Chapter 1

June 21,1895

Bombay, India

"Please tell me that's not going to be part of my birthday dinner this evening."

I am staring into the hissing face of a cobra. A surprisingly pink tongue slithers in and out

of a cruel mouth while an Indian man whose eyes are the blue of blindness inclines his

head toward my mother and explains in Hindi that cobras make very good eating.

My mother reaches out a white-gloved finger to stroke the snake's back. "What do you

think, Gemma? Now that you're sixteen, will you be dining on cobra?"

The slithery thing makes me shudder. "I think not, thank you."

The old, blind Indian man smiles toothlessly and brings the cobra closer. It's enough to

send me reeling back where I bump into a wooden stand filled with little statues of Indian

deities. One of the statues, a woman who is all arms with a face bent on terror, falls to the

ground. Kali, the destroyer. Lately, Mother has accused me of keeping her as my

unofficial patron saint. Lately, Mother and I haven't been getting on very well. She claims

it's because I've reached an impossible age. I state emphatically to anyone who will listen

that it's all because she refuses to take me to London.

"I hear in London, you don't have to defang your meals first," I say. We're moving past

the cobra man and into the throng of people crowding every inch of Bombay's frenzied

marketplace. Mother doesn't answer but waves away an organ-grinder and his monkey.

It's unbearably hot. Beneath my cotton dress and crinolines, sweat streaks down my body.

The flies—my most ardent admirers—dart about my face. I swat at one of the little

winged beasts, but it escapes and I can almost swear I hear it mocking me. My misery is

reaching epidemic proportions.

Overhead, the clouds are thick and dark, giving warning that this is monsoon season,

when floods of rain could fall from the sky in a matter of minutes. In the dusty bazaar the

turbaned men chatter and squawk and bargain, lifting brightly colored silks toward us

with brown, sunbaked hands. Everywhere there are carts lined with straw baskets offering

every sort of ware and edible—thin, coppery vases; wooden boxes carved into intricate

flower designs; and mangos ripening in the heat.

"How much farther to Mrs. Talbot's new house? Couldn't we please take a carriage?" I

ask with what I hope is a noticeable annoyance.

"It's a nice day for a walk. And I'll thank you to keep a civil tone."

My annoyance has indeed been noted.

Sarita, our long-suffering housekeeper, offers pomegranates in her leathery hand.

"Memsahib, these are very nice. Perhaps we will take them to your father, yes?"

If I were a good daughter, I'd bring some to my father, watch his blue eyes twinkle as he

slices open the rich, red fruit, then eats the tiny seeds with a silver spoon just like a proper

British gentleman.

"He'll only stain his white suit," I grumble. My mother starts to say something to me,

thinks better of it, sighs—as usual. We used to go everywhere together, my mother and I

—visiting ancient temples, exploring local customs, watching Hindu festivals, staying up

late to see the streets bloom with candlelight. Now, she barely takes me on social calls.

It's as if I'm a leper without a colony.

"He will stain his suit. He always does," I mumble in my defense, though no one is

paying me a bit of attention except for the organ-grinder and his monkey. They're

following my every step, hoping to amuse me for money. The high lace collar of my

dress is soaked with perspiration. I long for the cool, lush green of England, which I've

only read about in my grandmother's letters. Letters filled with gossip about tea dances

and balls and who has scandalized whom half a world away, while I am stranded in

boring, dusty India watching an organ-grinder's monkey do a juggling trick with dates,

the same trick he's been performing for a year.

"Look at the monkey memsahib. How adorable he is!" Sarita says this as if I were still

three and clinging to the bottoms of her sari skirts. No one seems to understand that I am

fully sixteen and want, no, need to be in London, where I can be close to the museums

and the balls and men who are older than six and younger than sixty.

"Sarita, that monkey is a trained thief who will be begging for your wages in a moment,"

I say with a sigh. As if on cue, the furry urchin scrambles up and sits on my shoulder with

his palm outstretched. "How would you like to end up in a birthday stew?" I tell him

through clenched teeth. The monkey hisses. Mother grimaces at my ill manners and drops

a coin in its owner's cup. The monkey grins triumphantly and leaps across my head

before running away.

A vendor holds out a carved mask with snarling teeth and elephant ears. Without a word,

Mother places it over her face. "Find me if you can," she says. It's a game she's played

with me since I could walk—a bit of hide-and-seek meant to make me smile. A child's

game.

"I see only my mother," I say, bored. "Same teeth. Same ears."

Mother gives the mask back to the vendor. I've hit her vanity, her weak point.

"And I see that turning sixteen is not very becoming to my daughter," she says.

"Yes, I am sixteen. Sixteen. An age at which most decent girls have been sent for

schooling in London." I give the word decent an extra push, hoping to appeal to some

maternal sense of shame and propriety.

"This looks a bit on the green side, I think." She's peering intently at a mango. Her fruit

inspection is all-consuming.

"No one tried to keep Tom imprisoned in Bombay," I say, invoking my brothers name as

a last resort. "He's had four whole years there! And now he's starting at university."

"It's different for men."

"It's not fair. I'll never have a season. I'll end up a spinster with hundreds of cats who all

drink milk from china bowls." I'm whining. It's unattractive, but I find I'm powerless to

stop.

"I see," Mother says, finally. "Would you like to be paraded around the ballrooms of

London society like some prize horse there to have its breeding capabilities evaluated?

Would you still think London was so charming when you were the subject of cruel gossip

for the slightest infraction of the rules? London's not as idyllic as your grandmother's

letters make it out to be."

"I wouldn't know. I've never seen it."

"Gemma…" Mother's tone is all warning even as her smile is constant for the Indians.

Mustn't let them think we British ladies are so petty as to indulge in arguments on the

streets. We only discuss the weather, and when the weather is bad, we pretend not to

notice.

Sarita chuckles nervously. "How is it that memsahib is now a young lady? It seems only

yesterday you were in the nursery. Oh, look, dates! Your favorite." She breaks into a gaptoothed

smile that makes every deeply etched wrinkle in her face come alive. It's hot and

I suddenly want to scream, to run away from everything and everyone I've ever known.

"Those dates are probably rotting on the inside. Just like India."

"Gemma, that will be quite enough." Mother fixes me with her glass-green eyes.

Penetrating and wise, people call them. I have the same large, upturned green eyes. The

Indians say they are unsettling, disturbing. Like being watched by a ghost. Sarita smiles

down at her feet, keeps her hands busy adjusting her brown sari. I feel a tinge of guilt for

saying such a nasty thing about her home. Our home, though I don't really feel at home

anywhere these days.

"Memsahib, you do not want to go to London. It is gray and cold and there is no ghee for

bread. You wouldn't like it."

A train screams into the depot down near the glittering bay. Bombay. Good bay, it means,

though I can't think of anything good about it right now. A dark plume of smoke from the

train stretches up, touching the heavy clouds. Mother watches it rise.

"Yes, cold and gray." She places a hand on her throat, fingers the necklace hanging there,

a small silver medallion of an all-seeing eye atop a crescent moon. A gift from a villager,

Mother said. Her good-luck charm. I've never seen her without it.

Sarita puts a hand on Mother's arm. "Time to go, memsahib."

Mother pulls her gaze away from the train, drops her hand from her necklace. "Yes.

Come. We'll have a lovely time at Mrs. Talbot's. I'm sure she'll have lovely cakes just for

your birthday—"

A man in a white turban and thick black traveling cloak stumbles into her from behind,

bumping her hard.

"A thousand pardons, honorable lady." He smiles, offers a deep bow to excuse his

rudeness. When he does, he reveals a young man behind him wearing the same sort of

strange cloak. For a moment, the young man and I lock eyes. He isn't much older than I

am, probably seventeen if a day, with brown skin, a full mouth, and the longest eyelashes

I have ever seen. I know I'm not supposed to find Indian men attractive, but I don't see

many young men and I find I'm blushing in spite of myself. He breaks our gaze and

cranes his neck to see over the hordes.

"You should be more careful," Sarita barks at the older man, threatening him with a blow

from her arm." You better not be a thief or you will be punished."

"No, no, memsahib, only I am terribly clumsy." He drops his smile and with it the

cheerful simpleton routine. He whispers low to my mother in perfectly accented English.

"Circe is near."

It makes no sense to me, just the ramblings of a very clever thief said to distract us. I start

to say as much to my mother but the look of sheer panic on her face stops me cold. Her

eyes are wild as she whips around and scans the crowded streets like she's looking for a

lost child.

"What is it? What's the matter?" I ask.

The men are suddenly gone. They've disappeared into the moving crowd, leaving only

their footprints in the dust. "What did that man say to you?"

My mothers voice is edged in steel. "It's nothing. He was obviously deranged. The streets

are not safe these days." I have never heard my mother sound this way. So hard. So

afraid. "Gemma, I think it's best if I go to Mrs. Talbot's alone."

"But—but what about the cake?" It's a ridiculous thing to say, but it's my birthday and

while I don't want to spend it in Mrs. Talbot's sitting room, I certainly don't want to waste

the day alone at home, all because some black-cloaked madman and his cohort have

spooked my mother.

Mother pulls her shawl tightly about her shoulders. "We'll have cake later…"

"But you promised—"

"Yes, well, that was before…" She trails off.

"Before what?"

"Before you vexed me so! Really Gemma, you are in no humor for a visit today. Sarita

will see you back."

"I'm in a fine humor," I protest, sounding anything but.

"No, you are not!" Mother's green eyes find mine. There is something there I've never

seen before. A vast and terrifying anger that stops my breath. Quick as it comes on her,

it's gone and she is Mother again. "You're overtired and need some rest. Tonight, we'll

celebrate and I'll let you drink some champagne."

I'll let you drink some champagne. It's not a promise—it's an excuse to get rid of me.

There was a time when we did everything together, and now, we can't even walk through

the bazaar without sniping at each other. I am an embarrassment and. a disappointment. A

daughter she does not want to take anywhere, not London or even the home of an old

crone who makes weak tea.

The train's whistle shrieks again, making her jump.

"Here, I'll let you wear my necklace, hmmm? Go on, wear it. I know you've always

admired it."

I stand, mute, allowing her to adorn me in a necklace I have indeed always wanted, but

now it weighs me down, a shiny, hateful thing. A bribe. Mother gives another quick

glance to the dusty marketplace before letting her green eyes settle on mine.

"There. You look… all grown up." She presses her gloved hand to my cheek, holds it

there as if to memorize it with her fingers. "I'll see you at home."

I don't want anyone to notice the tears that are pooling in my eyes, so I try to think of the

wickedest thing I can say and then it's on my lips as I bolt from the marketplace.

"I don't care if you come home at all."