Constance had changed since dinner.Gone was her fashionable skirt and striped blouse.Instead, she was draped in elegant folds of purple and gold.The featherlight silk wrapped around her waist, crossing her shoulder to fall down her back.A closely-fitted choli with cropped sleeves left the soft curves of her arms exposed.
Constance preened, doing a turn.“Do you like it?It’s Auntie Parvati’s.She said this was the Santali drape.I must admit, it’s a sight more comfortable in this heat than buttoning into a waistcoat.”
The soft glow of the lamp cast notes of gold over the thick black length of her hair, loosely braided and tossed over her shoulder.The pale flowers of the frangipani shone like stars behind her.
Neil’s voice came out in a croak.“It’s… nice.”
Constance set her hands on her hips, unimpressed.“Nice?”
“Very nice,” Neil quickly corrected himself.
He was glad that in the gloom of the garden, Constance couldn’t see the tips of his ears turning pink—because he could feel them burning.
His response obviously fell somewhat short of her expectations.He struggled for something better.“It suits you.”
Constance twisted as though trying to get a better look at herself.“Do you really think so?I still don’t know that I feel entirely Indian.”
“But you aren’t entirely Indian,” Neil replied a little stupidly.
Constance cocked an eyebrow at him.
Neil swallowed thickly.“I mean that you’re both.British and Indian.”He suppressed the urge to wince.“Which is nice.”
“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.What are you doing out here, anyway?”
Neil was uncomfortably conscious of what was hidden under the old towel on the railing behind him.“Just needed a little air?”he offered weakly.
Constance climbed the steps to join him inside the pavilion.She gave the space a thoughtful study.“This garden’s meant to be haunted, you know.Supposedly a princess here had to be married off to an evil Mughal lord, but she was in love with someone else and used to sneak away to meet him in the Floating Hall.”
“Floating Hall?”Neil echoed.
Constance studied the high arch of the dome.“That building on the lake.Her lover was an itinerant musician who had stolen her heart with his playing.”
Neil’s thoughts tumbled back to the delicate notes that he had heard as he passed the ruined structure earlier.“Sitar,” he burst out.
Constance looked surprised.“Did someone already tell you the story?”
Neil felt dizzy.“I’m sure I… read it somewhere.”
He hadn’t read it somewhere.It had been his bloody power acting up again—right when he didn’t need it to, just like always.
Those inconvenient outbursts seemed to be happening more often.Perhaps Sayyid had flung open a door in Neil’s mind when he had mercilessly thrust the uncomfortable truth about Neil’s leaps of historical intuition into his awareness.
Or maybe it was just India.Hewastraveling through a land with an exceptionally rich history.But then, London was rich with history too, and Neil didn’t run about seeing men with togas wandering the streets.
Well—there had been that one time in Colchester.But those toga-clad fellows outside the market had clearly been fraternity pledges.
Except that Neil didn’t know of any fraternities in Colchester.
The blood drained from his head.They might not have been fraternity pledges.Just like the fellow in Renaissance dress drinking a mug of ale in a smoke-stained Blackfriars pub might not have been a rogue actor.
Maybe Neil wasn’t tumbling into the past more often.Maybe he’d been doing it all along—and was only now figuring that out.
For all the bloody good it did him.What had Sayyid called him back in Egypt?A wali—the Islamic term for someone gifted by God, like a saint.
If Neil were a saint, he was an utterly useless one.
With all this musing, Neil had gone conspicuously quiet.Thankfully, Constance didn’t seem to notice.She seemed a mite preoccupied herself.
