by Tara Sim
“Stop right there, lad! There’s nowhere to go!”
Colton still ran, jumping onto the next carriage’s roof and ducking under their gunfire. The train just had to get close enough—
“Oy, lad! Stop!”
He hugged the pack to his chest and looked down as the train passed over the river. Glancing over his shoulder, he dodged two more bullets before jumping over the side.
The wind drowned out the soldiers’ shouts until he hit the water. The cogs at his back dragged him down to the bottom, and he let them. He sat on the riverbed, looking up through the murky haze as the dark shadow of the train sped by. He waited until it was long gone, waited several more minutes just to be sure, and started climbing up the riverbank.
Emerging from the water, he spat out a mouthful of muck. An old, brown-skinned man in a loincloth sat at the river’s edge, beating laundry against rocks. He stared openmouthed at Colton.
Colton walked onto land, wringing his clothes and shaking water from his hair. There was no sign of the train. Now what?
He walked until he found the train tracks. The best way to get to Agra, he supposed, was to follow them.
He stood under the Indian sun as his clothes steamed in the heat. He stared into the distance, feeling hollow. Feeling nothing. He could still hear the screams, those of his sister, Castor, and his own. He still smelled coppery blood.
His tower had been his sanctuary for hundreds of years, the clock the beating heart of Enfield. But now he knew the tower wasn’t his home.
It was his tomb.
Lucknow had almost become Daphne’s prison. She’d arrived in low spirits, sinking farther with every blow the people around her inflicted: the disapproval of the other women, the leers of the men, the distrust of the Indians. Aside from Partha, only two people had shown her kindness. Thankfully, she could spend most of her days with both of them.
Her mornings were given to Narayan in his tower. They spoke in broken Hindi, but Daphne could understand most of what she didn’t grasp through his gestures. Though he was more forward than she would have expected, she didn’t mind. She preferred his company to the soldiers’.
And thanks to Akash and her expanding vocabulary, she finally understood what Narayan had been trying to tell her that first day.
“Dreams,” she said. He nodded. “What do you dream about?”
A boy being bitten by a snake, then lying in a fever. A pretty girl carrying a clay pot of water on her head. And the dancing. He danced in his dreams, kicking up dirt and tossing his head to battering drums, women with bloodred scarves and jangling ankle bells around him.
Daphne had no clue what it all meant. But every day Narayan claimed to have more dreams, and each one seemed more confusing.
She passed the afternoons with Akash, who dedicated his mornings to discovering activities for them to do. By lunchtime he was at her window, tapping three times like a clockwork bird.
They had started with walking aimlessly about. On the second day, he’d taken her to a small dancing festival across the city. Men and women had spun and flung their arms in sinuous motions to the music of drums and a sitar. Daphne had loved watching the women’s skirts twirl, listening to the rattling jewelry on their ankles and wrists as she tried to imitate the women’s intricate hand gestures. It was just how Narayan had described his dream—men and women losing themselves in the music, blending the border between living and pleasure.
When she expressed interest in the women’s clothing, Akash used their third day to take her to a tailor.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,” she argued, but he insisted.
“The prices are very good.”
“Won’t it be offensive?”
He frowned. “Why would it be offensive? You’re one of us.”
She stared at him, lips parted, heat welling through her body until she felt an uncomfortable pressure behind her eyes. She had to turn away, unwilling to show him just how much those simple words meant.
So she had spoken with the tailor—with Akash translating—about what she’d like. The woman had smacked her lips together as she made her measurements.
By the fourth day, Daphne was the owner of her very own salwar kameez. It was comprised of a long silk tunic, dark blue with gold-colored brocade around the hem, and matching trousers that were surprisingly airy. There was a scarf as well, but Daphne carefully put this in her bag. She didn’t want to ruin it.
At first, in the mirror, she only saw the contrast: fair girl, foreign dress. She saw the stitches between the fabrics of her body, the mismatching patchwork. Then, slowly, it all started to come together. The fabrics overlapped, and she felt as if she were discovering a new Daphne.
A girl trying to patch up the holes within her.
She modeled her new outfit for Akash. He clapped, showing a large, bright smile.
“Stunning,” he said, and she blushed.
The outfit, of course, needed to be kept hidden from Crosby. But coming back through the window, Daphne tripped and stumbled into her room, knocking over a cup. The door opened slightly and Partha peered in. He took in the outfit, eyebrows raised. Meeting her eyes, he bent his head as if to say very well, then gently shut the door again.
On the fifth and sixth days, Daphne knew something was wrong. While she enjoyed visiting Narayan’s tower, the fact that there was nothing out of the ordinary made her question once again why she was here. The spirit seemed wholly unconcerned.
“But you would tell me if something was wrong?” she insisted. He nodded, then pointed impatiently at the wooden mancala board sitting between them. He’d hidden it in his tower for years after a couple of ghadi wallahs left it there.
She took her turn, studying Narayan as she moved the dried beans around the slots. The spirit smiled, blindingly innocent.
“If nothing’s wrong with your tower, I’ll probably have to leave soon,” she said.
He looked up at the word leave, his smile gone. She tried to explain that she couldn’t spend the rest of her time here in Lucknow, not when there were so many other cities in India that could be attacked.
Again, she wondered if her assignment here was nothing more than a diversion. Her stomach curdled at the thought.
Narayan picked up her hand. “You here, come back?”
“Yes, I hope to come back and see you again. Then you can tell me more about your dreams.”
Her heart was heavy as she ate lunch alone in her room, thinking about what might happen if the terrorists struck Lucknow before she could act, or if they struck elsewhere while she was distracted, useless.
Three taps at the window. Right on time. Pushing her plate away, she crossed the room and opened the latch. Akash leaned against the windowsill, smiling. He looked boyish when he smiled like that, his black hair swept casually across his forehead, and for some reason this made her happy.
“Shall we walk?”
“We shall.”
Their method was aimless, their destination unknown. It was nice just to walk and look, memorizing as many details as she could to take to her mother back home: the lizards on the ceiling of her room, the little shops hidden in narrow alleyways, how rich the milk tasted.
“You should have worn your new clothes,” Akash said.
“I suppose I’m still nervous about it.”
“There’s no need. Wear it tomorrow, please? Please?”
“I don’t know …”
“Pleeee—”
“Stop that.”
“—eeee—”
“For heaven’s sake! I’ll wear it.”
He laughed and ruffled his own hair, then smoothed it down again. “Very good, Miss Richards.” Like it had been her idea in the first place.
“I told you, call me Daphne.” But he was looking across the street now, eyebrows furrowed. “What is it?”
He hesitated. “I haven’t eaten lunch. Are you hungry?”
“I already ate.” Although she had only taken two bites of her kedgeree.
“I suppose I could eat something more.”
They moved toward a vendor selling chapatis, which smelled wonderful. They came right off the pan, hot and steaming and slathered with a type of clarified butter Akash called ghee. There was a small line in front of the vendor and his daughter. The former made chapatis behind a wooden stall while the latter handed them to customers and accepted their money. As Daphne and Akash joined the queue, she drew out a couple of annas.
“Allow me,” Akash said in Urdu. Daphne began to protest, but Akash held up a hand. She rolled her eyes.
He paid for two chapatis, then said something to the chapati maker in Hindi, which Daphne couldn’t make out. The man looked up from his work, nodded solemnly, then bent over his pan again.
A minute later, the girl handed them their food. Daphne smiled at her, but the girl only looked back with fear in her large, dark eyes. Unsettled, Daphne turned to let the next customers order.
She bumped into a man who had been hovering behind her. Both their chapatis fell to the ground.
“I’m so sorry!” She stooped and picked them up, trying to brush off the dirt. “I’m really—here, I’ll pay for another. Is that all right?”
The man nearly ripped the bread from her hand, cursing. Spittle landed near her eye and she winced.
Akash put a hand on the man’s shoulder, steering him away. They argued loudly until the man stormed off.
Daphne clucked her tongue at his back. “I offered to pay for another.”
Akash shrugged. “It was nice of you to offer. Shall I get you a replacement?” He had already wolfed his chapati down, leaving behind nothing but greasy fingers.
“It’s only a little dirt. I’ll be fine.” She rubbed the surface of her chapati, then frowned. “There’s something written on it.”
Sure enough, there were words stamped into the bread. Not the letters of any Indian alphabet, but letters she could identify. The language, however, was not English.
“Feu-de-joie,” she said slowly.
Akash was staring at the chapati as if it were covered in more than just dirt. “That’s French, isn’t it?”
“It is. I think joie means joy, but the phrase itself, I’m not sure.” She glanced up, but he was still staring at the bread in her hands. “What is this about?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”
“Do Indian people usually stamp messages on their bread?” Akash shook his head again. “Strange.”
Suddenly, someone grabbed her arm. She instinctively swung out, hitting her assailant in the ear. He released her with a howl of pain.
It was the same man she had accidentally run into. She thrust the chapati at him. “Look, just take it, all right? Take the bloody thing and leave me alone!”
The man snatched the bread, bloodshot eyes watering from the pain in his ear. He looked at the chapati, then began to breathe like a bull.
“You! This not for you!”
“I’m sorry! Please, leave me alone.”
Akash tried speaking to him, but the man shoved him away and charged at the vendor. Those waiting in line scurried away as the man shook the bread in the vendor’s face and shouted, a vein bulging in his neck.
“What’s going on?” Daphne demanded.
The man reached around the cart and pulled the girl away by her thin wrist. She shrieked.
“Let her go!” Daphne yelled, but no one paid her attention. “Hey!”
Something clicked on her right. Looking over, she gasped and backed away from the pistol Akash aimed at the man.
“Drop her!” Akash said in Hindi. “Step away!” His voice shook, but not with fear. Daphne had heard the same rage-filled timbre in her mother’s voice enough times to know the difference.
The man saw the gun and slowly released the girl. The vendor ushered her back around the cart, where she clung to him, sobbing loudly into his apron. People looked on, too riveted to leave, too scared to interfere.
The man muttered something, spat at their feet, then turned and stalked down the street. When he was gone, Akash lowered the gun. Daphne hurried to the girl.
“Are you all right?” she asked. The girl kept crying, her thin body shaking.
“Leave them,” Akash murmured. “They’ll get over the shock sooner if we’re gone.”
Daphne wavered, then dug inside her pocket. She took out the two pills she’d kept there since the Notus’s crash and handed them to the father, who took them uncertainly.
“Please give these to your daughter. They’ll calm her.”
Footsteps pounded down the street. They braced themselves, but it was only Lieutenant Crosby.
Sweat rolled down his face as he panted out, “What in the devil’s name is going on here? Miss Richards, what on earth—?” He stopped, frantically waving his hands about. “No, you can tell me later. I must speak to you both.”
“What’s happened?”
“We’ve received word from Meerut.”
Judging by his tone, it wasn’t good news.
Daphne made sure she packed everything before going to the tonga that waited outside. As she and the soldiers rode through the city, she held her stomach, feeling sick.
The Meerut tower had been blown to bits, and time continued on. Thoughts assaulted her one by one, thoughts of Danny and Meena, Captain Harris, the Meerut tower, the crying girl, and leaving Narayan without saying goodbye.
Crosby ushered them into the Silver Hawk. If Daphne didn’t know better, she would have said he was frightened. But that didn’t make sense coming from the man who’d said the towers might as well fall if time wasn’t Stopping.
In truth, none of this made sense.
Akash was already in the pilot’s seat; he looked at Daphne with a silent plea. She asked Crosby if she could sit in front, to which he gave an annoyed “Yes, whatever pleases you” before he shut the door behind them.
Once they were safely in the air, Akash turned to her. “I’m sorry for what I did today.”
She was confused until she remembered him leveling his gun at the angry man. The news from Meerut had temporarily driven it from her mind. “You did what you had to.”
“No, I feel as if I must give you an explanation.”
“You don’t.” She shifted in her seat, then glanced at him. “I didn’t expect something like that from you, though.”
“I’m sorry.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “When we were younger, Meena and I would go into the city without our parents. We thought it was daring. Sometimes, people mistook us for urchins. Maan would get so angry when we came home dirty and covered in scratches and bruises, but it was how we liked to play.
“One day, we were out too late and it was raining. It was so dark we got lost. Meena started crying and ran into an alley. I tried to ask directions, but passersby ignored me, thinking I was a beggar. Then, I heard Meena scream.
“I ran into the alley and—” His voice was now almost impossible to hear over the drone of the plane. “A soldier was there. British. He was looking at her like—like a fox who’d caught a rabbit. He came closer, and Meena couldn’t speak, she was so terrified.
“I yelled. I didn’t know what else to do. The sound brought over two sepoys, who convinced the man to leave. But he was smiling, as if he’d won something.”
Akash clenched his jaw. “We used to spend all our time together, but now with her work and my deliveries, that’s impossible. I can’t always be there for her, and she can’t always be there for me. So I make her carry a gun, and I carry mine, because I don’t want that to happen again. Meena lives a dangerous enough life as it is.” His hands tightened on the controls.
Daphne remained silent, but she knew he didn’t want words. She let her hand touch the back of Akash’s, and he briefly held it, out of view of the others.
They landed near the Agra cantonment sometime later. Daphne left her pack behind and hurried inside.
She found Major Dryden outside the counsel building, talking sternly to a fe
w sepoys. They all said, “Yes, sahib,” before hurrying off. Dryden turned and started when he saw her.
“Miss Richards! Thank goodness you’re safe. Dreadful news. Simply awful. I’m dispatching troops to Meerut at once, and we have men going to Lucknow as we speak. It’s better you stay here.”
“Lucknow?” She had only just left. It didn’t make sense that the major would send more soldiers so soon.
Dryden sighed wearily. “You must have been in the air when it happened. The tower at Lucknow was also targeted. We just received a wire that it, too, has fallen.”
At first her mind refused to accept what he’d said, so she merely stared at him, uncomprehending. It didn’t make sense. She had just been there.
And she hadn’t been able to stop it.
She had failed Narayan.
Her eyes burned, and her throat ached. She should have known that that riot was a distraction. Because she hadn’t done enough, Narayan and his dreams of dancing were gone forever.
The major cleared his throat, uncomfortable at her sudden display of grief. She gathered herself and whispered, “Where are the others?”
A flicker of unease crossed his face. “On their way back. They won’t arrive till evening.”
So Daphne was left to fret with Akash. She shed a few tears in her room for Narayan, then sat silently in the mess hall. Eventually they wandered outside the cantonment. Daphne drank two cups of tea. Akash only stared north.
Finally, just after sundown, they spotted the autos. They rolled down the dusty streets before stopping within the ring of buildings.
Captain Harris emerged from one, haggard and pale.
“Where’s Meena?” Akash demanded.
“Right here. Just a moment.”
Harris opened the back door and helped Meena out. Daphne stifled a gasp; the poor girl was bruised and scratched, and there was a burn across her face that had been covered with gauze. Even some of her dark, sleek hair had been burned along one side.
Akash cried out and made to grab her, then thought better of it. Instead, he gently put his hands on his sister’s shoulders and kissed her forehead, right over her bindi.
“Are you all right?” he asked. Meena’s mouth trembled and she shook her head. “What happened?”
