped it over her bodice. She held her hand up to it, capturing it against her collarbone, the cool metal biting into her skin. “It’s a little ornate for me.”
“Something simpler?” Owen said.
The man nodded, his eyes dimming. But he took the necklace away.
Nora turned to Owen, and her hand went to her cicada pin. “I don’t wear jewelry, except for this.”
“Why?”
“It’s too fussy for me.”
“Not all jewelry is fussy.”
Her eyes swept the room full of pieces that demanded attention, exhibited wealth.
Owen laughed. “Well, maybe most of it is fussy, but let’s see what he has.”
The merchant returned with a velvet-lined box open to display several styles of earrings. Nestled amid the flamboyant gem-encrusted hoops and drops and studs, she saw a pair almost bare in their simplicity.
She lifted one of them. A teardrop of filigreed gold cradling a brilliant diamond.
“Do you have your ears pierced?” Owen asked.
She nodded. Her one concession to Mother’s demands when she turned fifteen and showed no interest in traditionally feminine pursuits. Nora had resisted the intricate hairstyles and ridiculous bustles, but her mother had been mollified when she agreed to pierce her ears and wear her grandmother’s diamond studs. She’d removed them permanently two years later, but the holes remained.
Owen took the earring from her and held it against her ear. It brushed her cheek, along with his fingers, and she flushed. “They suit you.”
“I don’t wear jewelry,” she whispered.
“You also don’t travel, and yet here you are.” He leaned close and brushed a curl from her face. “Your mask is slipping.”
Her throat went dry, and she swallowed. Owen saw through her exoskeleton and recognized the vulnerable, soft parts of her she’d never wanted exposed. And yet she’d never felt so safe.
She looked at the merchant. “All right.”
Before she could stop him—and not sure she would have anyway—Owen slipped the hook into her piercing, then did the same with the second one still sitting in the box. She turned her head, enjoying the foreign pressure of jewelry brushing her skin. Enjoying the expression on the face of the man she was coming to admire.
She paid for her purchase and left the shop, lighter of step and coin.
They wandered another hour, stopping to look at baskets and daggers and little brass cups. Imported Chinese silk and pashmina shawls and bags embroidered with beetle wings. They peeked inside tiny shops, their owners sitting cross-legged on low counters, that sold brilliantly painted statues of gods and goddesses. Everyone greeted them warmly, encouraging them to purchase wares they had no use for. Nora touched her earrings and smiled. She wanted nothing else, but she bought a few small gifts for Mother, Rose, Bitsy, and Anna.
A peacock carved from soapstone. A tangle of beaded necklaces. A tiny painting of a woman greeting a man on an elephant. A gold perfume ewer.
They passed a man standing over a pot of oil that sizzled as he swirled batter into it. With wooden tongs, he turned the fried dough, revealing a golden brown underbelly. Then he flipped it into a bowl to soak it in whatever deliciousness he’d concocted. When he finished his task, he smiled at her and said, “Jalebi.”
Nora didn’t need any more encouragement. She held up two fingers and paid his price.
“Does this make up for breakfast?” Owen took one of the spiral-shaped treats and made an appreciative sound as he bit into it.
“It’s delicious. I actually enjoy the food here. I think I could get used to eating it every day eventually. Everything about India is so much more . . . well, more. More colorful and vibrant and flavorful. It feels very different from what I should enjoy, but very much like where I belong.” She finished her jalebi and eyed Owen’s remaining portion.
“Here.” He handed it over and, lacking a towel, licked his fingers.
Nora had just finished off her treat when a small child darted from a doorway across the street and grabbed her hand, tugging her forward. “Hello, Akka.”
“Where are we going?” Nora laughed.
The girl giggled and continued to pull them along until they reached a small stone structure fronted by a low-slung verandah. An adult version of the child, with a wide smile and swath of shiny hair pulled back into a braid, motioned them inside. She was draped in a red and gold sari, and its thick flower-embroidered hem spilled around her feet, swishing with the movement of her hips as she walked through the carved teak door.
Owen pressed his hand against the small of Nora’s back as they followed, reassuring her. Providing a bit of comfort to the unexpected adventure.
The interior of the room took Nora’s breath away. Lining each of the three complete walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves, creaking and sagging beneath the weight of a thousand saris. Nora had never seen so much color in one place. Silks, gossamer-thin and thick with brocade, begged for a wandering hand. Every hue of the rainbow and all those in between, folded in neat piles.
The woman motioned for Nora and Owen to sit on the plush carpet. Nora tucked her legs to the side and traced her fingers over the blue branches and birds and flowers. The wool tickled her fingers the way Owen’s breath tickled her ear.
“Do they think you’re going to wear Indian clothing?” he asked.
She shrugged and, for a reason she didn’t understand, hoped he wouldn’t want to leave. There was something about the shop, the street sounds muffled by fabric, that cosseted her. Made her feel as though she sat in a magical bower, safe from past sins and angry stepfathers and every failure that mocked her. She wanted to run her fingers over the edges of the saris, pull one out and drape it over herself. The urge surprised her, because Nora had never cared for fashion. Had always gone for simplicity and sensible skirts and bodices. She’d certainly never wished for the gold that dripped from the shopkeeper’s ears, ringed her wrists, and made a swoop from the jewel in her nose.
The child, who had disappeared, reemerged from a door in the corner of the room, carrying a large silver tea tray. She set it before Nora and poured two cups of tea from the ornate pot. The woman said something in Tamil, and the girl crouched before Nora. “Amma says the tea is grown here, in the Ghats. It is special.”
Nora lifted the steaming cup, and her first sip told her the child didn’t lie. Dark and aromatic, the tea tasted crisp after the heavily spiced masala tea of that morning, and it left lingering flavors of rose and blackberry.
The way the woman and her daughter watched them drink told Nora it wasn’t an everyday tea. When they finished and set their cups down, the girl whisked the tray away, and her mother stood and turned in a slow circle, her eyes bouncing from Nora to the saris to Nora again.
&n
bsp; Then, in a whirlwind of peacock colors, Nora found herself curtained in half a dozen lengths of silk. Red, cerulean, green dotted with prancing elephants, a cobalt paisley—all shot through with gold and silver thread.
Nora pushed aside the ornate hem of a particularly vivid sari. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t wear one.”
The woman cocked her head, then whirled back toward the shelves as though not understanding. Which Nora knew was probably true. Where was the child? Nora didn’t want to offend their hostess while trying to disentangle herself from the fabric and the situation.
Owen’s deep laugh drew her attention. He leaned back on his elbows, looking comfortable and unencumbered by an ambitious shop owner’s ill-placed hopes.
“She has to know an American can’t wear one of these, right?” Nora asked. “I doubt she’s sold any to the missionaries or the British.”
He crossed his legs at the ankles. “I don’t know. But I think I’d like to see you in one.”
“Owen!” Nora watched the shopkeeper as she reached for a shelf above her head, the curve of her back visible through the sheer fabric of the sari spilling over her shoulder.
The woman turned and sauntered back toward them, moving with a languid sort of grace that reminded her of Bitsy.
Nora looked at Owen, expecting him to be watching the shopkeeper—she was beautiful—but instead he watched her from beneath hooded eyes. Her eyes widened. Was he imagining her dressed in a sari? Oh, heavens . . .
“This is the one, Akka.” The girl stood above Nora again, and she grinned with approval when her mother took one edge of the sari in her fingers and let the length of it unfurl and puddle into Nora’s lap.
It fell in a shimmering river the color of purple thistle. Gold embroidered tigers and elephants cavorted around trailing branches. Nora lifted the silk in her hands. It was cool and smooth, and just touching it made her feel more sensuous.
“It’s beautiful . . . but I can’t wear this.”
“Why not?” asked the girl.
“Yeah, Nora,” Owen said, “why not?”
A Mosaic of Wings Page 16
