A figure dressed in red slinks out from behind the statue. Heart in my throat, I reach for my switchblade inside my pocket.
“I mean you no harm,” the woman purrs in a slight Indian accent, though I can’t pinpoint if it’s north or south. “I only wanted to introduce myself.”
I take stock of her. Her wavy ebony hair is pulled back from her scalp into a tight braid, the bottom nearly reaching her slim hips. Outlined delicately with black eyeliner, her eyes are dark like Bes’s—though they lack his spark. The side of her nose shimmers, the sparkle of a gold stud protruding there. This leads to even more small-hooped gold earrings looped along both ears. Golden bracelets glow around her left upper arm, a leather cuff bound to the right wrist.
Her faded red saree is fashioned in what I believe to be the Dhoti style: it’s draped over one shoulder and exposes the other, where I notice black fabric binding her chest underneath. The fabric of the saree is then pulled across her waist and looped beneath and around her legs to create the appearance of pants, which are cut off right below her knees.
She shifts impatiently in her gilded sandals.
All I can think is: shelookslike a warrior. Not only in her garb, but in the way she holds herself, the determination in her set gaze. In fact, she reminds me very much of a painting I once saw of Velu Nachiyar, Queen of Sivaganga and the first woman to rebel against the British for the freedom of her people. I wouldn’t be surprised if this woman had the same insubordinate streak in her.
Anders clears his throat. “Ah Kali, good to see you. Have you met Miss Amelia Hawkins?”
Kali, Kali… where do I know that name?
The woman, Kali, holds out her hand. “Vanakkam.”
She respects me, I think.Interesting.
I press my palm to hers. “Vanakkam.”
Anders’s voice grows somber. “Visiting your brother?”
Kali’s nostrils flare slightly. “Taking down his picture.”
“Has it been a month already?”
“It has.”
He bows his head and his shoulders slump. “And there’s been no sign of him?”
She crosses her arms over her chest, tapping her long fingers on her ribs. “I have mourned him. That is all I have to say.”
“Fair enough.” Anders waves me on. “Come on, Miss Hawkins, this way.”
I pause. “Give me a moment?”
Anders smiles sadly before pulling his attention from me to survey the walls around us.
“It’s difficult not to look away, isn’t it?” He stares hard at one particular spot before turning back to me. “When you’re done, come find me. Don’t be long.”
He hurries through the darkened doorway at the back of the spherical room and disappears.
I wait for Kali to leave too, but instead she watches me in silence.
I point at the statue. “Can you tell me who this man is?”
She considers me a moment longer before answering. “Februus, the Italian God of purification. He resides in the underworld.”
“Like the Greek god Hades?”
She nods once. “Your comparison is apt.”
“I suppose that explains his epitaph, then:in igne et in morte sumus puri.”
“In fire and in death, we are pure. Ancient Italians considered fire a purifying agent. Cremation was thought to cleanse the soul before it passed on to the afterlife.”
I peer around at the jars on the walls.
