“I am impressed, Miss Richards,” Akash said, warming up his arm for throwing. “Now let’s see if Mr. Hart can compare.”
If his nursery school days were anything to go by, Danny would be out in the first inning. Still, he thumped the bat against the soles of his boots as the rain fell harder, flattening his hair and soaking through his shirt. Akash shook his head to clear his own waterlogged hair from his face.
Akash took his position, and Danny readied the bat. The ball flew out of Akash’s hand—
Whack. Danny smacked it far into the field and rushed to the other side, grinning victoriously. But just as he was about to score, he lost his footing, slipped, and fell face-first in the mud.
He rose, sputtering and cursing, to the sound of laughter. He shook his hands, dislodging bits of muddy grass. The rain did little to cool his burning cheeks.
Daphne recovered first and made to help him up. “Sorry, Danny. But you ought to see your face.”
Danny took her hand—and tugged. She yelped and fell into the mud beside him, splattering him all over again.
“Daniel Hart!” But he was laughing too hard to hear, and she couldn’t help a rueful laugh of her own. They tried to get up and slipped again. When Akash and Meena came to help, a conspiratorial look passed between Danny and Daphne. They each grabbed a hand and pulled the siblings down with them.
“Foul!” Akash yelled as he crashed into the mud. “The British are sore losers!”
“At least we don’t melt,” Danny said, and threw a lump of mud at Meena. She squealed and hurled one back.
They played in the field like children until Lieutenant Crosby yelled at them to get to the baths immediately before they took ill. “What do you think this is, a school yard? Remember your stations!”
They hung their heads and made for the baths, but quick glances around revealed that they all wore the same small smile.
“Danny,” Meena asked one night as they were playing bridge, “may we ask how you came by your scar?”
Danny looked up. Meena had tilted her head forward slightly, and Akash was watching over his cards.
“It’s not really a secret,” he said. “I was in a clock tower when it … um, exploded. The gears …” He mimed something flying through the air, and Daphne shuddered.
Meena looked aghast. “The tower fell?”
“No, only the clockwork was harmed. Well, and my chin.” He touched the hard, white line. “I managed to reattach everything, though, and get time started again.”
It was easier to talk about the accident now, a year later and half a world away, but Danny couldn’t stop the dread that crept up his spine, or the pulse of heat in his stomach. He still remembered how vibrant a red his blood had been, a flash of crimson against a world gone black and white. The flicker of time all around him like a struggling heartbeat. Suddenly, he could feel his own heartbeat in the palms of his hands, twin rhythms of panic.
“Why did the clockwork explode?” Akash asked.
Danny didn’t understand him at first, too wrapped up in the memory. He shook his head to clear it and tried not to look at Daphne, who was suddenly fascinated by her bridge hand. “A man was targeting towers, and I happened to be in one at the wrong time.”
“Was this the terrorist I heard rumor of?” Meena asked. “The one in London?”
Again with that word. “Yes.”
“Why did he do it? Wasn’t he a clock mechanic, too?”
Is, Danny wanted to correct them. “He lost sight of what was right,” he said to his cards. “He was so preoccupied with what he wanted that he didn’t think of anyone else.”
A short silence passed. Then Akash murmured, “I wonder if he could be working with the bombers here.”
Why did everyone have to jump to that conclusion? Yes, Matthias was a terrorist, but all of that was behind them. Now others were trailing in his footsteps, and doing a much better job of it.
The question, of course, was why.
“Well, I happen to like it—the scar,” Akash said. “It adds a bit of mystery. Daring.”
Daphne snorted, and that was the end of that.
The only person in the cantonment who didn’t seem confused by the new friendship between the four of them was Captain Harris. He actually passed time with the Indians beyond his requisite handing out of orders, and spoke their language with the ease of one who was born there. He had been stationed in India for five years already, and said he didn’t miss England very often.
“Victoria’s going to be named Empress in a couple months,” Harris said one night as they drank hot milk before bed. “Everyone’s excited about it, even the Indians. Well, the rajas are, anyway. The princes love any excuse to dress up and parade about.”
Meena rolled her eyes in agreement.
“Are you going to the ceremony?” Danny asked. “We heard there might be an attack on the Delhi tower.”
“There’ll be a guard around the tower for certain, but I won’t be part of it. And the Queen won’t actually be there, of course.”
“Who will be there?”
“The viceroy will be attending as Victoria’s representative.”
Akash’s eyes narrowed. “Viceroy Lytton?”
“That’s him. Not a popular fellow, I’ll admit.”
“Why would he be?” Akash made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “He is incompetent, a fool. He prefers poetry and gold over the running of this country. No wonder they call this the Black Raj.”
The atmosphere at the table suddenly grew tense, the silence that fell after Akash’s words taut and accusing. Danny exchanged a worried glance with Daphne.
But Harris deftly changed the subject. “We’re all serving Queen and country, in the end. It’s a decent living. They even pay me more for acting as a translator. Did you know this country has twenty-three languages? I only know Hindi and Urdu, but maybe I’ll make my way to the rest one day.”
“Too bad they don’t pay for being a sharpshooter,” Meena joked. Harris looked down at the table with a pleased smile.
“Are you good with a gun, Captain?” Daphne asked.
“He’s the best,” Akash said. “I’ve seen him at the range behind the cantonment. You should show them, Captain.”
Danny wondered how to politely decline the demonstration, but he liked Harris, so he mumbled something about being eager to see it.
Indian vendors frequented the cantonment, including one who walked around with live animals dangling from a bamboo stick he perched across his shoulder. He sold his wares to the soldiers who had greyhounds that needed exercising, or those who were in need of live targets for shooting practice. Danny worried that Harris would use one of these creatures to show off his skills. A couple of days later, when he saw the stationary target situated at the far end of the range, he breathed a sigh of relief.