Page 115 of A Thousand Painted Hours

I couldn’t even imagine my life without Tanveer in it, but I did not know her feelings about our connection, or how much she really knew. Of course she knew I’d gone to him in the hospital in Brighton and brought him back to Herewich to heal, but how much more than that, I did not know. As lightly as possible, I asked, “How is your brother?”

“Has he not written of late?”

“No, he has.” I dropped sugar cubes into my coffee to hide my expression. “I assume you must see him now and again.”

“I do. And Channan, frail as she is. Poor dear. It’s always been an amazement to me that he married her. Baldev and I think him a bit of a saint.”

“A saint!”

Gurdaya inclined her head. “Do you not know her story?”

“A little. She was disfigured in a robbery.”

She lifted her chin, and waved toward the waiter. “Disfiguredis a mild word. She was beaten and burned. It was a miracle she did not die—and it might have been kinder if she had.”

I found myself suddenly protective. “Oh, surely not. Tanveer praises her good mind. Beauty is not the only measure of worth.”

“Oh, no, of course not.” She touched my hand. “How kind that you defend her.” The waiter brought grapefruits and toast. “I only meant that without Tanveer’s protection, she would have suffered.”

I hadn’t realized her condition was so severe, and it gave me a twist of new love for him. “That is in character, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she said. “He has ever sought to protect the defenseless. And you, Elsie? How do you fare?”

“I’m well!” I said brightly. “Cairo has given me so much to paint.”

“And your husband?”

“A junior ambassador, but likely to move up, I’m sure. He’s an amateur archaeologist, so, of course, he loves Egypt.”

“Is it he who gives you those bruises?”

The inquiry was so direct it disarmed me entirely. I looked at her without speaking. She waited, and then cocked one elegantly arched brow. I nodded. “He suffers war troubles, and the winds have set him off. He did not mean to hurt me.”

She blinked. “Are you in danger?”

Again, the directness took me aback. “No,” I said, even though I was not sure. But I would not burden Gurdaya with it, nor Tanveer if it got back to him. “Not at all.”

“Would you tell me the truth, my old friend?”

I met her gaze and lied. “Yes. Now, tell me about your husband and your children.”

She allowed the redirection, but as she spoke of Baldev, her eyes glittered. I could see that she loved him, and her four children.

“It’s wonderful that it has turned out so well. I remember how distraught you were when you married.”

“I was. And it was you who challenged me to write, and when I did, when I discovered some outlet for myself, I found I did not have to hate him, and in fact, I found some joy.” She raised a brow. “He is quite handsome.”

“But older, yes?”

“A decade, which seemed much more when I was fifteen than when I am thirty.” She laughed. “Come, I must find a dress for a dinner tonight. I’d like your feedback.”

“Would it be too plebeian to ask you to bring your husband to dinner? I shall cook.”

“I would so love to, but we are only here for a whirlwind.” She reached for my arm. “Won’t you come to India? Come and paint.”

The idea had dangerous appeal, but, of course, I could not. “My life is here.”

She gave a little shrug. “One can travel, you know. Think about it. We should so love to have you.”