Chapter Two

Present Day

Somewhere in northern India, so far away that you can’t hope to see it unless you perhaps crane your neck, there’s a line on the ground. It’s a nasty little line, because no one ever seems to agree on it. It moves this way and that, being thrust about fiercely, but it never seems to stop. Map after map is printed and fixed, adjusted by a centimetre—the Line of Control must, of course, be drawn exactly right. And they rage at each other over and over again, over this little line, murdering at random as an expression of how much they care.

You can just see it if you look carefully, and push up on your toes a bit. It’s right here.

What’s that? Can’t see anything?

Well, of course not! There’s nothing there really . . . it’s just a mark they’ve made up in their heads . . .

I live in a fairy tale. Or rather, I live in the house of a fairy tale. The great Mughals themselves could not have crafted a palace to compare with my haven of wonders, nestled away in the valley of Kashmir.

The house is surrounded by shrubs and trees, and is almost humble in its shy seclusion. A jade-green and lavender vine exults in thin, blushing blossoms that emerge in spring and retreat once more in autumn; the vine grows up around the window, as though fondling it to brush away its tears at the many cracks sprinkled upon it.

Beside this window, a tall, magnificent chinar stands rooted and firm against the house. Its leaves are light green, lush and verdant in spring, and then grow deeper and deeper until, by summer, their colours become vivid and rich as darkened seaweed. But it is in autumn when I like its leaves best—when they shine a glinting gold like the last flaming stars in a blackening sky. This chinar has been there for as long as I can remember; it is a friend to me.

A chimney erupts almost gracefully from the tattered roof, and often smoke flies out of it, rushing to freedom. The roof itself is battered from the many beatings of rain and snow.

A layer of uncut grass spreads itself out into surrounding areas, and the weeds frolic in the small garden of olive green. The garden extends past our thin fence, into the trees of pine and chinar, all the way up to those mountains over there. Often, I wonder if I will climb them some day.

The house is made entirely of redwood, except for the chimney, which is brick. The door waits upon the frail doorstep, cordial and respectful. The house is poised, modest, meek and bashful, almost afraid of the brash and brazen houses that swagger beyond the many trees that surround it. The tranquil atmosphere envelops the house, wafting through the door and settling with a sigh upon the furniture.

The furniture, quiet and mellow, is made of the finest chinar wood and highly polished. It is cleanly cut and timeless, giving a mythical feel to the house. My great-grandfather carved much of it himself, they tell me.

The immaculate carpet, faded yet soft and warm, sleeps upon the well-worn floor and muffles your footsteps as if to say that silence is golden, which is why not a sound echoes through the house. The walls are smooth and warm, and keep me inside their cosy folds, comforting when the rest of the world seems black.

The windows invite the rays of light to burst through them. They are, however, not as large as they believe; you can see but the occasional dapple of light upon the floor, shining through from the garden outside.

The windows are only at the front of the house, though. At the back, there are none, for Ma likes to say that one should always look to the future and not be stuck in the past. Sometimes I feel she says it more to herself than to me.

A single desk and chair stare curiously out of a window, as aged as the rest of the furniture. Resting upon the desk is a long, feathery white quill dipped in navy ink, a prized family heirloom. The front room also holds a small cooking stove and a few mismatched cupboards stuffed with pans. I’m always careful to open them slowly, lest a pot tumble out at first chance. When the stove is lit, it immerses the room in the sharp scent of spice, the salty smell of melting butter, the sizzle of cooking meat.

On the second floor, there are two small rooms. One of them is a library, or, at least, I call it one—it’s what one calls a place filled with books. In the corner of the room is a puffy armchair with worn-out pillows that grow softer as the years go by. I bury my face in its velvety surface and bounce upon the fluffy chair, or, for the mellow Sundays, curl up with a good story and a fresh cup of kehva. Broad bookshelves lean against the walls, bursting with hundreds of dusty books. Magic awaits in their worn, yellowed pages.

Next to the library is a bedroom with a small, cushiony bed, an embroidered bed sheet dotted with faded chinar leaves thrown upon it. The right side is mine, and the left, Ma’s. Portraits of maharajas, ranis, Sufi saints, brave rajkumars and mystical creatures from old folk tales add colour to the walls. The back wall is crowded with pictures of the ancient Pandits, my ancestors. The oldest one on the far left is a charcoal painting, and over the years I’ve surmised that it was a self-portrait. Slowly, they segue into watercolour, and then a mixture of pencil and paint. Only the four at the very end are in print. They’ve been in my family for ages. Tathi says she doesn’t want them sold.

The arid room with an uncluttered bed is a sanctuary for dreams. They drift lazily around the tender bed, filling my head as I lie down to sleep at night. They nestle in every corner of the room, but mainly in the pillows. The blanket is light and gentle, a shield from the crisp air of the room.

The room at the very back of the house on the lower floor has a small fireplace, lightly embossed with a family crest, so worn at the edges that I often run my fingers across it to make sure it’s still there. But it never chips, cracks or darkens. Ma simply shrugged when I asked her how. It must be another perk of living here. Tathi has told me it is made of the finest stone, firm and strong. It has to be, to have lasted something like 400 years.

The crest bears two swans, which I’ve always imagined to be a soft, delicate pink, like an almond tree in bloom. They are embracing a third swan in their wings. I think it shows how much the family cares for each other. Ma says it shows our ancient roots and how our lineage in Kashmir goes back generations.

Underneath the crest is a pile of sullen logs, sprinkled with soot and ashes. They simply lie, broken and defeated, in the hearth. When the fire is made, mainly during winter, when the world outside is a sparkling white, the flames lick the roof of the roaring fireplace. I see magic leaping inside the haven of the fire. Ancient stories written long ago—of heroes, monsters and warriors—come alive in the frosty winter inside the gleaming fire, inside the jewelled fireplace. They are ablaze with a life inside them that I always hope to have. The fiery heat warms me from the inside and I shut my eyes, completely focused on the fire in front of me. The tantalizing scent of flame fills the room and keeps us in a silent agreement that life is beautiful and we are content.

Come spring, the cherry trees are in full bloom. Their fragile blossoms are silvery and white. Ruby-red roses dot the bushes, and butterflies flutter in and out of the vines that grow around the house. The nargis send their heavenly fragrance to mesmerize onlookers; the peppery smell of Ma’s tomato plants are in sharp contrast. Crunchy crimson and light green apples burst through the scintillating scents of the garden. The leaves of the plants surrounding us are a vivid evergreen. They shine like newly minted silver when the clouds sprinkle water upon their criss-crossing network of roots. The hibiscus flowers are a pearl white and a blush pink, with an exquisite aroma that causes me to become light-headed. The pine trees that lie dotted over the landscape reach upward to touch the sky and rain needles upon the grassy floor.

This is my home. It speaks to me. This is the house that takes me in when I’ve had enough of the world. This house is a pearl that resides in the oyster of my heart. Though all must some day waste away, and the world will some day end, this house will live on till the days vanish into ash, and time and death, brothers in arms, engulf the rest of the world.

My mother never leaves a thread undone. I see it in her hair, the way it coils impeccably around itself, no more than a few strands astray. I see it in the way she walks, at ease yet upright, fixing things that bend at odd angles or shutting windows left so slightly ajar you could almost miss their breeze. I see it most of all in her threads themselves, in the way they entwine with each other like gnarled, twisted stumps of decaying oak; in the way they wind themselves lovingly around her fingers, and slip into position just as she draws them away.

But sometimes, my mind wanders to forbidden lands, and it whispers that perhaps . . . perhaps the reason she meticulously brushes each light brown strand into place every morning is because there are far too many loose, chaotic, forgotten ends in her life to possibly tie up again.

The fresh autumn morning was just beginning to bloom. It seemed as though the sky had slept in, and slept well, and was thoroughly happy about it. I always make it a point to awaken to the sight of the mountains—their crevices creating rivers of gushing snow, small trees dotted across the lush green landscape at their feet, sun blazing above their shining white peaks. I kept the curtain closed halfway, however, since Ma was sleeping and she’d been up late the night before, cleaning. I opened the window slightly and took in a great gust of cool air. The wind seemed to dance across my sleepy eyes. Outside, the chinar swayed lazily in the breeze, the rays of sunlight gleaming on its leaves.

Pulling away, I closed the window as gently as I could. The paintings were quite silent. The Mughal warrior leaned back in his frame, his dark hair covered by a shiny metal helmet, his face relaxed and young, his moustache long and excessively curly, and his frame tilted at the angle he liked. His long, regal robe of deep blue was bunched up in a corner of the frame. Despite all that was said about the prestige it added to his figure, his outfit still looked like a dress to me.

Suddenly, with a jolt, I remembered—my dress! I hurried over to the closet, forgetting, in my excitement, to be quiet. Not that it mattered; our carpet, glowing red and black in the morning sunlight, always muffles any noise. You may be old or young, good or evil, angrez or local; it doesn’t matter. For the brief space of time in which your skin touches her cloth, you are her child, in all the ways that matter.

I really hoped I’d remembered to put my dress back in the closet! I flung open the door and—yes, there it was! It’s one of my favourite dresses because of its deep lilac hue. I don’t own anything else that’s purple. It had accidentally got caught in the front door the day before, and had a wide tear. I took it out of the closet, just to have a look, and ran my hands smilingly over the soft, mended cloth.

My stomach growled, and I realized I was famished. Though it was breakfast time, I longed suddenly for Tathi’s rogan josh. My mouth watered at the thought of the spices, the crisp-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside mutton, the occasional red chilli immersed in the crimson curry and the taste of it all mixed with soft, light Kashmiri rice.

I told myself sternly to stop that kind of thinking. It wasn’t doing my poor stomach any favours. Before hurrying down, I paused to glance in the mirror. My fingers tugged at the end of my loose, discoloured T-shirt. My two front teeth still stick out a bit, but I can’t help that. The dimple on my left cheek, once my testament to lasting beauty, had faded when I was nine. My jet-black hair fell across my shoulders in tangled waves. I was somewhat untidy, since I’d been asleep so long, but not altogether unpresentable. I caught my eye in the mirror. Wait—hold on—well, surely my hair looked better than that!

The mirror rippled over, appearing liquid glass, then reformed again. My fringe lay nicely across my forehead, no longer as bushy and scattered as it had seemed a moment earlier. With a small nod of approval at myself, I turned to leave the room.

I took the steps two at a time, hoping I could see Tathi sometime soon. Ma always said I had her brown eyes. I missed her food, of course, but most of all, I missed her stories. She’d told me such fantastic ones lately! My favourite was the story of Jalodbhava, the water demon that had once inhabited the lake our homeland had been ages ago, once immortal in its murky depths; but as Lord Vishnu drained his lake, he fled through the valley, only to be met with our patron deity, who brought about his end by crushing him with a boulder. It was a bit ironic, given that Tathi couldn’t read. I liked to sit by Tathi’s fire as she recounted these fantastical tales to me, and then fall asleep by her knee. The carpet was just perfect for such things.

It was a pity she found it difficult to come over to our house; Gupkar Road had been her home, too, when she was younger, but she hardly visited any more. Ma said it was just her age. Whenever the story reached its end, she’d do up her squat, white bun again. She held it up with two black chopsticks. She wore thick, round glasses that were terribly old, but she said they held too many memories for her to change them.

It was a long walk to her place, but I made up my mind to visit her as soon as I could. Maybe even in time for lunch!

I reached the living room. Morning sunlight poured in from the window. I could just make out dewdrops on the grass. It must have been chilly outside.

I was just wondering what I’d have to eat when I heard Ma coming down the stairs. I went to hug her good morning, throwing my arms around her chubby centre, and she smiled a rather tired smile, patting me on the back. Her chestnut-coloured hair was already twisted back into a bun, some strands still sticking out with morning frizz. Her eyes, however, were shining from a good rest.

‘I wish you’d wait a moment before putting your hair up. It looks so lovely when it’s loose!’

‘Zoon, I don’t like it falling over my shoulders like that. Now, are you hungry?’

Changing the subject again. Well done, Ma.

Well, I was hungry.

In a few moments, Ma had provided me with a fresh, steaming hot chapatti. We had leftover haak from last night, so I was promptly served some of that as well.

‘I know, I know,’ she said as I stared rather morosely at my plate, ‘it isn’t the finest of breakfasts. Well, I’ll go out to get some fresh food as soon as I’m ready; I’ll bring back something you like.’

I wolfed down my meal, secretly quite satisfied but not wanting to pass up the chance to have mithai after dinner. ‘Jalebis!’ I said, my mouth full to bursting. ‘Ooh, and laddus, you must get some of those . . . what else . . .’

‘Remember,’ Ma said, cutting into my reverie before walking up the steps, ‘Chandani, Lameeya and Rani Auntie are coming over for lunch, so you’d better clean yourself up a bit and be polite once they’re over, all right?’

I groaned. I couldn’t even visit Tathi! ‘Ma! Why must I be here when they’re over? It’s incredibly boring, and Chandani Auntie hugs like an elephant!’

Ma tried to look disapproving, but the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. ‘Never mind that, you just make sure you’re ready.’

I tugged disdainfully at my horrible, deep red salwar kameez, somehow wanting Tathi’s cooking more than ever despite my tummy feeling unreasonably full. It didn’t show, thank goodness; this was Ma’s dress, and so it was a bit loose for me.

‘I bet I look like I’m wearing a garbage bag,’ I griped at Ma as she came down into the living room.

‘Hush, and get yourself off the carpet.’

I scowled. Until a moment before, I had been lying sprawled on the soft, welcoming carpet, in front of the door.

I pulled myself up, flopped down on the wooden chair, put my head on the desk and pretended to be asleep while Ma came over to try and jam plastic red bangles down my wrist.

Just as they made it past my palm, the doorbell rang. Ma paid me and my bangles no more attention than if we had been a part of the wallpaper.

The door was promptly flung open, and a horde of gossiping ladies were welcomed in.

‘Oh, Shanti, how delightful to see you!’

‘I smell jalebis! Still the same sweet tooth, I see!’

‘Goodness, the house looks wonderful! Your garden’s really coming along! And—is that . . . Zoon? Why, you’d never recognize her! How she’s grown!’

I braced myself for the inevitable. Determined to get Chandani Auntie out of the way first, I walked towards the trio.

Unfortunately, Rani Auntie, decked in some sort of itchy sari and her signature bright yellow shawl, was the first to pull me into her grasp. She was a short, hearty woman, with pink on her cheeks no matter what the season, and a bit of a weakness for sweets, just like Ma. In fact, that’s how they met; they were both haggling over gulab jamun, and, having secured a satisfactory bargain for each other, became friends.

Rani Auntie pulled me into a big hug, patting me roughly on the back, saying, ‘My, my, what a young lady she’s become!’

Next up was Chandani Auntie, who seemed to want to make up for not being the first to hug me by ensuring that half of my bones were utterly broken and the other half nursing hairline fractures. She was a large, loud woman, our closest neighbour, who seemed to think that everything required her unnecessarily copious attention—especially me. For a good minute, she praised my bangles, my hair, my manners, my maturity, until finally, Lameeya Auntie came to—well, I can’t say my rescue—push me straight out of the frying pan into the fire, shall we say.

She was a thin, bony woman, yet her smile was warm and caring. She stood straight-backed, as though one slip and she’d be left a hunchback for the rest of her life. Her teeth were a bit too white, her eyes a deep, swirling black. She lived just down the street and she and Ma had gradually grown fond of each other. Her husband, Bhasharat Uncle, was the much respected ghodewala of the town; he was also highly entertaining and very lively.

Today she wore a flowing pheran with zari embroidery blooming around her long neck and wrists. She patted me delightedly on the head and then said, ‘I’m sure you and Altaf are going to be great friends! He’s been away at boarding school, so he doesn’t know a lot of people here.’

I hadn’t the slightest idea what she meant until she moved aside, revealing a tall, gangly boy, his hair a deep brown and flopping in layers, hiding most of his forehead. His cheeks were pink with the chill and chubby like a child’s. Altaf offered an awkward smile that spoke plainly of how little say he’d had about being there. As for me, I thought he looked a bit like a horse.

I let out an ‘Oh!’ of recognition. An old memory, inexplicably fished out of some hidden corner of my brain, surfaced before me like a faded Polaroid, blurred at the edges by its age—watching curiously as a young boy played catch on his own in the garden so near ours, laughing every time he fell over, and sitting sulky and sullen on the front steps when his brother snatched the ball away. I’d spoken to him once too. I’d just been asking about the time, so not a very meaningful conversation necessarily, but I remembered thinking he was quite decent to have run back inside to check for me.

The trio had moved as one, like a herd of buffaloes, to the back room. I hadn’t even noticed that Ma had spread some pillows about. Once they’d planted themselves on the carpet, she made to get some kehva. She smiled at Altaf before whispering to me, ‘What are you standing there like a goldfish for, Zoons?’

Startled, I went about moving my frozen limbs. Turning around, I nodded at Altaf, feeling that he warranted some sort of acknowledgement, before dragging my feet a few steps and dropping down on to the bottom stair, already tired of a conversation that hadn’t even begun.

‘So, Shanti, do tell! How’s your boutique going? I bought the most beautiful shawl yesterday, but you weren’t at the shop,’ began Rani Auntie.

Ugh.

‘Oh, all well, all well! Raj is as nice as ever, he always lets me take the unfinished ones home. Can’t be at work all the time, you know. I don’t like leaving Zoon home alone for too long.’

Why not? I’m not a baby! And besides, it’s not like I’m ever craving for company! I thought.

Altaf joined me on the bottom step. I stared at him. He stared at his toes. I gave it up.

‘Oh, of course! Do you know, I’ve been left home alone this morning!’

She gave a tinkling laugh.

‘Yes, Bhasharat has gone with our eldest, Majid, to the mosque for morning prayer! I made them a few wish knots. Just to make sure they spend their time wisely!’ said Lameeya Auntie.

The others joined in, giggling. I’d never been to the mosque.

Altaf huffed indignantly; clearly he hadn’t been deemed old enough to join them. I didn’t, of course, say it, but it seemed quite clear to me why; despite the fact that he was much taller than me, I’d never have guessed him to be my age. His gaze shifted around the room, glazed over with mild interest yet not taking anything in. And it was then that I noticed a pencil stuck behind his left ear, almost as though he’d forgotten it there.

‘Oh, how lovely! I used to go to the temple every day, too, you know. They grow up so fast! Just look at Zoon! You must have your hands full, Shanti,’ Chandani Auntie chirped.

‘Oh, it’s easy when they’re as well behaved as she is. You’re quite right, though; time really does flash by. Incredibly, in little more than a week, she’ll be fifteen! But in some ways, it was easier when she was younger. I remember when I told her it was bad luck to stay up past one’s bedtime!’

‘What?’ I whispered outrageously to myself amidst more chiming laughter. I still believed that!

I heard a stifled laugh and turned irritably to see Altaf staring innocently out of the window.

‘Yes, fifteen is going to be a bit of a challenge, Shanti! But now that she’s older, you can leave the house more often, come to the temple with me for Navaratri, perhaps,’ Chandani Auntie suggested eagerly.

‘Well . . . if there’s time . . . I keep a fast anyway.’

‘Goodness, I’ve only just remembered! Have you heard? Kheer Bhawani has changed colour again!’ burst out Rani Auntie. Clearly she’d been waiting for an opportune moment in the conversation to reveal this.

They all gasped loudly, greatly excited.

What did that mean? I turned to Altaf. Seeing my raised eyebrows, he whispered, ‘It’s the famous pond, you know, that changes colour according to the current fate of Kashmir. Ma really puts a lot of stock in such things . . . sometimes I think a tad too much . . .’

I smiled. Leaning towards the desk and chair, I muttered, ‘Sounds just like her, doesn’t it? Sometimes I think she must be a bit—’

‘Are you talking to yourself?’

I looked back to see Altaf frowning at me, confused. Turning sunset red, I stammered, ‘No, no . . . um . . . I was just . . .’

Chandani Auntie’s bellow carried clearly from the back room, rescuing me from having to respond. ‘What colour is it now, Rani?’

‘Well . . .’ She sounded uncomfortable, as though she didn’t feel like answering, as though responding with any conviction would make the occurrence an inescapable truth that would dampen the merry chatter.

‘Black.’

There was an impenetrable pause.

‘But you know, that was two days ago . . .’ she added hurriedly.

‘Why, of course. I’m sure it won’t be long before it reverts again, if it hasn’t already . . .’

That pause again.

‘Well . . . I mean . . . it has got a bit worse lately, hasn’t it?’

I was amazed at how hoarse Rani Auntie’s voice had become.

‘Without a doubt!’ squawked Lameeya Auntie, and I heard her sniffing angrily, as she always did when her temper ran high but her dignity ran higher. ‘It’s insufferable! Military posts every mile you walk, barbed wire running through the fields, everyone always on the alert! I mean, sometimes I really wonder whether this is the best place for a family raising two young children . . .’

Altaf made a small noise in his throat. It sounded as though he meant it to be contemptuous but chickened out at the last minute. He hardly looked surprised, though; unlike me, he had heard this before, and gave me a tired grin. ‘This discussion’s been done to death, don’t you think?’ he put in, an attempt at light-heartedness.

I bit the inside of my cheek. ‘It’s like we start out free and fast-paced, and keep hitting the same dead end every time,’ I replied. ‘And we’ve no clue where to go from there, obviously, so we just keep going in circles, hoping to find something new.’

He blinked at me for a second, and then nodded slowly. ‘Right. Yeah. I was thinking the same. Um . . . you’re almost fifteen, right?’

‘Yeah.’

He puffed out his chest, filling up with air, tossing back the hair that flopped against his eyes. ‘I’m fifteen and a half already,’ he said, his glances at me betraying a certainty that this would earn him the utmost respect.

I nearly laughed, but passed it off for an impressed gasp at the last second.

‘I mean, my brother’s always been older, of course, but I’m catching up to him!’ he finished proudly.

‘How enthralling!’ I replied. Concealing my grin in the loose sleeve of my kameez, I feigned attention as Chandani Auntie’s heated voice came from the living room once more.

‘No, it’s impossible,’ Chandani Auntie agreed. ‘Do you know my business has dropped considerably?’ she added after a beat.

Ma finally spoke.

‘But . . . why . . .?’

‘NO TOURISTS!’ Chandani Auntie barked, probably rising half out of her chair.

Altaf jumped in the middle of scratching his nose, poking himself in the eye and cursing under his breath.

‘And how exactly am I supposed to sell a single carving if there’s NO ONE to SELL IT TO?’

‘Horrible, horrible . . .’ murmured Ma. ‘Yes, I’ve noticed the drop in customers too . . .’

Had she? She never told me about it!

‘Well, I don’t blame them. Who’d want to be woken up with gunfire every morning?’ put in Lameeya Auntie.

‘Okay, that’s exaggerating . . .’

‘But, Rani, you must admit, it’s getting worse and worse every week! Bombs being thrown about, my neighbour’s son gone blind in the firing, such violence in the streets almost daily! And with riots every second sunrise, why, I shouldn’t think it was safe to come near here at all!’

Rani Auntie fell silent.

At last, as everyone was shepherded out of the door, with cries of keeping well and meeting again soon, and Altaf having his hair ruffled five times over, I waved goodbye before sinking tiredly against the wall.

It is a curious thing, but I have noticed that doing nothing at all often expends more energy than leaping about on one’s feet all day.

I glanced out of the window. The sky was bordering on a delicate pink, clouds wafting a subtle orange, gentle stars beginning to wake, the sun about to sink gracefully against the mountains, behind the chinar tree. The houses outside, our neighbours, some with thatched roofs, some with metal slats, only a few with bricks, seemed to stand firm without a sweltering sun melting them down. I could see the trio breaking up further down the road, in the shade of the lush, tall willow trees, waving and laughing before turning their separate corners and heading off.

It was evening.

Far away, perhaps somewhere nearer the centre of town, a gunshot sounded. Snarls, shouts and yelps came tearing after it, bursting through the streets, some drunk with anger, others with power, all swaying dangerously, destructive and unstable. This was followed by a series of angry hollers, whether for intimidation or encouragement, I could not tell.

Vaguely hoping to go up to the library to find a good book, I turned away from the window.

‘Zoons! Come to the living room.’

‘Ma, now?’

‘I’ll only be a moment.’

I walked towards the living room to find Ma stoking the fire. Its embers shimmered and crumbled around each other, burning from the inside out, beginning a small, steadfast flame. She stared pensively into its depths, as though expecting to see something more than red and gold. When she straightened up, I saw two dry red mirchis clutched tightly in her right hand and very nearly rolled my eyes.

‘Ma!’ I complained. ‘Seriously? There’s no buri nazar near here.’

‘Well, everyone was admiring you in your lovely salwar kameez, and it’s better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it?’

With the precision of a magician, she rotated the mixture of chillies, rock salt and dry mustard seeds, thrice clockwise and thrice anticlockwise, spinning me around once or twice as she did so. Finally, she pressed them to my forehead and uttered a murmured prayer. Then she thrust the mixture into the fire. It crackled loudly, furiously—a demon unleashed, which was destroyed by the flame. We waited, but no fumes were released, no telling smoke that betrayed innocence, and slowly, the chillies turned black. ‘There,’ Ma said triumphantly. ‘I told you so! You mustn’t leave things like that in the air.’

I gave a small huff, defeated.

‘Altaf asked if you could come over sometime. To play cricket.’ She smiled, foreseeing my response.

I pretended to think hard. ‘The former, maybe. The latter . . . hmm . . . let’s say, never in a million years.’

She chuckled, seating herself by the fire. Her finger began swirling at the heated marble where it melded with the carpet, eyes intent on some point at the centre of the blaze, waiting for it to shine with hidden starlight, revealing a deep night sky within an inferno of light.

Somehow, she seemed abruptly blown away by myriad trains of thought, which had all left the station at once and had had a terrible collision on the tracks. Suddenly, she appeared as a king lost for orders, a mask lost for a human face, a writer lost for words.

I watched her for a moment, a bit puzzled by this unprecedented contemplation, and then turned to go upstairs.

It was a bright night. Too bright. He looked up at the full moon and snarled, deep and shuddering, creating abysmal furrows in the dry earth beneath him. He moved closer. The house radiated warmth, as did that pathetic shrub before it. But yet . . . it had softened. It was weakening every day.

With a gentle hiss that promised death, Kruhen Chay lunged at the chipped, tumbling chimney—and was thrown back with a resounding force, so that he felt a part of him revert once more to empty shadow, harmless as the twinkling stars. He cried out in agony—a guttural, animalistic wail, smarting with maddening frustration. Their Guardian—whoever he was—would not yield. It was this Guardian, he knew, this concentration of gushing magic, this embodiment of all things that opposed him, which was shielding the house, preventing his entry still.

And it was then that he was struck with an idea, his lips melting into a smile, the air around him growing thick and foul.

Yes. A Guardian—his Guardian. His weapon to use at his will. A vessel to pour himself into, an accumulation of darkness rather than light. To strike just when their defences seemed weakest. Twisted elation rose up in him at the idea of victory—finally, victory—after all these years of pathetic, agonizingly fruitless struggles.

But—no! He would never need humans again! He had seen to that! He could not, would not ask a human for aid; it was too much to ask of his pride . . .

Ruefully, hatefully, bitterly, he forced himself to accept it.

He’d find himself a useful human, he promised, to bind himself to. A human who was easy to bend to his will, a human who had already allowed him to worm his way into their pathetic, empty heart. A human who, thus, would never fight his dominance, would never doubt his control, would never question his power.

A human who had enough influence of his own to give him what he needed.

A house.

That house.

Devoured.