Burjor descended from the carriage to hoist Shirin into his arms. Mrs. Framji peered from a window, then cried out with joy, reaching for her child.
Fresh from the protest rally, Soli Wadia grinned from the driver’s seat. “All Parsi businesses are closed today. We’ve shut down the city!”
I chuckled, remembering the flurry of fervent phone calls. “Where did everyone go, after the Town Hall?”
“To bar the barracks gates, so the cantonment will get no food or water!”
That would keep McIntyre busy. I laughed, preparing to hoist myself up beside him as soon as Diana and Burjor were seated.
More devotees arrived. This high, overlooking the Arabian Sea, the wind fluttered their clothing. The morning air was cool despite the mid-November sun. The aroma of incense wafted from joss sticks at the temple.
Behind me, a woman called out to someone. “Arrey ji! Why is everyone here?”
I knew that voice. Satya’s mother. What the devil?
Satya’s father separated from a group. “Meera?”
My pulse gave a jerk and began a familiar warning rat-tat. I’d missed something. Those devotees—were all of them Satya’s family? Meera asked Tansen something that was plucked away by the wind.
He replied, “Breaking customs destroys society. We have come to atone.” Recognizing me, he started. “Captain?”
Meera caught his arm. “Where is the girl? Satya’s child?”
Tansen pointed toward the temple entrance, where their nephew dragged someone along. My stomach lurched as I recognized the thin figure. Pandu had her by the elbow, handling her so roughly she might have been a doll.
Goddamn it, she should have been safe in Jiji-bai’s care. I called, “Sona?”
The girl turned toward me, her fingers reaching, fluttering, too far away. One side of her face was marked. A red splotch covered her cheek—had someone slapped her? Pandu turned, glaring. Sona whimpered.
When I cried, “Stop! She’s Satya’s child!” Pandu hauled the girl to the side and yelled something in their dialect.
I dashed forward but a group blocked my path, his clansmen. One shoved me in the chest. Glowering, two sturdy blokes faced me, their faces dark with warning.
Pandu was headed to the stone parapet overlooking the ocean. I saw a sliver of surf and froze in disbelief. My God! Was he going to toss her over?
“Halt!” I yelled, biting off the word in a military tone.
Pandu snarled, “Satya ruined our name, our livelihood! No one will trust us, no one will believe us. We have to do this!”
Around me, voices rumbled in angry confusion. Spotting Tansen, I pleaded, “You are the karta. Stop him!”
Pulling farther away, Pandu cried, “It is our forefathers’ trade. We are sonars for a thousand years!”
Desperate to stop him, I dug into my pockets for some way to distract him.
Holding aloft Satya’s key, I cried, “Here—see this key? Do you know what it is?”
He sent an impatient glance toward me. “What of it? Pah!”
My gut clenched in frustration. “Take it! In exchange for her, take Satya’s hoard!”
He scoffed and spat to one side, but the men murmured to one another. Tansen hurried forward, exhorting them. Order resumed as they deferred to him. He motioned to Pandu to return, but the youth protested in rapid-fire Gujarati. I pulled back, searching for Sona’s scrawny shape.
Distant notes shrilled over the terrace stones, growing louder. Police whistles. Constables appeared on the terrace and advanced with batons waving. In their midst would be McIntyre and Smith, I thought, just in time.
The crowd was looking upward, some covering their lips, pointing. The devil?
On the temple roof. Pandu held Sona with an arm around her neck. The thought of Chutki stabbed me. Not again. Not another innocent caught in the crossfire. Pandu’s vengeance was aimed at Satya’s twelve-year-old.
“What are you doing? You cannot escape,” I shouted. “Look! Thirty witnesses!”
He yelled, “What do I care? My life is over! Because of this filth!”
Emotion glittered in Pandu’s wretched face. A chill ran over my skin. Distraught, he might toss Sona into the treacherous waters below, or drag her with him.
I called, “What’s damaged can be repaired. Let her go.”
“Aargh!” he screamed. “My rishta is broken off! Because Satya was a cheat!
“You are not Satya. You are your own man.”
“Englishman, that is not how it works.” He groaned, looking over the shocked company. His voice rose as he cried, “She must die! Only then can we show people our faces again. I do not matter. Our family honor, our khaandan will go on.”
He took another step back.
A shot cracked out. People turned, a tremor rippling through the crowd, the terrace a mosaic of movement.
Diana stood atop an urn, leveling her revolver. She’d fired the warning shot. Panic spiking, I cried, “Diana! Don’t shoot!”
Turning, I hollered, “Pandu, release the child! My wife won’t miss!”
For a moment he froze, glaring at Diana in her riding skirt, outlined against the sky. Then he whirled at Sona.
“Don’t!” I yelled, even as Diana fired.
Pandu clutched his thigh. He doubled over and slumped on the tiles. In the ensuing hullabaloo, Tansen and others crowded to the roof to help him.
Where was Sona? I craned my neck, trying to get through the crowd. She had disappeared in the uproar. I scoured the melee, feeling helpless.
Long moments later, I spotted her higher on the shed’s roof, and now crouched on the shingled overhang. Her back to me, she gazed out over the water.
After working my way to the terra-cotta edge, I called in Hindustani, “Sona. It’s over, child. Come down now.”
She glanced over a shoulder, then away. When my entreaties failed, I tried to hoist myself up on the shingles, but they rattled and moved, and some broke away. After a few attempts I took my weight on my arms and got a knee on to the roof, then the other.
Pausing there, I cajoled, “Come, you’ve had enough for one day. We can’t stay here.”
Her voice worn with disappointment, Sona said, “Why should I? Why can’t I fly with them?” She pointed to the horizon, where a wedge of geese soared homeward.
To draw her attention I called, “Sona, your father Satya—he was trying to help you.”
She looked away, uninterested. A shot of pique rammed me. “Everything he did—everything was for you. And someone jammed a knife in his neck. Don’t you want to know who? Don’t you care?”
“No!” she yelled.
She got up quickly and darted off. Shingles clattered and rolled as she ran.
“Sona!” I cried. “Be careful!”
She turned and flung something at me.
Blast! I dodged it, calling, “I won’t hurt you, child. You are safe now!”
The temple overlooked a bay that bled into the Arabian Sea. High above, an arrow of geese turned, honking their way north. They curved, great wings beating mighty strokes. Sona followed their progress, stepping lightly across the terra-cotta roof.
Once I had her, we could go home. Back to Framji Mansion, where they’d prepare dhan daar rice with yellow lentils to celebrate Shirin’s return. I tried to stand on the uneven tiles, but my wobbling knees would not obey.
Sliding on my backside, I saw what had been hidden from the terrace. Rocks, far below. Waves breaking into splinters of foam. The line of geese circled overhead, their wingspans wide as they descended, making long shadows over the jagged tapestry.
Looking outward, Sona said, “He was sending me back.”
She was too far from me. “Who?”
“Papa! I hate the kotha! They beat me! So I climbed down a drainpipe and ran away. I walked and walked. I asked the way to his karkhana and rode on a cart. But he wasn’t happy to see me. He asked me, ‘Where is your box?’”
She was too close to the edge. I slid closer on the broken tiles. “Sona, it’s not safe there.”
Her high voice shrilled, “He scolded me. He sent me back! He didn’t want me, only the box!” Her mouth in a wide grimace, she sobbed. “He was packing things, shiny knives, cleaning them. I took one and hit him. It went right in!”
I had no words. Closing my mouth, I winced at the irony.
She hiccupped, swaying her head in torment. “Silly box! He cared more for it than me. What did I do!” Her voice ended on a keening wail.
Satya had lied, stolen, and sold fakes, all to buy his daughter a future, to spare her the life her mother had suffered. But he had not told her of his plans—how could he? And so, he paid the price.
All those weeks of searching had led me to this place of ancient prayers, of centuries of bargaining with the Almighty. Sona stepped back.
“Stop, child,” I called, feeling my years weigh like an anvil around my neck.
It was the wrong thing to say.
Her voice shredded as she whirled away. “I’m not a child! I killed … I’m dirty.”
I grasped for a way to reassure her. “So am I, Sona,” I said. “Look—”
I pointed toward the wide, smooth curve of the Ganesh’s trunk where the peaceful stone god gazed down on us. “Only the gods are clean. The rest of us must keep trying.”
It didn’t work. Her little forehead puckered.
Meera called from nearby. “Sona, come down, beta! I am Satya’s mother!”
Sona startled. Her feet slid out from under her as she dropped backward.
Now! I grabbed my chance, unfolding my length to reach, arms outstretched. I slammed on to broken shingles that stabbed my side. Pain filled my mind.
But I felt cloth clenched in my fists, Sona’s orange and green skirt.
Out of sight, the child wailed, her cries strangely distant to my stunned ears. When I tried to haul her up, she shrieked.
I stopped, fear choking me. She was stuck, scraping against something jagged below the overhang. Then I heard the tear of cloth ripping.
Meera crawled beside me, reached below the roof’s edge, and came up holding Sona’s little hands.
“Chup, beta!” she hushed the child. “I am your grandmother. No one will harm you.”
Someone else was beside me. Tansen’s calm, steady voice gave instructions. Between them, they lifted and pulled Sona back into their world.
The broken tiles pressed against my face as I lay prone, gasping. It was a while before I peeled myself off the shingles. When I eased down to the terrace, holding my aching side, Diana was near, her arms around my waist. Her hands touched my side, my chest, checking for wounds. How good it felt to lean and rest my face against the top of her head.
Clouds filtered the sunlight, and a playful breeze snatched at my clothes. Concern writ large on their faces, Burjor and Mrs. Framji waited beside their carriage with Shirin. Seeing uniformed constables everywhere, I staggered toward them.
“Did you hear her?” Diana asked McIntyre, an ache in her voice. “The child, Sayta’s daughter, killed him. She didn’t know what she was doing.”
“That so?” he said in his low baritone. “We’ll decide if it was an accident, miss.”
Diana swung to him. “Can’t you release Adi? Surely he need not spend another night in custody.”
“All in good time,” said McIntyre and ordered constables to secure the area. He squinted at me. “Can you talk yet, laddie?”