“And that is ultimately why any effort at increasing Indian representation in the administration is doomed to failure,” Borthwick commented.
“What’s that?”Neil’s mind struggled to connect the man’s words to the earlier thread of their conversation.
Borthwick ignored him.“Some of the more liberal-minded among the civil service might claim to be working toward the goal of an independent India,” he continued casually.“But India is no more capable of ruling herself than dogs are of organizing a kennel.”
Neil’s fingers clenched around the pen.
Constance was hearing all of this as she stood behind him, invisible and silent.Neil’s own silence made him feel complicit.Every cell of his body rebelled against it—until he realized with a shiver of fear that Borthwick wasn’t just putting noise into the room.The secret police chief was casually sharing his abominable thoughts on India for a deliberate and specific reason.
Coming here was a mistake.They should have gone to find Ellie and Bates.They should have asked Constance’s uncle to loan them an army.A maharaja must have some sort of army, mustn’t he?
Another thought tugged at the back of Neil’s mind, fighting to be heard over the racket of his rising fear… something about Dawson’s proximity that Neil ought to have remembered.Something important…
Neil had copied the last line of the Brahmi.He blinked down at a page filled with characters he didn’t understand.
Now what?
Purple light sizzled across the night, accompanied by a tearing boom.The sky ripped open with a thick, drenching downpour that pounded against the narrow ledge outside the window.Neil blanked with momentary awe at the sheer, furious force of the storm.
Borthwick was still talking.“What the liberals fail to understand is that it has always been a matter of war here, however much it might currently wear the veneer of civil cooperation.The British presence in India has been and always will be a matter of conquest.”
A door slammed open below.
Constance went still.
The constable called down over the railing.“Ki-e achhi?”
The reply was inaudible.
“Let him up this time,” Borthwick snapped with a note of irritation.
Let him up.Had Dawson come back to work on the manuscript?Neil could certainly imagine the professor inspiring that tone of bare tolerance.
He shot a frantic look at Constance—but she didn’t return it.Her focus moved from the door to the open window as her expression firmed with grim determination.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Neil pushed to his feet.
Borthwick turned at the scrape of the chair legs on the floor, pinning Neil with a watchful, curious look.
Neil needed a reason for standing.
Clearly, he wanted to stretch his legs for a bit.
How would Dr.Bartholomew Culpepper do that?
He could pick up the manuscript.
As soon as he thought of it, Neil was suffused with the knowledge that it would be a very bad idea.
Neil snatched up the sheet of notepaper instead.He held it out in front of him as though reading it while he paced.
Run,his instincts screamed.Run now.
But where could he go?There was only one bloody door.
Neil forced himself to breathe.This was Dawson he was worried about.Dawson was an idiot.Maybe Neil really could bluff his way through this.Perhaps he could paint the professor as a dissatisfied academic rival.Translate a word or two of the Brahmi to show off his skills.
The footsteps reached the top of the stairs.Neil froze by the window as reality snapped into place.
