Page 34 of The Henna Artist

This room, with its built-in bookshelves, crammed with English, Hindi and Latin tomes, and red leather armchairs, was Samir’s favorite. The hearth had been lit for the evening.

“More good news. Gupta has agreed to hire Naraya, and Naraya has approved an extension on your invoice. Happy?”

I was excited enough to throw my arms around him and kiss his feet, but I settled for a generous smile. “Thank you, Samir. This means a lot to me.”

“Good.” The reflection of the hearth fire flickered in his eyes. “I’m looking forward to seeing how you’ll handle the palace commission.”

“Any idea what’s troubling the young queen?”

“All I know is she needs cheering up. You’ll sort it out. I have faith in you.” He reached into his suit coat pocket. “In the meanwhile...”

Samir took my hand and laid a gold pocket watch on my palm. It was a beautiful thing, the size of a betel nut—much smaller and more delicate than the other Victoriana watches in his collection. On the cover, an engraved hand held a lotus flower, similar to the one the goddess Lakshmi carried.

“Open it,” he said, crossing his arms.

The false cover masked the scene of an Indian woman holding the hands of another. When the timepiece moved, one of the woman’s hands moved up and down. That’s when I noticed she was holding a tiny stick.

I gasped. “A henna artist?”

“Hahn.A lovely one. Like you.” He sprang open the next layer to reveal the watch face. “White enamel dial. Gold hands. Nineteen-jewel lever movement with gold escutcheons.”

“It’s exquisite.” I gave the watch back to him.

“I had it made.” He turned it over, so I could see the seed pearls on the back forming a cursiveL. He placed the watch in my hand again, folded my fingers over it and clasped my hand with both of his. “For you.”

No one had ever given me anything this fine. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last gift I had received. I cleared my throat to thank him but couldn’t find my voice. A gift from Samir. What would Parvati say if she found out?

I heard a rustle and, from the corner of my eye, a bright swish of pink satin. The door to the Singh library was ajar. Has someone been crossing the hallway or had they been standing in the opening, watching us?

I tried to extract my hand from his. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Do what others do. Tell time.” He let go of my hand. “The Maharani Indira is expecting you tomorrow morning at ten sharp.”

“It’s lovely, but—”

“Hide it in your petticoat, along with the Singh silver.”

At intermission, Sheela Sharma sang a ballad in a high, clear voice about a woman’s devotion to love. It could have been Desdemona’s swan song. From the rooftop, where I sat with Radha and Malik and the household staff, I had a good view of the admiring audience below, and despite what Mr. Pandey had said about the challenges of teaching Sheela, I could see that his work had been rewarded. Her performance was flawless. For his part, Ravi turned out to be a convincing Othello.

My mind, however, was distracted, planning for my meeting with the dowager maharani. I thought about the supplies I would need. What would I say? What would I wear? Were any of my garments appropriate for a palace visit? Resisting the impulse to check my notebook (how could I see anything on the dark rooftop, anyway?), I tried to remember which appointments I would have to reschedule tomorrow to accommodate Her Highness. My stomach felt so jittery that I barely touched the crispalootikkior the creamy spinach andpaneercurry on my plate.

When the final curtain came down, Ravi, who looked larger than life in his blue-dark body, the greasepaint shimmering in the stage lights, delivered a pretty speech. He thanked the maharaja and thenawabsfor gracing the holiday gathering with their presence, bowing anamasteto His Highness and cupping asalaamto each of thenawabs. Ravi appeared perfectly at ease addressing the royals, who tilted their heads in acknowledgment.

I signaled to Radha and Malik to take our plates to the washing area and gather our supplies for leave-taking.

I went to the kitchen to ask after Lala. I’d been on the lookout for Parvati’s servant all evening to see what she’d wanted to talk to me about the last time I was here, but I hadn’t seen her.

The head cook told me Lala and her niece no longer worked for the Singhs.

I was packing the last of our supplies in the Singh drawing room when Malik drew up beside me.

“Auntie-Boss, MemSahib wants to see you in the library.”

I smiled. Of course! Parvati wanted to thank me for the henna work. She’d been so busy with her guests that I’d barely crossed paths with her all evening.

I arrived at the library where I’d met with Samir a few hours earlier. Parvati was pacing in front of the hearth like a restless lioness. With every turn, her satin sari swished angrily, thepalluthreatening to catch fire. Her back was ruler-straight, her generous bosom thrust forward.

When she saw me, her dark eyes flashed. “How can I trust you to arrange a good marriage for Ravi when your own sister is playing with him behind my back?” The bright redbindion her forehead flashed accusingly at me.

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