“Did they offer any names?”
“No,” said the mahout. “No names. They had none to give.”
Good.
Patronage of Ahiranyi rebellion—even in the form of art—was a crime, and not one Bhumika could admit involvement in.
“And their connection,” she said tentatively, “with the rebels.”
“The rebels wore masks,” said the mahout. “They knew no more than that.”
She shouldn’t have felt relief at that. But she did.
“Thank you,” she said again.
Her servant stepped forward, holding out a small drawstring purse of coin.
“For your help,” said Bhumika, as the mahout took the purse with murmured gratitude. “And when your son is ready for an apprenticeship…”
“My lady,” he said. He bowed deeply and departed swiftly, the old woman following him down. Now only Bhumika and her servant remained, above an execution ground hazy with smoke, its ground stained dark with blood.
“Shall we return to the mahal, my lady?”
“No,” she said. “Take me to my uncle’s home.”
The Sonali family haveli was built in traditional Ahiranyi style. Modest by grand Parijati standards, it was nothing but exquisite to Bhumika’s eyes.
The Parijati loved their airy, expansive mansions, rich in pale marble and sandstone and high columns. Ahiranyi architecture was modest, almost quaint by comparison. The Sonali haveli was largely open to the sky, divided into parts only by delicate wefts of lattice screens, decorated in leaf and flower motifs carved into wood. Only the bedrooms were covered, closed off from the open air by curtains of light purple silk.
She entered the central courtyard, where a water well played melodic, liquid music. One of the maidservants had conducted morning prayers: There was a small platter of flowers floating in the well.
“Lady Bhumika,” one maidservant said in greeting. “He’s awake.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “Show me to him.”
Her uncle’s room faced the courtyard, allowing in the fresh scent of water and the faint warmth of the sunshine. She knew he loved listening to the patter of monsoon rain on the courtyard stone; the deeper echo of it as it met the water of the well. He’d been ill for many years, and such small comforts were precious to him.
She rapped lightly on the doorframe as she entered. She was greeted by the sweet scent of red lilies, arranged in blue lacquer pots around the windows, the walls.
“Uncle,” she greeted him, kneeling by his divan. “It’s me.”
“Ah,” he said, voice creaking. “It is you.” A smile curled his mouth.
He looked older. Thinner. There were lines of pain around his mouth. A bad day, then. She would try not to demand great conversation from him on this occasion. She’d only visited him a bare handful of weeks ago, but time was creeping over him with steady cruelty.
“I hear your husband has had trouble.”
“Where did you hear that, uncle?”
“You’re not the only one with loyal eyes and ears.” He tsked. “A messy business. He should have shown mercy.”
“He did what the emperor wanted,” Bhumika murmured, although she agreed with all her heart.
“We should not do what powerful people tell us, simply because they tell us,” he rasped. “You know that.”
He covered her hand with his own. His fingers trembled. “Are we alone?”
She raised her head. The servant who had led her in was gone.
