Enough of this.
They would not be drawn backward into regrets that could not be undone. Not when there was still so much left unsaid.
“So what happened next?” she asked, her voice steady.
Frederick’s gaze shifted to her.
“Obviously something did,” she continued, her tone firm but not unkind. “For you are here now.”
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the young man in the corner—silent, watchful—and then returned to Frederick.
“You came back,” she said. “Why now?”
For a moment, he did not answer. Then he exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him as though it carried years with it. “Tounderstand that,” he said at last, “we must go back to the year ninety-five.”
He leaned forward slightly, his expression darkening as memory took hold.
“There was unrest with the Dutch,” he continued. “Matters were already unstable, and when word came of the battle at Ceylon, everything shifted. The consolidation of British forces changed the situation entirely—far more than any of us had anticipated…”
∞∞∞
India—1795
It took a few months, but soon Frederick settled into his new routine. Each day followed the same familiar pattern: trade in the mornings, accounts in the afternoon, and an evening visit to the mission.
And at the end of each week, he brought along a bag of coin with him. It was not done ostentatiously, or with any expectation of gratitude.
No, he wished to serve in secret.
On one particular, unremarkable evening, he entered as he always did: unannounced and unremarked. But this time, something was different.
Anya sat near the far wall. She had turned away from the room, her shoulders drawn in, one hand pressed hastily to her face.
She was crying.
Frederick had seen her weary.
He had seen her grave.
He had seen her smile, though usually only at the children.
But he had never seen her shed tears.
He hesitated only a moment before crossing the room.
“Miss—” he began, then faltered, realizing he had never once addressed her directly.
“Anya,” he said instead, more gently. “Are you unwell?”
She started and turned to face him. For the briefest moment, he saw the tears clearly upon her face. Then she shook her head—quickly, almost desperately—and rose.
“I am well,” she said, her voice unsteady despite her effort. “Pray excuse me.”
And before he could say more, she had gone.
Frederick stood where he was, the bag of coins still in his hand, a frown settling over his features.
He did not like it.
