“I can’t say.”
“Well, I can!” Mandar shouted. “Where is your evidence that we are infected?”
Sundari held up her hand. “Mandar, let him speak.”
“This is a very clever disease,” he said. “It hides in the chest and manifests within weeks.”
“Did you interview the dying men?” I asked boldly. “How do you know this?”
“Because I did exactly as you said. The messengers showed symptoms two weeks ago.”
“I thought they died as soon as they arrived in Jhansi,” Jhalkari challenged.
He spread his hands and said tensely, “With the rani in the condition she’s in you must go.”
Sundari asked everyone to return to the Durgavas, but asked the three of us to stay behind. I felt like a leper. What if I made my family sick as well?
As soon as the room was empty, Sundari said, “I do not believe that any of you are sick.” She looked angry. “This is a foul-smelling dish cooked up by Kahini. I saw her with that physician this morning, whispering. I do not believe there are any dead messengers. None of you are sick.” Sundari was adamant. “This is a trick to keep Sita away from the rani.”
Mandar and Jhalkari both looked at me. If ever there was a time to band against me, this was it. “Kahini hasn’t just banished us,” Jhalkari asked. “She’s robbed us as well. We will not be paid if we are absent.”
“What if the rani is too afraid to let us back after a month?” Mandar said. “She must think we are lepers.”
“That’s how I feel,” Jhalkari said. “A leper dressed in Benares silk.”
“Perhaps we should tell her what Kahini did?” I suggested.
“Who would you believe?” Jhalkari said. “A physician or us?”
Sundari agreed. “The rani is heavily pregnant and much weighs upon the delivery of a healthy child. Do not test your friendship now, Sita. It is wiser to wait the month. In that time I will convince her that no pestilence threatens this palace.”
Three men brought our horses; one of them was Arjun. He handed me the reins, but didn’t look particularly fearful. “Is it true?” he asked. “Are you sick?”
“She’s no more sick than you are,” Mandar replied, looking at the several dozen soldiers that followed behind Arjun, ready to escort us to our homes. “Someone convinced the rani that there’s a plague in Jhansi, and that the three of us are showing signs of infection.”
Arjun looked incredulous. “Kahini?”
“She must have bribed the rani’s physician,” Jhalkari said.
“I’m sorry. The guards are asking about the sickness and no one knows what to believe.” Arjun glanced at me. “I wish I could escort you to Barwa Sagar,” he said quietly. “It’s a long way to travel.” He reached into his bag and pulled out the same red book I had seen him reading the first time we’d met. “For your trip,” he said, handing it to me.
I ran my finger over the gilded lettering. A Collection of Rumi’s Poetry.
“There’s one poem in particular I thought you might enjoy. I marked the page for you.”
My cheeks felt hot. “Thank you,” I said.
“What?” Mandar joked. “Nothing for me?”
“Do you read poetry?”
She snorted. “Not unless I’m forced to.”
The journey to Barwa Sagar took most of the day. I rode like a horse with blinders on, because the only image I saw was Arjun’s face—his expressive eyes, his slender nose, his long hair pushed back from his pale forehead by his muretha. I felt slightly lightheaded imagining him standing so close to me. He was very handsome. He was also a captain, so why wasn’t he married? A captain of the rani’s guards should be married with a growing family. Perhaps there was something wrong with him.
As we entered my village, and boys ran to the sides of the road to steal a glimpse of our small procession, I was still distracted. It wasn’t until we turned onto the narrow street where I had lived for more than seventeen years that I was suddenly in Barwa Sagar again.
I could see from a distance that the door to my house was thrown open, and the courtyard was filled with Father’s guests. Children threw flowers at my feet, and distant cousins held up offerings of sweets. Was this how the rani felt every time she left the Panch Mahal? It was as if I had left the village a cat and returned a lion.
I saw myself in their eyes: my green silk angarkha was more beautiful and more expensive than anything anyone in my village had ever worn. My silver-handled pistol gleamed in the sun, as conspicuous as my kattari and my sword. A vain part of me hoped that Grandmother was watching and withering with envy.