The soldiers followed. “Don’t let him jump!”
Colton had no intention of jumping. He instead climbed out of the window and onto the side of the speeding train. The wind almost knocked him off, whipping his hair into his eyes. Colton reached up to the top of the window, but one of the officers grabbed his ankle below.
Grunting, Colton kicked the man in the face until he let go, then scrambled up. He was so used to climbing his tower that the train felt easy in comparison. He hoisted himself onto the roof and stood there a moment, bracing himself against the wind. The train whistled, and if he squinted through the steam, he could see a river up ahead.
A small door in the roof banged open and soldiers poured out. Bullets flew around him, and one ricocheted off of his central cog. He stumbled forward with a pained cry.
“Stop right there, lad! There’s nowhere to go!”
Colton still ran, jumping onto the next carriage’s roof and ducking under their gunfire. The train just had to get close enough—
“Oy, lad! Stop!”
He hugged the pack to his chest and looked down as the train passed over the river. Glancing over his shoulder, he dodged two more bullets before jumping over the side.
The wind drowned out the soldiers’ shouts until he hit the water. The cogs at his back dragged him down to the bottom, and he let them. He sat on the riverbed, looking up through the murky haze as the dark shadow of the train sped by. He waited until it was long gone, waited several more minutes just to be sure, and started climbing up the riverbank.
Emerging from the water, he spat out a mouthful of muck. An old, brown-skinned man in a loincloth sat at the river’s edge, beating laundry against rocks. He stared openmouthed at Colton.
Colton walked onto land, wringing his clothes and shaking water from his hair. There was no sign of the train. Now what?
He walked until he found the train tracks. The best way to get to Agra, he supposed, was to follow them.
He stood under the Indian sun as his clothes steamed in the heat. He stared into the distance, feeling hollow. Feeling nothing. He could still hear the screams, those of his sister, Castor, and his own. He still smelled coppery blood.
His tower had been his sanctuary for hundreds of years, the clock the beating heart of Enfield. But now he knew the tower wasn’t his home.
It was his tomb.
Lucknow had almost become Daphne’s prison. She’d arrived in low spirits, sinking farther with every blow the people around her inflicted: the disapproval of the other women, the leers of the men, the distrust of the Indians. Aside from Partha, only two people had shown her kindness. Thankfully, she could spend most of her days with both of them.
Her mornings were given to Narayan in his tower. They spoke in broken Hindi, but Daphne could understand most of what she didn’t grasp through his gestures. Though he was more forward than she would have expected, she didn’t mind. She preferred his company to the soldiers’.
And thanks to Akash and her expanding vocabulary, she finally understood what Narayan had been trying to tell her that first day.
“Dreams,” she said. He nodded. “What do you dream about?”
A boy being bitten by a snake, then lying in a fever. A pretty girl carrying a clay pot of water on her head. And the dancing. He danced in his dreams, kicking up dirt and tossing his head to battering drums, women with bloodred scarves and jangling ankle bells around him.
Daphne had no clue what it all meant. But every day Narayan claimed to have more dreams, and each one seemed more confusing.
She passed the afternoons with Akash, who dedicated his mornings to discovering activities for them to do. By lunchtime he was at her window, tapping three times like a clockwork bird.
They had started with walking aimlessly about. On the second day, he’d taken her to a small dancing festival across the city. Men and women had spun and flung their arms in sinuous motions to the music of drums and a sitar. Daphne had loved watching the women’s skirts twirl, listening to the rattling jewelry on their ankles and wrists as she tried to imitate the women’s intricate hand gestures. It was just how Narayan had described his dream—men and women losing themselves in the music, blending the border between living and pleasure.
When she expressed interest in the women’s clothing, Akash used their third day to take her to a tailor.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,” she argued, but he insisted.
“The prices are very good.”
“Won’t it be offensive?”
He frowned. “Why would it be offensive? You’re one of us.”
She stared at him, lips parted, heat welling through her body until she felt an uncomfortable pressure behind her eyes. She had to turn away, unwilling to show him just how much those simple words meant.
So she had spoken with the tailor—with Akash translating—about what she’d like. The woman had smacked her lips together as she made her measurements.
By the fourth day, Daphne was the owner of her very own salwar kameez. It was comprised of a long silk tunic, dark blue with gold-colored brocade around the hem, and matching trousers that were surprisingly airy. There was a scarf as well, but Daphne carefully put this in her bag. She didn’t want to ruin it.
At first, in the mirror, she only saw the contrast: fair girl, foreign dress. She saw the stitches between the fabrics of her body, the mismatching patchwork. Then, slowly, it all started to come together. The fabrics overlapped, and she felt as if she were discovering a new Daphne.
A girl trying to patch up the holes within her.
She modeled her new outfit for Akash. He clapped, showing a large, bright smile.
“Stunning,” he said, and she blushed.
The outfit, of course, needed to be kept hidden from Crosby. But coming back through the window, Daphne tripped and stumbled into her room, knocking over a cup. The door opened slightly and Partha peered in. He took in the outfit, eyebrows raised. Meeting her eyes, he bent his head as if to say very well, then gently shut the door again.
On the fifth and sixth days, Daphne knew something was wrong. While she enjoyed visiting Narayan’s tower, the fact that there was nothing out of the ordinary made her question once again why she was here. The spirit seemed wholly unconcerned.
“But you would tell me if something was wrong?” she insisted. He nodded, then pointed impatiently at the wooden mancala board sitting between them. He’d hidden it in his tower for years after a couple of ghadi wallahs left it there.
She took her turn, studying Narayan as she moved the dried beans around the slots. The spirit smiled, blindingly innocent.
“If nothing’s wrong with your tower, I’ll probably have to leave soon,” she said.
He looked up at the word leave, his smile gone. She tried to explain that she couldn’t spend the rest of her time here in Lucknow, not when there were so many other cities in India that could be attacked.