“Oh,” I breathed, comprehending.
She laughed miserably, the scar across her brow raised in disbelief. “In an English way, you are quite clever, Miss Stone; but in an English way, you are also very stupid. When Sahjara was sent away, my heart broke—she was all I had left of my friend Karman, and oh, Karman was like a shaft of God’s light striking earth. Lavell wasn’t fit to clean her boots with his spit, and the instant I heard of her demise, I slaughtered him in Amritsar and was back in Lahore before anyone there so much as knew he was dead. He would have alternately ignored and bullied Sahjara, that precious girl.”
“Her father would have mistreated her. But not Sardar Singh,” I murmured, understanding still more.
“Not Sardar—Sardar is a good man. When she was sent to England, he used to tell me to have patience, tell me that we would all be together again soon. For a while, Miss Stone, I thanked God for my new home here at Highgate House. I was teaching Sahjara Turkish, Pashto, how to sharpen a sword and how to balance accounts. Then Charles hatched a truly foul idea with Sardar—and in English, no less, though they did not know I minded them.”
“He wanted an English governess. I’m so sorry.”
“No, you aren’t,” she growled, gesturing with the knife’s tip. “You adore the pair of them, and they love you back, they . . . they can see you.”
A sob escaped her, and she panted, clutching the knife’s handle so hard I thought her fingers must break.
“It was bad enough not to work with Sardar any longer—passing the time with him on long journeys, going over inventory, dining with his sister,” she seethed. “As his confidential secretary, I negotiated for him, flattered for him, foresaw every difficulty and prevented it happening at all. Here I was sent to the servants’ wing, none of my efforts with Sahjara were given more than passing praise, Sardar lost all interest in my company, there was no meaningful work to distract me, and then they determined to advertise for a white governess. I wrote to Mr. Sack the next day.”
“How could you do such a thing if you truly loved Sahjara?”
“To remind them of who we really are.” Her death mask’s face tilted up, challenging. “I was wasting away, misery robbing me of flesh by the pound, and they didn’t even notice. They needed something to fight for, Miss Stone. We all did—it’s in our blood. My friend Karman was eighteen years old when she had her first Khalsa cavalry uniform tailored—we were born to fight, destined by God, and she would have despaired at seeing them so emasculated.”
This account of Karman’s uniform rang like bells; but before I could comprehend why the detail was important, I was being given my marching orders.
“Now, come here, slowly—and walk down the stairs, slowly. If you fail to do exactly as I say, this knife will be in your kidney.”
The slowly portion was easily managed, for I dreaded accompanying her. My limbs moved stiltedly, as if they belonged to Sahjara’s long-lost dolls, but my senses were keenly attuned to the familiar creak of the staircase, the velvety wood of the aged bannister. The only thing to do was to keep her talking—but I could not for my life imagine what to say to a woman who wished I had never been born.
“Why didn’t you tell them about Karman’s fortune after Sahjara was rescued?” I asked.
“At the start of another war?” she sneered from behind me.
“After that war, then?”
“In the midst of transporting an entire household across the continent?”
I stopped, hands visibly limp at my sides, and turned.
“You knew it was wrong,” said I. “You don’t want to find out what Sardar will think.”
“He stole those jewels in the first place, you fool,” she spat, but her lip trembled. “Go on, out the back door and head for the forest.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I am curious, though, how after all you have seen and discovered, that you could dream you mean me no harm.”
I stepped outside. The fresh air was like a slap across the cheek; it warned that, unless I was very fortunate, I was about to die. I would not, I had already determined, fall to my knees and allow the guillotine to fall. If this was to be the end, I would fight with tooth and claw at the edge of the woods; but before those methods were employed, I elected to try persuasion.
“We could invent a story,” I said, and it was not a lie: it was a possibility. “Do you wonder how I came to go armed?”
“No.” The tip of her knife caressed the edge of my cloak. “I was listening outside the dining room. Faster now, towards that copse.”