Chapter 2

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I'm running away through throngs of vendors and beggar children and foul-smelling

camels, narrowly missing two men carrying saris that hang from a piece of rope attached

to two poles at either end. I dart off down a narrow side street, following the twisting,

turning alleys till I have to stop and catch my breath. Hot tears spill down my cheeks. I let

myself cry now that there is no one around to see me.

God save me from a woman's tears, for I've no strength against them. That's what my

father would say if he were here now. My father with his twinkling eyes and bushy

mustache, his booming laugh when I please him and far-off gaze—as if I don't exist—

when I've been less than a lady. I can't imagine he'll be terribly happy when he hears how

I've behaved. Saying nasty things and storming off isn't the sort of behavior that's likely

to win a girl's case for going to London. My stomach aches at the thought of it all. What

was I thinking?

There's nothing to do but swallow my pride, make my way back and apologize. If I can

find my way back. Nothing looks at all familiar to me. Two old men sit cross-legged on

the ground, smoking small, brown cigarettes. They watch me as I pass. I realize that I am

alone in the city for the first time. No chaperone. No entourage. A lady unescorted. It's

very scandalous of me. My heart beats faster and I quicken my pace.

The air has grown very still. A storm isn't far off. In the distance, I can hear frantic

activity in the marketplace, last-minute bargains being struck before everything is closed

down for the afternoon shower. I follow the sound and end up where I started. The old

men smile at me, an English girl lost and alone on Bombay's streets. I could ask them for

directions back to the marketplace, though my Hindi isn't nearly as good as Father's and

for all I know Where is the marketplace may come out as I covet your neighbor's fine

cow. Still, it's worth a try.

"Pardon me," I ask the elder man, the one with a white beard. "I seem to be lost. Could

you tell me which way to the marketplace?"

The man's smile fades, replaced by a look of fear. He's speaking to the other man in sharp

bursts of a dialect I don't understand. Faces peek from windows and doorways, straining

to see what's bringing the trouble. The old man stands, points to me, to the necklace. He

doesn't like it? Something about me has alarmed him. He shoos me away, goes inside and

shuts the door in my face. It's refreshing to know that it's not just my mother and Sarita

who find me intolerable.

The faces at the windows remain, watching me. There's the first drop of rain. The wet

seeps into my dress, a spreading stain. The sky could break open at any moment. I've got

to get back. No telling what Mother will do if she ends up drenched and I'm the cause.

Why did I act like such a petulant brat? She'll never take me to London now. I'll spend the

rest of my days in an Austrian convent surrounded by women with mustaches, my eyes

gone bad from making intricate lace designs for other girls' trousseaus. I could curse my

bad temper, but it won't get me back. Choose a direction, Gemma, any direction—just go.

I take the path to the right. The unfamiliar street leads to another and another, and just as I

come around a curve, I see him coming. The boy from the marketplace.

Don't panic, Gemma. Just move slowly away before be sees you.

I take two hurried steps back. My heel catches on a slippery stone, sending me sliding

into the street. When I right myself, he's staring at me with a look I cannot decipher. For a

second, neither of us moves. We are as still as the air around us, which is either promising

rain or threatening a storm.

A sudden fear takes root, spreads through me with cold speed, given wings by

conversations I've overheard in my father's study—tales over brandy and cigars about the

fate of an unescorted woman, overpowered by bad men, her life ruined forever. But these

are only bits of conversation. This is a real man coming toward me, closing the distance

between us in powerful strides.

He means to catch me, but I won't let him. Heart pounding, I pull up my skirts, ready to

run. I try to take a step and my legs go shaky as a calf's. The ground shimmers and

pitches beneath me.

What is happening?

Move. Must move, but I can't. A strange tingle starts in my fingers, travels up my arms,

into my chest. My whole body trembles. A terrible pressure squeezes the breath from me,

weighs me down to my knees. Panic blooms in my mouth like weeds. I want to scream.

No words will come. No sound. He reaches me as I fall to the ground. Want to tell him to

help me. Focus on his face, his full lips, perfect as a bow. His thick dark curls fall across

his eyes, deep, brown, foot-long-lashes eyes. Alarmed eyes.

Help me.

The words stick fast inside me. I'm no longer afraid of losing my virtue; I know I must be

dying. Try to get my mouth to tell him this but there is nothing but a choking sound in my

throat. A strong smell of rose and spice overpowers me as the horizon slips away, my

eyelids fluttering, fighting to stay awake. It's his lips that part, move, speak.

His voice that says, "It's happening."

The pressure increases till I feel I will burst and then I'm under, a swirling tunnel of

blinding color and light pulling me down like an undertow. I fall forever. Images race by.

I'm falling past the ten-year-old me playing with Julia, the rag doll I lost on a picnic a

year later; I'm six, letting Sarita wash my face for dinner. Time spins backward and I am

three, two, a baby, and then something pale and foreign, a creature no bigger than a

tadpole and just as fragile. The strong tide grabs me hard again, pulling me through a veil

of blackness, till I see the twisting street in India again. I am a visitor, walking in a living

dream, no sound except for the thumping of my heart, my breath going in and out, the

swish of my own blood coursing through my veins. On the rooftops above me, the organgrinder's

monkey scampers quickly, baring teeth. I try to speak but find I can't. He hops

onto another roof, A shop where dried herbs hang from the eaves and a small moon-andeye

symbol—the same as on my mother's necklace—is affixed to the door. A woman

comes quickly up the sloping street. A woman with red-gold hair, a blue dress, white

gloves. My mother. What is my mother doing here? She should be at Mrs. Talbot's house,

drinking tea and discussing fabric.

My name floats from her lips. Gemma. Gemma. She's come looking for me. The Indian

man in the turban is just behind her. She doesn't hear him. I call out to her, my mouth

making no sound. With one hand, she pushes open the shop's door and enters. I follow

her in, the pounding of my heart growing louder and faster. She must know the man is

behind her. She must hear his breath now. But she only looks forward.

The man pulls a dagger from inside his cloak, but still she doesn't turn. I feel as if I'll be

sick. I want to stop her, pull her away. Every step forward is like pushing against the air,

lifting my legs an agony of slow movement. The man stops, listening. His eyes widen.

He's afraid.

There's something coiled, waiting in the shadows at the back of the shop. It's as if the

dark has begun to move. How can it be moving? But it is, with a cold, slithering sound

that makes my skin crawl. A dark shape spreads out from its hiding spot. It grows till it

reaches all around. The blackness in the center of the thing is swirling and the sound…

the most ghastly cries and moans come from inside it.

The man rushes forward, and the thing moves over him. It devours him. Now it looms

over my mother and speaks to her in a slick hiss.

"Come to us, pretty one. We've been waiting…"

My scream implodes inside me. Mother looks back, sees the dagger lying there, grabs it.

The thing howls in outrage. She's going to fight it. She's going to be all right. A single

tear escapes down her cheek as she closes her desperate eyes, says my name soft as a

prayer, Gemma. In one swift motion, she raises the dagger and plunges it into herself.

No!

A strong tide yanks me from the shop. I'm back on the streets of Bombay, as if I'd never

been gone, screaming wildly while the young Indian man pins my flailing arms at my

side.

"What did you see? Tell me!"

I kick and hit, twisting in his grip. Is there anyone around who can help me? What is

happening? Mother! My mind fights for control, logic, reason, and finds it. My mother is

having tea at Mrs. Talbot's house. I'll go there and prove it. She will be angry and send

me home with Sarita and there'll be no champagne later and no London but it won't

matter. She'll be alive and well and cross and I'll be ecstatic to be punished by her.

He's still yelling at me. "Did you see my brother?"

"Let me go!" I kick at him with my legs, which have found their strength again. I've

gotten him in the tenderest of places. He crumples to the ground and I take off blindly

down the street and around the next corner, fear pushing me forward. A small crowd is

gathering in front of a shop. A shop where dried herbs hang from the roof.

No. This is all some hideous dream. I will wake up in my own bed and hear Father's loud,

gravelly voice telling one of his long-winded jokes, Mother's soft laughter filling in after.

My legs cramp and tighten, go wobbly as I reach the crowd and make my way through it.

The organ-grinder's tiny monkey scampers to the ground and tilts his head left and right,

eyeing the body there with curiosity. The few people in front of me clear away. My mind

takes it in by degrees. A shoe upturned, the heel broken. A hand splayed, fingers going

stiff. Contents of a handbag strewn in the dirt. Bare neck peeking out from the bodice of a

blue gown. Those famous green eyes open and unseeing. Mother's mouth parted slightly,

as if she had been trying to speak when she died.

Gemma.

A deep red pool of blood widens and flows beneath her lifeless body. It seeps into the

dusty cracks in the earth, reminding me of the pictures I've seen of Kali, the dark

goddess, who spills blood and crushes bone. Kali the destroyer. My patron saint. I close

my eyes, willing it all to go away.

This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening.

But when I open my eyes, she's still there, staring back at me, accusing. I don't care if you

come home at all. It was the last thing I'd said to her. Before I ran away. Before she came

after me. Before I saw her die in a vision. A heavy numbness weighs down my arms and

legs. I crumple to the ground, where my mothers blood touches the hem of my best dress,

forever staining it. And then the scream I've been holding back comes pouring out of me

hard and fast as a night train just as the sky opens wide and a fierce rain pours down,

drowning out every sound.

London, England. Two months later.