Ghulam’s lips pressed into a thin line. He did not answer. Perhaps he did not know. Perhaps he feared the answer.
Pressing against the window, I strained for some sight of Mother within the courtyard where I had played the day before. A whip cracked. Our carriage lurched. The palace receded into the night, its white domes and minarets shrinking until only the stars remained above.
I sank against the cushioned seat, my body shaking. My brother wrapped an arm around me, awkward and stiff, but protective all the same.
“We’ll be all right,” he said through gritted teeth. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I prom—”
“Listen to me,” the old man interrupted. “Do you know who I am?”
I sniffled and shook my head.
“I am your grandfather, Colonel Richard Grenville. When I learned of your father’s untimely demise and rumors of diphtheria gutting the city, I came all the way from London to find you.”
“I-I want my m-mother,” I demanded as I shivered uncontrollably.
He leaned forward, the leather seat creaking beneath his weight. “You must never speak of her again. You are going to live with me at my estate. You both will learn to speak English since you are the children of a gentleman. Your names are now Edward and Katherine Grenville. I never want to hear Urdu out of your mouths after tonight.”
Ghulam’s grip tightened around my shoulders while I cried. He muttered a very naughty word in Urdu, barely loud enough for me to hear.
My mother’s cries still rang in my ears even though we were far from the palace. Ahead lay a future I could not imagine—a world without the warmth of her embrace, without the songs that had once lulled me to sleep beneath painted ceilings and fringed canopies. I slumped against my brother as the city flashed by. What I could see of the sky was now devoid of stars—the very lights my mother loved to point out to me.
Darkness fell within the carriage as we raced into the unknown, and my grandfather said no more.
The only thing I knew for certain was this: Nothing would ever be the same again.
1:Kitty
Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night: that calleth for the waters of the sea, and poureth them out upon the face of the earth: The Lord is his name.
AMOS 5:8
DECEMBER 1814, SEVEN OAKES, ENGLAND
I stood outside Grandfather’s study and inhaled a shaky breath.
The winter sun slanted low through the mullioned windows, casting a watery light across ledgers and maps. The man known as the Iron Colonel sat tall behind his desk, his shoulders still broad from years of service, his dark coat cut to military precision. Time had silvered his hair at the temples and carved stern lines at the corners of his eyes, yet there was no mistaking the strength in his bearing. His presence filled the room like a command.
I smoothed my skirts and at last stepped inside, determined to ask him to finally allow me a trip to London to see my brother. Perhaps even experience a season, although I was far more interested in visiting museums and bluestocking salons.
He did not rise when I entered, only lifted his head from the page, quill poised above the ledger.
“What is it, Katherine?” His voice carried the weight of impatience, a sound I knew too well.
“I have a request, Grandfather.” My words felt fragile. “Might I be allowed a season in London this spring? I am nearly eight and ten. I should love to attend the museums and lectures. Lady Ashford said I could call, perhaps even meet her friends—”
The quill scraped hard across the page. “How did you ever secure the attention of this Lady Ashford? As for attending a lecture, I won’t have you indulge in such wild fancies.”
I dared not confess the entire truth. Two years ago, I had read her treatise inThe Timesregarding social issues, and Edward had been so kind to hunt down her address. For well over a year, Lady Ashford and I had corresponded regularly about all matters pertaining to science, literature, and my love of astronomy.
I groaned inwardly though I pressed on with a bright smile. “Surely it would not disgrace us. My studies harm no one. The stars—”
He glared at me. “You will not speak of stars to me. A Grenville’s duty is not to chase the cosmos.”
I fell silent, and my eyes wandered to his desk. Two envelopes rested at his elbow, the wax seals stamped deep. For one heartbeat I glimpsed a crest, curved and regal, before his hand swept them away.
Letters from India.
My breath quickened at the thought of hearing from family. Once, at five and ten, I had managed to sneak out a missive to the nearest inn where post was delivered. But only once. Somehow word of the letter reached his ears before it left the inn; no doubt a servant eager to curry favor carried tales of my insubordination. After that, Grandfather made certain not a single servant would deliver a letter to India on my behalf. I wrote my mother each month regardless, storing every missive in a box hidden beneath my bed. A diary of sorts, intended only for her.
