I hesitated, glancing back at the door. The townhouse remained silent, the shadows stretching around me like silent sentinels. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the drawer open, revealing a collection of personal items: a finely crafted dagger with a jeweled hilt, a compass, and a small leather pouch.
As I carefully picked up the curved dagger, its blade gleaming under the candlelight, a sense of connection washed over me.
At once, a remote memory swirled into my mind of my father with his reddish hair, wearing the garb of the nizam’s household with baggy pants and a sash at his waist, a string of pearls around his neck. He’d had a similar blade tucked into the wide turquoise sash.
I set down the bundle of letters and carefully untied the ribbon. The first bore another broken remnant of a seal of the East India Company. I lifted the letter, feeling a weight settle in my stomach as I read the contents.
To Colonel Grenville,
I regret to inform you of the tragic demise of your son, Lieutenant James Achilles Grenville, which occurred on the 12th of March inMadras. While initial reports attributed his death to diphtheria, further investigation reveals a more troubling reality.
My breath caught.
The lieutenant’s final hours were marked by fever, delirium, and increasingly violent hallucinations. Several witnesses described his behavior as inconsistent with diphtheria. At present, we cannot entirely rule out foul play from the French, who persist in infiltrating the nizam’s court for influence.
Desperate for answers, I rummaged through the papers until beneath the final letter, something slipped free—a smaller note, folded lengthwise, penned in a hand I did not recognize. The edges were worn, the paper crackling from age.
To Col. R. Grenville, care of East India Company Residency, Madras
March 30th, 1803
Sir—
With regard to the matter of the lieutenant’s household, the local court has not been forthcoming. The begum has refused all attempts at retrieval or negotiation. We are instructed to delay further action until the Resident approves. It is my belief the lady remains within Hyderabad territory under protection, though her precise location is unknown. She has not attempted contact with the Residency since your grandchildren’s removal to England. The matter remains delicate.
Respectfully,
M. Branson
Second Clerk, Residency Office
An icy dread washed over me, and I struggled to absorb the words. My father hadn’t merely succumbed to an illness; he had suffered, and perhaps someone had orchestrated his demise. The implications were staggering. What had he been exposed to? And my mother missing...
A groan escaped me as realization set in. The stories of men and women being poisoned for political gain, the whispers of intrigue surrounding the nizam’s court—was it possible my father had stumbled upon something he should not have? Or my mother?
I had to uncover the truth.
Carefully, I folded the letters, my mind racing with questions that had no straightforward answers. But just as I pondered my next move, a sound echoed from the hallway—heavy footsteps approaching. Panic surged through me, and I quickly shoved the dagger back into the drawer. The colonel’s disapproval was a storm I wasn’t sure I could weather.
Quickly, I reached for my candle and blew it out, plunging the room into darkness. A ribbon of smoke curled within a beam of moonlight as I darted behind the heavy curtains near the bookshelf, cursing myself for not closing the door earlier.
The shape at the doorway paused, its shadow stretching across the floor. My breath hitched as the figure stepped inside, slow and deliberate, as if searching for something—or someone.
“Who is there?”
A rough voice cut through the silence, and I froze, realizing too late that the faint scent of smoke from the extinguished candle must have betrayed me.
I shoved aside the curtain panel and stared at my brother.
“Kit—”
“I found letters regarding our parents—” I cut in before he could break into yet another lecture about doing something I ought not be involved in. To my relief, he didn’t argue. Instead, he closed the distance between us with his long-legged stride.
“Show me.”
He stepped into the dim moonlight, his expression shifting as he took in my frantic demeanor. As I hesitated, his gaze darted to the darkened corner where the candle had just flickered out.
Then he moved to the desk, his hands brushing across its surface in search of the flint and steel I had seen earlier. I watched him fumble through the drawers, the sound of metal clinking against wood breaking the silence.
