Page 73 of A Thousand Painted Hours

Nina captured me in the hallway, taking my hand and leaning into my side. “Your maharaja will be here,” she said with an arched brow, pointing to the room next to mine.

Blood rushed to my cheeks. “Stop calling him that.”

“Maharaja or yours? I think both are true.”

The heat worked its way to my ears, and I pulled out of her grip. “No, neither is true, and his name is Tanveer, and you’re making it sound—ugh.” I cast about for the word. “Tawdry.”

She inclined her head. “My apologies. Tanveer it is.”

“I’m sorry, I just—he’s not—” I looked down the long hall to a window in the stairway. “It’s not like that. Some dalliance.”

“Oh, my dear, the apology is mine. I did not mean to belittle you, or him, or any of it.” She brushed hair from my face, cupped my cheek. “I only wonder how have you never told me about him before this, my dear Elsie? You are so clearly besotted.”

I didn’t really have an answer for her. There was only a sense that I wanted to keep it to myself, this shining thing we shared. In the world, it could be so easily damaged. “It is a private connection,” I said.

She smiled faintly. “Well, then, I won’t announce it, but you’ll both have to blaze a little less.” She brushed my shoulders. “Even now, the light is tumbling off you in little sparks.”

“Stop!” I laughed. “Let me go wash!”

As I was about to pass, she caught my hand, and said quite seriously, “Be careful, pet. Protect your heart a little, will you?”

For a single moment, I remembered standing on the deck of the ocean liner carrying us away from India, letter from Tanveer in my pocket. I brushed it away—I was no longer that raw girl. “All will be well.”

Supper was to be casual, served in the expansive kitchen rather than the large dining room, and I wandered down early, hoping for a glimpse of Tanveer. I’d watched through my window for new arrivals, but he had not arrived with the latest group from the train.

What if he didn’t come?

Thinking of Nina’s warning to beware of my heart, I occupied myself with sketches of the strange sky. The copper portal on the horizon had been sealed with more layers of clouds, but they were turgid, holding themselves aloof. I wondered how to play with that strip of extraordinary brightness from earlier, what it might signify in a painting, and sketched some ideas, but in truth, I was only waiting for Tanveer.

I went down early to distract myself with conversation, dressed in a simple skirt I wore daily, and a blouse that was one of my favorites, thin white muslin and lace that revealed and hid my shoulders and breasts in equal measure, though looking at myself in the mirror, I did wish for lush breasts like Helen or Gurdaya.

Foolishness. As I’d seen in life drawing, bodies came in any number of arrangements, big and small, soft or angular. Big breasts, small breasts, large penises, small ones—which you could tell even with the draping in class—fat thighs, skinny ones. Some humans were bony, like Nina. Some were softly lush, like Gurdaya.

All beautiful.

A handful of people were gathered in the salon. The French doors were open to the garden, with drinks and snacks lined up on the sideboard. I poured myself an elderberry cordial and headed toward Rocky and his friend Grayson, only realizing from the intensity of their body language that they were lovers, maybe having a quarrel. I hesitated, looking about for another familiar face, and spotted Peter standing alone looking at a ship in a bottle. Veering his direction, I said, “Hello. Do you remember me? We met last summer.”

“Of course.” His cheeks were rosy, his hair a tumble of corn silk. He was a tall man, angular, and I guessed he would play tennis fiercely. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Are you a bohemian, Peter?”

“Oh, good lord no. Nina was short a man, and I agreed to join.”

I glanced over my shoulder to the painters having their low argument, to a pair of girls I did not know, coiffed and slouchy at once, playing at being bohemians, and Diana, the Anglo-Indian I’d met here once before. She wore a glowing peach frock that set off her warm complexion. Seeing me, she wiggled her fingers at me over the shoulder of the frazzled-looking girl in front of her. “Who is with Lady Diana?” I asked.

“That would be Henny, who is on the far side of eccentric, I believe. She’s a spiritualist.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“A medium? A tarot reader?”

“Ah, a fortune teller. I met one in India once, at a birthday party for the maharaja of Talwarpur.”

A smile played beneath his tender mustache. “Did she give you a good fortune?”

“No, actually. She gave me a terrible one. It scared me so much I ran to my mother.”

“Oh, no! Surely that should be against the rules.”