Midnight Flame

An eRedSage Publishing Publication This book is a work of complete fiction. Any names, places, incidents, characters are products of the author’s imagination and creativity or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is fully coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form whatsoever in any country whatsoever is forbidden. Information: Red Sage Publishing, Inc. P.O. Box 4844 Seminole, FL 33775 727-391-3847 eRedSage.com

Midnight Flame An eRed Sage Publication All Rights Reserved Copyright © 2012 eRedSage is a registered trademark of Red Sage Publishing, Inc. Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.eRedSage.com ISBN: ISBN: ISBN: ISBN:

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Published by arrangement with the authors and copyright holders of the individual works as follows: Midnight Flame © 2012 by Alessandra Shahbaz Cover © 2012 by Taylor Wade Printed in the U.S.A. ebook layout and conversion by jimandzetta.com

Midnight Flame ***

I spun out this story while wandering along country roads and through crowded streets, both in the US and in India. The images came to me like something out of a dream… a bower of flowering jasmine, white petals touched by moonlight, a dark horse thundering beside the waterways of a sleeping city, a woman waiting breathlessly for her lover… afraid that he won't come… afraid that he will. Once I had my story idea and felt that I understood who my characters were and what they wanted, I began to plot the book on paper and fill in the holes. I spent two years researching the Mughal Empire, finding the right words to give the story life on the page. I hope that the story transports you to 17th century Shahjahanabad so that you can see the oranges glowing in the orchards and smell the sandalwood wafting through the marble halls! One of the things I love most about historical romance novels is that they create fantasies that empower feminine expressions of desire. The increasingly global slant of romance novel publishing broadens the reach of those fantasies, giving readers and writers of all backgrounds more opportunities to explore diverse cultural contexts and perspectives on romantic love. With Midnight Flame, I hope to contribute to this important movement.

A complete innocent, Shazia has no idea that a man's touch can cause such exquisite torture…. She's even more surprised to find her body responding with equal intensity to the caresses of two men! When a dark horseman seizes her in the garden, she matches his hunger and shocks herself with her own ferocity. But soon she's writhing in the arms of a golden-skinned archer in a shadowy grove. Beware! When you read Midnight Flame you'll find that you want to be wanton. The night in Delhi is long and hot and it will leave you thirsty for more.

Chapter One That night the moon did not rise over Shahjahanabad. At the eastern edge of the city, the Yamuna flowed black. In the north, the gardens seemed as if enchanted, each leaf and bud transformed into onyx. The streets of the city were deserted. The bazaars had the same hushed quality as the mausoleums. The wine shops and the dense living quarters of the leatherworkers and the washermen showed no sign of life. Even the water in the fountains had ceased to fall. The city held its breath… waiting. And beyond the city walls, mounted on his black horse, a shadowed figure waited on a low hill, watching the Ajmiri gates. He too was caught in the spell. His powerful legs seemed fused to the curving flanks of his stallion. He sat as though chiseled from stone. His hands gripped the reins loosely and did not so much as quiver. His heart did not move in his chest. He was waiting for time to start again, for his heart to throb again, for the black eternity of the night to shatter into stars. Any moment it would happen… it had to happen. He waited for the world to turn again, for the stars to chime together in the vault of the sky, for the stars to shower down, onto the river, onto the spires of the city, the masjids and monasteries, the Emperor's palace, the canals and gardens and the great mansions of the amirs. The night filling suddenly with lights and that high, clear chiming… those tinkling notes… the sound of stars breaking… of a spell breaking… of a woman's bangles striking together as she ran, fearless, through the gates in the high wall of the city. As she ran to him. The night suddenly blazing… the enchanted midnight suddenly hurtling towards the dawn. It had to happen. He watched the Ajmiri gates, the empty black gates that opened onto Shahjahanabad. He waited. He listened for the sound of stars. “Shazia!” groaned a slender girl, diminutive as a child, though her delicate features had lost their childlike roundness. “You can't stop there! It's too cruel! You can't just leave him… on his horse… alone in the night!” The girl threw herself onto an embroidered 6

Midnight Flame divan in a fit of exaggerated pique far more expected from a great lady than a lady's maid. Shazia, however, only laughed, unfazed by the impropriety. Whenever she and Shakuntala found themselves awake together in the zenana, the women's quarters, their vast differences in station almost ceased to exist, and they took turns combing each other's hair, divulging every girlish fantasy. After all, they were only a year apart in age—Shazia's nineteen years to Shakuntala's twenty—and Shazia found it difficult to converse with other nobles. Women whose honeyed voices conveyed acid sentiments, men whose eyes seemed to parcel her out, as though weighing her piece by piece like suspicious customers in Chandni Chowk, the city's largest market. With Shakuntala, she could be herself. Shakuntala was pouting at her from the divan, her rosebud lips pursed and her thin, arched brows pulled together. Shazia wasn't trying to torture her, to torture both of them, by letting her story trail off, with the hero and heroine still separated by city walls and family sanction, by every possible grotesquery of fate…. But how would the story end? She didn't know herself. Shazia scrambled to her feet. The large marble chamber was surprisingly cool, given the heat earlier that day. The other young women of the household were fast alseep behind light-weight, intricately decorated screens. Tapestries of forest scenes, nightingales perched in twisting trees, adorned the walls. Candles glowed in the wall niches and bowls of attar released their musk. Mithoo had tucked his head beneath his wing and seemed to be dreaming. Flying most likely, thought Shazia, flying in his dreams, far from his golden cage. She imagined Mithoo as the resplendent parrot Emperor of the Shajahanabad pigeons, his pink and gold and green and blue plumage attracting their adoration. But maybe Mithoo had better sense than Shazia gave him credit for. Maybe Mithoo would scorn the flattery of the pigeons. Maybe he would see their attention as the trap that it surely was and he would fly on, fly away from the arcades of the bazaar, topping the city walls and soaring into the open country, disappearing into the pale blue sky. Mithoo did seem like a little piece of the afternoon sky, something torn from the sky's hem. 7

Shazia wandered onto the balcony to gaze out at the evening shadows. The sweet smell of raat ki rani, night-blooming jasmine, filled her nostrils and she breathed deeply, tipping her head back to take in the glittering glory of the star-filled night. The black dome of the sky, encrusted with jewels… this was was the real roof of Shahjahanabad, the greatest city in the Empire. This was the only roof she wanted to lie beneath! Shazia spun around giddily, arms flung out, then staggered back into the chamber, flinging herself onto the divan so that her limbs tangled with Shakuntala's. How would the story end? It couldn't end. She couldn't stand for it to end in tragedy, and there was no hope for the lovers. She had to freeze time, to stop the story before it concluded in disaster. Before the Ajmiri gates could stand empty so long that the conclusion was inevitable. She had to come, had to run to him. But she didn't. She didn't come. And he wheeled his horse to the south. He put his back to the city. He lashed his horse's flank with the ends of the reins. “The city is enchanted. I can't go on with the story,” said Shazia, gravely, although she could feel Shakuntala's rigid, unbelieving body move beneath her as if in protest. The night was still young, and Shakuntala wanted the story to continue. She wasn't prepared to accept excuses. Shazia sighed. “The story can't continue. Not until the enchantment is broken,” she said. “We just have to wait.” “Break the enchantment,” muttered Shakuntala. “It's your story.” “It is my story, it's true,” said Shazia haughtily. “But I'm a storyteller, not a witch! I can't work magic!” She could feel Shakuntala squirming with increased dissatisfaction. “How can someone so humble be so heavy?” Shakuntala grumbled, working an arm free from beneath Shazia's shoulder. Despite her hostile tone, she let her fingers trace Shazia's bangles— her payaal—absentmindedly and a smile played about her lips. “Heavy!” cried Shazia and once again leaped to her feet. “It's because I am the daughter of the sun and the moon, two orbs with substance. Whereas you, my little darling, are the daughter of a hibiscus petal and a grain of golden pollen.” Shazia's whole face lit up as she spoke. Shakuntala recognized her expression. It was an expression she wore often, the one that caused her dusky green eyes to glow like 8

Midnight Flame emeralds. She wore it whenever she made some new, outrageous claim or began some wild story. Even though Shakuntala often feigned shock at Shazia's impudence, she loved to listen the younger girl's husky, confident voice spinning tales of adventure and romance. She doubted any royal storyteller could rival Shazia's gift for delicious detail. Maybe it takes a girl, a woman, thought Shakuntala, to know what matters in a story, or to know what kinds of stories need to be told. Of course, Shazia, sitting behind a purdah in her marble chamber, watching the meandering daylight filter through carved screens, didn't have the slightest experience of adventure and romance on which to base her tales. Perhaps that was what made them so perfect. Shazia spun her tales from the unknown and the impossible, dreams and visions and snippets of poems. All she cared about was that the tales thrilled the heart, that they made the heart beat faster. “That's how I know what I'm saying is right,” Shazia had explained once, dreamily, leaning on the balustrade of the balcony, letting the scented night seep into her skin. “My heart beats faster. I'm imagining a story, and I think, what if he rides a horse, a black horse, and its hooves strike fire from the flints in the rocky mountain pass as he rides, and I feel my heart hammer against my ribs and I know that yes, he rides a horse that strikes fire from the stones. He rides on the smoking road, showering the night with sparks.” Now Shazia was standing over her, warm, solid body glowing with life. Shakuntala could practically see the air shimmering around her. Shazia was like the daughter of the sun and the moon. She was a force of nature and her vitality showed in every line of her body. Her muscles were taut and firm, her hips flared, and her thick black hair was always tumbling from its plait, cascading over her shoulders in unruly curls that twined around her arms or tangled in the gems embroidered along the border of her veil. Unlike other noble women of the courts, Shazia was always charging about, running too fast through the corridors of the palace to reach the gardens, or planting herself too conspicuously on the balcony, enthralled by a circling raptor, ignoring the embroidery in her hands. It fell on Shakuntala to protect Shazia from wagging 9

tongues. To steer her away from the gardens when her father appeared in the distance flocked with Turkish emissaries and dancing girls. To twist her serpentine locks back into her braid. More often than not, Shakuntala failed to shepherd Shazia along the decorous paths of young ladyhood. Her mistress was always bounding out of reach, her energies too irrepressible and her actions too erratic to be either predicted or controlled. Shakuntala found herself arguing in the kitchens or the courtyards, defending Shazia's behavior with far-fetched stories. Unfortunately, Shakuntala lacked Shazia's ability to utter absurdities with audacious conviction. Part of what Shakuntala usually said in Shazia's defense had its basis in truth. No, Shazia wasn't dancing barefoot in the fountain because she had just been stung on the heel by the scorpion. But it was true that after an unfettered childhood in the village, Shazia could never quite adjust to the life of a young noblewoman in Shahjahanabad. The opulence of the palaces, the tiny, vicious intrigues of the marriageable girls and the more dangerous intrigues of their powerful fathers, each vying for status within Shahjahanabad's constantly shifting social and political hierarchies—none of it interested her. She didn't care about fashion or finery or power or politics. Shakuntala knew that when Shazia fled from her tutors through the garden, there was no specific reason. But there was, so to speak, an explanation. An excuse. Shazia was running because she needed to, because her limbs were made to work, to propel her over the ground and beneath the sun, as they had done when she was a small child in the hills. She used to practice archery in the orchards, ride horses through the field, and catch tadpoles in the pools, bringing her catches to her grandfather, Mumsa, for approval. Shazia could not forget those days. Though she rarely spoke of the village directly, her stories were often enlivened with country scenes and her characters frequently escaped evil treatment in the city to live quiet, contented lives surrounded by trees and grazing livestock. Mumsa had been a leader in the village, wealthy but also wise and respected. He knew the land well and would take Shazia with him on long walks through the jungle, identifying plants and trees 10

Midnight Flame with medicinal properties, showing her the indications of water flow, and where it would be prudent to dig a new well. When Shazia's father, Zuben, moved his wife, Mumtaz, and his two children, Shazia and her older brother Suleiman, to Shahjahanabad a decade ago, the family had begun to wither. Mumtaz, bereft without her close circle of friends, felt disoriented navigating the social landscape of the city, where allegiances followed protocols entirely opaque to her. She adopted a cold persona to shield herself from both flatteries and attacks, and soon the coldness crept into her dealings with her staff. And then with her daughter. Shazia felt her mother's icy distance and it wounded her to her core. Suleiman too retreated into himself, withdrawing from Shazia who had been his shadow in the village, a constant companion and confidante, always tagging at his heels. Only Zuben delighted in their new existence in the city, hosting increasingly lavish parties that lasted long into the night. From her balcony Shazia could hear his voice drifting through the air as he sang khiyals followed by whistles and shouts of approval. She could see dancing girls wandering through the gardens, their lithe, painted bodies seeming to float above the ground as they flitted from tamarind tree to tamarind tree like butterflies. These days, though, the parties were less frequent and Shazia went weeks without seeing or hearing her father at all, certainly not during the day and then not even at night, when she lay awake, listening for a fragment of song or a raucous cheer. His disappearance didn't cause her the same pangs as her mother's coldness and her brother's withdrawal. Zuben had always been erratic, even in the village, attentively mean-tempered one afternoon, criticizing Shazia for some small aspect of her dress or behavior, then jovial another afternoon, chuckling at reports of her escapades and slipping her silvered candies from his pocket. Shazia had always felt uncomfortable around him, wary of his changing moods. In Shahjahanabad, he had become even more unpredictable, vacillating even more wildly between fury and goodnatured lassitude, and Shazia was thankful it was so easy to avoid him.

11

There had been only one bright spot in the past years in Shajahanabad. Mumsa, no longer able to bear the separation from the grandchildren he adored, had come to live with them in the massive haveli. But even Mumsa could not create a joyful, easy atmosphere in the household. He was clearly fading, his body far frailer than Shazia remembered and his rich voice reedy. Far from the rhythms of village life, rhythms that had sustained him like a heartbeat, he sickened quickly. Mumsa's failing health cast a further pall over the family. Shazia was told to stay away from the chamber where he lay under gauzy mosquito nets, asking for nothing, not even a book or a carafe of water. Finally Mumsa had decided to return to the village, bidding his grandchildren farewell through lips cracked with fever. “I will send Shazia to visit you,” promised Zuben. Shazia clutched Mumsa's hand, tears rolling silently down her face, while the servants readied his elephant for the journey home. “Yes, I will see you soon, Mumsa,” she whispered, and she felt Mumsa tighten his grip on her fingers. But that morning, the morning of Mumsa's departure from the haveli, was the last time she had seen her beloved grandfather. Zuben never mentioned his promise again, and Shazia had stopped hoping that he would remember. Zuben's haveli lay in the southwest of the city, on the periphery, near the Ajmiri Gate. Many nobles desired havelis closer to the central bazaars, and to the palace fortress and the Yamuna, but Zuben wanted to leave distance between himself and the Emperor's peacock throne. The atmosphere in the city had loosened since Aurangzeb marched for Rajasthan and then the Deccan in 1679, but his edicts remained in place, sporadically enforced by the corrupt imperial officials he'd left to govern in his absence. No dancing girls. No music. No intoxicating beverages. If an imperial official decided to persecute a noble for violating these edicts, it took a healthy bribe to buy his silence. The nobles who lived in the southwestern region of the city were far enough away from the palace fortress to escape routine surveillance. Zuben had selected this neighborhood for his haveli both because of its reputation for unmonitored debauchery and because it gave him easy access to his 12

Midnight Flame granary in Paharganj, the suburb just outside the Ajmiri gate. Paharganj lay between Shahjahanabad and the village and was known for its large wholesale grain market. Zuben stored his grain in Paharganj and sold it to merchants in Shahjahanabad. It was with the money he earned through his grain business that he'd managed to construct his lavish haveli in the capital. For him, the haveli represented the culmination of a lifelong dream. Zuben had always hated the dust, bugs, and boredom of the village. The long, droning afternoons watching fruit ripen on the trees, the simpleminded banter of old farmers and the dowdy, dull-colored saris of the farmers' wives. He'd never understood his father's ability to enjoy the slow days and slower nights. According to Zuben, there was no excitement in the village, not a single person or item of interest, nothing to stimulate the mind or the palate. Zuben's walled mansion in the city was gorgeous and modern, surrounded by gardens and pavilions. The bathhouse had four rooms and a dome of glazed glass. The glass palace, though smaller than many in the city, did not shame him even when he entertained dignitaries and princes from Tehran and Baghdad. The glass shone with colors so rich one might have imagined the whole structure was crafted out of precious jewels. Shazia could not have cared less about the relative sizes of glass palaces in Shahjahanabad. She resented being cloistered in the zenana and its courtyard. At the very least, she wanted the freedom to roam the gardens. Maybe even the freedom to slip out the haveli gate and then through the Ajmiri gate itself, wandering in the great grain market, jumping onto a neglected horse, galloping towards the horizon…. Whenever Shazia got to this point in her fantasy, Shakuntala's nervousness would betray itself. “Do you want me to tell Begum Mumtaz about this plan of yours?” she'd ask, crossing her arms. “You wouldn't do that.” Shazia would smile sweetly. “I trust you.” And Shakuntala would melt, outmaneuvered yet again. Going limp, no longer the sun and moon, Shazia let herself drop back onto the divan. She curled up beside Shakuntala, her feet on Shakuntala's lap. Shakuntala trailed her hands along Shazia's ankles down to her small toes covered with golden rings. Shazia's 13

gaze followed Shakuntala's hands, and she wrinkled her nose, contemplating her sturdy ankles and short, broad feet. Mumtaz sometimes sighed over her daughter's simply indelicate frame. Why couldn't Shazia at least look like she fit in? Like her name could be uttered in the same breath as the names of the court's fragile, lovely, eligible young women without people snorting and whispering behind their hands? Shazia shrugged to herself and her mind wandered away from silly concerns over her big feet. Her emerald eyes began to glow once more. “I'll tell you the very last part of the story,” she whispered. “I don't know how they get here, or what it means. It might be a dream.” Shakuntala’s bangles tinkled as she pressed against Shazia’s feet, unwilling to say a word to shake Shazia from her reverie. “It's dark,” said Shazia. “She knows he's beside her because she feels the air move. She feels the air move against her skin and that stroke becomes the stroke of his hand. Then she feels him, the whole of him, against her body. It's like they are passing through each other's bodies, like their bodies are dark gates and they don't know what's on the other side. They don't know what they'll find except each other. But it's enough. Even if death is on the other side as well. They enter each other in the darkness, and there's water running through them, over them, around them, flooding them, and they take the air from each other's mouths and it's sweet, and it is impossible to tell if they are drowning or if they can't be drowned, they are too much a part of the waters, of each other, of the night.” Her voice faded to a whisper and Shakuntala drew a shuddering breath. Shazia saw the look of wonder and fear in the girl's dark brown eyes, her eyebrows knit again in consternation. “But what does it mean?” asked Shakuntala, perplexed. “Is it a love story?” Accusation crept into her voice. “How do you imagine these things?” she asked. “Strange things. Things that you yourself say you don't understand?” Shazia shook her head to clear the half-formed image of the lovers, the dark night, the dark water, from her mind. She tried to smile.

14

Midnight Flame “The night is full of secrets,” she said. “We are full of secrets. The secrets haven't been revealed to us, but we carry them inside us. They come to us in dreams. In stories.” “You are a witch!” said Shakuntala, striving for a light tone. Her hands drifted off Shazia's toes and Shazia pulled her legs away, letting the soles of her feet come to rest on the cool marble floor. Shazia wandered again toward the balcony, restless. She too was unsettled by her story. It was a love story, she was certain. But the more scenes that came to her, the darker the images. The story was depthless in its darkness, and the love of the hero and heroine was a dark rite, something she couldn't quite imagine. Something that she only felt, kindling inside her, the sweat rising to cling to her upper lip, to the hollows beneath her arms. Maybe the night was hotter than she thought. Darker. Hotter. The lovers twined together. Bodies merging. The torrent roaring in their ears. Was it water rushing past them? Or was it their blood that they heard? Their burning breath…. Shazia paused at the threshold to the balcony, unbound curls gleaming in the candlelight, her lush frame silhouetted within the fabric of her kaftan. She raked her fingers through her curls, agitation obvious, and bounded onto the balcony. Shakuntala rose to follow her, stopping lightly in front of the golden birdcage to stare in for a moment at Mithoo. She was the one who gave the parrot his food and water, and her feelings for the bird went far deeper than Shazia's. She put a thoughtful finger on a golden wire. “Look!” Shazia called out suddenly and Shakuntala hastened toward her. Shazia leaned over the balcony's marble balustrade, pointing. The shadows of the night had deepened now that the moon had passed overhead and begun its descent. Shazia was pointing beyond the courtyard wall, to the far corner of the garden that lay beyond the women's quarters, beyond the audience hall, the mosque and the library. In that far corner of the garden, the land rose in a slight hill. The haveli's back gate was set in the stone wall in that corner of the garden. The bower of raat ki rani that ran along that wall formed Shazia's favorite idyll. She loved to sit there when the blossoms opened. She loved too the labyrinth of hedges and the 15

mournful cypresses and the plum trees that gave profusely of their bright red plums, each no bigger than one of her father's turban jewels. Something dark was moving along the stone wall from the direction of the gate, moving toward the cypresses. The motion was regular. Rhythmic. A horse. A man on a horse. Shakuntala was peering through the dark, trying to follow Shazia's outstretched arm and pointing finger. “I don't see anything,” she said, half-turning to go back inside. Shazia caught her shoulder. “There,” she said, and Shakuntala saw it, the rocking motion of the dark rider. “Come on!” Shazia breathed. Her eyes had taken on their emerald gleam, dancing at the prospect of a real-life adventure. She swung a leg nimbly over the balustrade before Shakuntala had a chance to protest. She dropped out of sight. Instinctively, Shakuntala ran into the chamber and pulled her veil from the arm of the divan. Shazia might not mind exposing herself to a stranger in the middle of the night, but Shakuntala wouldn't think of it. Modesty forbade her to accost an unknown man, but Shazia left her little choice in the matter. At the very least, she would not accost an unknown man with her hair uncovered. She rested a knee hesitantly on the marble railing and pulled herself over, turning, then clinging suddenly in fear, her back to the wide open night. She looked longingly into the candlelit chamber. This was madness. What other lady's maid anywhere in the Empire was hanging over the edge of a balcony? At this hour? “It isn't high,” Shazia was calling to her, husky voice huskier than usual as she attempted to shout in a whisper. “Hang from the bottom, then drop.” Shakuntala overcame her paralysis and let her body hang, fingers clutching the base of the railing. “Drop,” urged Shazia, but Shakuntala shook her head fiercely. Her arms burned. Tears welled from the corners of her eyes. She hung from the balcony, furious and terrified, unable to pull herself up or to make herself let go. “Drop! It's not high.” 16

Midnight Flame Suddenly Shakuntala's fingers gave and she dropped onto the unforgiving tiles of the courtyard. She struck with her heels and bounced forward onto her hands and knees. Her teeth rattled in her head. Not high! “Well done!” Shazia was laughing, pulling her up, not allowing her even a moment to catch her breath. The statues in the courtyard loomed eerily in the darkness. A rose bush thrashed nearby and Shakuntala nearly screamed aloud. “Cat,” said Shazia gleefully, and Shakuntala caught the glint of Shazia's large, emerald eyes as she turned her head. “You're the only cat in this courtyard,” whispered Shakuntala. “Jumping from the balcony like that! Shazia, how could you? And what if there's a thief in that bush? Or a ghost?” From the white flash, Shakuntala knew that Shazia was grinning. “If there's a thief in the garden, he's not hiding in the bushes! He's riding on a black horse along the far wall. We have to find him! Come on!” And with that she was off, running lightly through the statues and fountains and slipping through the gate into the gardens beyond. Shazia ran far more quickly than Shakuntala, but Shakuntala followed easily, listening for the sound of Shazia's payaal. What had Shazia called it in her story? The sound of stars. The telltale signal of a woman’s movements. No thief would miss such a cue. If Shazia were less impulsive, she would have found a way to still her bangles, or else she would have stripped them off altogether, but her ideas were always too urgently conceived to be well-executed. Shakuntala sighed. Shazia was winding her way around the dark mosque, skirting the library, cutting over the footbridge that crossed the watercourse. Shakuntala knew she was heading for the garden labyrinth, the fragrant maze that could be exited near the back gate. That is, if you understood its twisted logics. Shazia knew every corner, every opening and dead end. Shakuntala slowed to an uncertain walk as she entered the labyrinth. Her sides were heaving. She turned to the left, then the right, the left then the right, to the right, to the right, to the left. She listened for the sound of the payaal but heard nothing. “Shazia?” she opened her mouth to whisper, then turned a corner and banged smack into Shazia's back. 17

“Shhhhh,” the other girl murmured. They had emerged from the labyrinth and Shazia began to creep along the wall, beckoning Shakuntala to follow. Where was the horseman? Hidden somewhere in this dark recess of the garden. Lurking behind the trees. Shakuntala listened for a hoofbeat. A whinny. A cough. She heard nothing. Only the faint tinkle of the payaal as she and Shazia crept forward. The smell of jasmine intensified. They were nearing the bower. Inconceivably, the darkness thickened. Shakuntala's nerves grew more strained. Was Shazia frightened too? She reached out blindly and grabbed Shazia's hand. A red light flared before them. The girls froze. Shazia's hand tightened convulsively on Shakuntala's. The horseman was there, beneath the raat ki rani, motionless on the motionless stallion. A cheroot glowed in his mouth, casting a wan red light about his head and shoulders, a red light that revealed only their contours. The waving shape of his tousled hair. The straight line of his shoulders. He took a last puff of his cheroot, exhaling a cloud that disintegrated into the night, then flicked it out, pulling up his scarf to conceal his nose and mouth. Shakuntala almost staggered, but Shazia tugged her up again. She pressed against Shazia's back so that her body was nearly obscured by Shazia's. At the same moment, she had the contradictory desire to pull off her veil and cover Shazia's head. Was the man looking at them? Could he see them? What now? She wanted to ask Shazia. We found your thief. What now? Shazia was asking herself the same thing. She could feel Shakuntala's fingernails digging into her wrist, feel the trembling body huddle closer. She wanted to take a step back, to retreat from the mounted stranger, but if she started backwards she would trip over Shakuntala. She had to stand her ground. She had to face down this intruder. This man who had invaded her garden. Who had entered her treasured hideaway, her sacred space. Why did he cover his face? Was he so horribly disfigured? Was the darkness not cover enough? Was he a demon? A wraith of the night? Fighting her fear, she approached him, Shakuntala clinging to her and trying to pull her backwards in the same desperate gesture. 18

Midnight Flame When she was but a few arm's lengths from the glistening black flank of the steed, she stopped. Now she could hear the horse breathe, see the ripple of the flank. But the horse did not shift his hooves. The man did not stir in the saddle. Shazia—the golden-tongued storyteller—was suddenly at a loss for words. What does a girl say to a dangerous stranger in the dark? You only get one chance, she told herself. One instant in which to strike the story into stone. You get only one question. Then it's his turn. His chance to tell the story. Who are you? Where did you come from? What do you want? Shazia stood breathlessly, still unable to conjure a phrase. Above the scarf, his eyes pierced hers. It didn't seem like there was any light beneath the bower for his eyes to reflect, yet they shone. They shone with a black radiance she could barely withstand. But she would not look away. She would not let her gaze drop. His eyes shone brighter and brighter, as though he was challenging her, daring her, and because she still could not speak, Shazia did the unthinkable. She acted. She stepped forward and stretched out her hand. She grabbed the reins of his horse. She felt the horse's body jolt, the ears pricking. The tail lifted and slashed, the silky hairs whipping across her bare left arm. The brightness of the man's eyes turned smoky with surprise… or anger. Shazia wondered wildly if he was about to strike her, or about to rear on his horse and let the hooves come down on her chest, crushing her. Shakuntala's chin was buried in her shoulder blade, thin frame shaking. Slowly, almost casually, the man placed his hand on Shazia's hand. The touch was rough, but restrained. Shazia didn't cry out as he slowly increased his pressure until her fingers opened and she released the reins. He looked down at her and she finally let her eyes drop, staring at his broad thigh where it hugged the curve of the horse's ribs. Another unexpected pressure on her hand made her gasp. She flung up her head, undaunted, fury flooding her, as he pressed her palm painfully open with a callused thumb. He pushed something cold and hard into her palm, then forced her fingers to close around it, throwing her hand back at her. She almost staggered, but Shakuntala acted like a prop, steadying her, and she regained her footing. She tightened her fist around the 19

object in her palm and opened her mouth. Now it was time, surely, to scream at him. To scream for help. She drew breath into her lungs. The raat ki rani rustled behind them. The cat, thought Shazia, and fought the bubble of hysterical laughter that threatened to burst in her chest. The rustling grew louder. Suddenly, she could distinguish the low nicker of a horse. Suleiman materialized in the bower. He was on foot, leading his horse behind him to minimize noise. All the things she had thought to scream transformed suddenly into one word, the most familiar of all words. “Suleiman!” cried Shazia, and the sound of her brother's name made her feel safe. But the look on his face as he took in her presence made her heart ache. He looked stunned, naturally, but beneath his surprise she read irritation and displeasure. In her fear and excitement, she had responded to him without thinking, responded out of her deep love and affinity, as though he were still the idol of her childhood, kind, patient, protective. As though they still shared the bond of their youthful dreams. A little boy and a little girl building villages in the mud of the river bank, peopling the villages with small stones. This one is Mumsa! This shaggy stone with the moss! This is you, Suleiman, this one with the sparkles! If you think so, Shazia. Yes! This one is you! Why? Because it sparkles? No! Why then? Because it's my favorite! But things were different now. She and Suleiman rarely saw each other, hardly spoke. As a man of twenty two, he had infinitely more independence than she did, and he spent his time doing who knew what. Carousing in the bazaars. Boating on the Yamuna. Hunting. Gambling. Studying law in his chamber. When they did cross paths, his brutal indifference to her cut like a sword stroke. But he had arrived, come through the jasmine with his horse to save her! He had come to save her from the thief!

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Midnight Flame “Suleiman,” she cried again, but he ignored her, mounting his horse and closing the short distance between himself and the stranger so that their horses stood nose to tail, flanks pressed together. Without a word, the stranger handed Suleiman a lit cheroot. Suleiman took it easily, smiling. Shazia felt her knees grow weak. They knew each other? Suleiman and the horseman? Suleiman and the thief? Shakuntala unwound herself from Shazia's back and came forward. She and Shazia shared a look of utter confusion. “Suleiman,” said Shazia. “Who is this man? What's happening? Where are you going?” Suleiman and the masked horseman were speaking to each other in low voices, the deep, unceasing murmur of their conversation revealing a familiarity Shazia hadn't seen her brother share with anyone in years. He was laughing quietly, clapping a hand on the horseman's shoulder. In the glow of the cheroot, she could see that the sour lines of his face were all but erased. He looked open, confident, handsome, even eager. He looked like he'd looked as a boy. The night was suddenly too much for Shazia. Her sleepy stories on the divan had transformed into a not-quite-pleasant reality, the danger and discomfort and confusion outweighing the thrill of the adventure. And her questions were all unanswered. Who was this strange man, this man who dominated her with his eyes? Where was her brother going on a horse in the night? She tried one last time to interrupt. “Suleiman….” Her brother at last spared a glance for her. “Go inside, Shazia,” Suleiman said coldly, “If you leave my sight, it will be easier for me to stop wondering how you came to be here in the dead of the night. Does our father need to bar the zenana?” “Do you think bars would prove effective?” said the horseman suddenly. His deep voice was rich with amusement. Shazia's eyes flew to meet his dark, appraising gaze. “This girl would walk through a wall of fire to get what she wanted.” The look Suleiman gave the masked man wasn't entirely friendly. “You base your assessment of my sister on a few moment's

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acquaintance,” Suleiman reminded him, with something like a warning in his voice. “True,” admitted the man, eyes still burning into Shazia's. “But sometimes a few moments are enough.” Suleiman shrugged, extinguishing his cheroot. “Tonight Shazia has had far too many moments,” he said. “She should be fast asleep in the zenana. Not running around in the dew with her head bared to the sky.” Shazia flushed, dragging her eyes from the stranger. Suleiman's voice did not soften as he looked at ther. “This is no place for you, Shazia,” he said. “Go inside and practice being a woman.” Shazia's chin lifted stubbornly. “But where are you going?” she demanded. “When will you be back?” Her voice rose and Suleiman's horse took a dancing side-step as emotion charged the air. Shakuntala stilled Shazia by placing a hand on her wrist. Suleiman noticed the gesture and looked at Shakuntala as though seeing her for the first time. His tone lost its harsh edge. “It's alright, Shakuntala,” he said. “I shall return before morning. Please, don’t concern yourself. Take Shazia inside.” He maneuvered his horse away from them, clapping hands with the dark horseman. Something was murmured between them and the horseman also wheeled his stallion around. Shazia heard the thunder of hooves, felt the rush of jasmine-scented wind, and then, that quickly, both men were gone. She stood looking into the dark void, clutching the hard metal token in her hand. Shakuntala tugged her other hand, clasping her jeweled fingers with her own fingers, thinner and unadorned. “Come, Shehzadi,” she whispered, addressing Shazia gently but formally, using shehzadi, princess, to remind her of the behavior becoming to her station. “Come inside. The story is over for tonight.” She pulled Shazia back toward the labyrinth, toward the women's quarters. As she allowed herself to be led by Shakuntala, Shazia looked over her shoulder at the darkness vacated by her brother. By the mysterious horseman. Even when they arrived back at the zenana, Shazia still floated as if in a daze. She tucked the metal token between her breasts and scaled the trellis to the balcony, quietly, swiftly, then helped Shakuntala clamber over the railing. But 22

Midnight Flame though Shazia was as graceful and sure in her movements as ever, Shakuntala could tell her thoughts were miles away. Shazia flung herself across the divan, lips pressing against the skin of her arm. What does your face look like beneath your black scarf? What does your nose look like? What do your lips look like? Where did you come from? Where are you going? What do you want? What do you want with me? The questions tumbled through her mind. She should have asked him something. Anything. A question burned in her mind, burned through all the other questions. Will I see you again? That's how she should have started. That's what she should have asked first. Somehow, knowing the answer to that question seemed more important than knowing his name. She felt the metal token biting into the tender flesh between her breasts and removed it. She held it in the palm of her hand and examined it in the candlelight. It was a small, crudely wrought talisman depicting a serpent wrapping a flowering staff. Shazia turned it over and over again wonderingly, but the symbol meant nothing to her. Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly tired. Sleep weighted her eyelids like an enchantment, and she barely reached her bed before it claimed her.

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Chapter Two Shazia awoke aware that she had dreamed but unable to recall a single detail. Her head felt as though it were filled with smoke. She lay with her eyes closed, trying to reenter sleep. She became conscious of the morning heat. She tried to roll over, find a cooler spot on the bed, but she was too lethargic to move. The heat seemed palpable, a stroking presence, heavy and insistent. She felt it trailing over her stomach, pressing on her wrists. She felt it holding her down, pinning her, caressing her. The smoke in her head grew denser. It transformed into a dark cloth… a scarf… a mask…. He was above her. His body was pressing down on hers. The mask brushed against her throat, her lips. She couldn't breath. The black fabric filled her mouth, choking her. She wanted to pull the mask down, tear it from the face poised above hers, but her wrists were too heavy. She couldn't move. With a strangled gasp, she started up. The chamber was touched with a rosy glow, a sign that the sun was still rising. Shazia pushed her hair back from her face. She'd been tossing all night, and her locks were twisted across her neck and mouth. No wonder she'd imagined she was choking. She heard a voice whispering nearby—“Shakuntala!”—and saw a figure stooping, prodding the slumbering girl. Shazia frowned with compassionate indignation. Shakuntala was often awakened before dawn to tend to the whims of Shazia’s Aunt Bushra, or to accompany Shazia’s mother on rounds of the kitchen. Shakuntala too had grown up in Shazia's village, had served the family in various capacities since girlhood. She'd chosen to move with them to Shahjahanabad. She had seen Shazia through everything. Every quarrel, every party, every sweet or harrowing transition. Shazia's mother and father trusted her as the most capable and loyal member of the army of workers who passed through the haveli each day. Instead of ensuring her special privileges, this honor mostly meant she worked harder than anyone 24

Midnight Flame else, getting called to consult on or supervise many of the household duties. To Shazia, this seemed the height of injustice. She raised an imperious hand to dismiss the servant, hoping to save Shakuntala from early labors after a night of such excitement. But Shakuntala was already rising, shaking the light cotton sheet from her body and rolling her floor mat to fit underneath Shazia’s bed. “Shakuntala is engaged this morning,” Shazia attempted, waving the servant away. “She needs to help me bathe and dress for an audience with Begum Afaf and her daughters.” The servant, an old woman with deep brown skin as creased as a walnut, cast an alarmed glance at Shazia then looked at Shakuntala beseechingly. Something about the woman's hand-wringing, tongue-tied urgency raised the hairs on Shazia's arms. This wasn't a typical summons. She was sure of it. A strange tension pervaded the zenana. Shakuntala seemed to sense it as well. Her tiny, full lips were set in a grim line. “Let me go,” she whispered to Shazia, already walking after the servant. “I'm coming too!” Shazia cried, throwing her legs over the side of the bed. She could barely see through her rioting tresses. Shakuntala looked back and shook her head impatiently, gesturing at Shazia's scandalous disarray with a finality that made words unnecessary. Shazia knew Shakuntala was right. She couldn't present herself in such a state. Still, she stamped her foot and tossed her hair magnificently before sagging onto her bed. “Hurry back!” she called. “Tell me everything!” She felt beneath her pillow for the talisman and balanced the cool metal on her sternum. She remembered the unbelievable strength of the horseman's grasp. That girl would walk through a wall of fire to get what she wanted. There had been mockery in his tone, but also admiration. As though he were amused and surprised by her. As though he recognized something in her. Responded to it… to her. So he thought she was brave, did he? Her lips curved as she closed her eyes again, this time seeing the broad, taut muscle of his thigh 25

against the flank of the dark horse. She was brave, there was no denying it! She would dare to pass through fire and flood alike if she needed to. Why would she need to, though? The answer came unbidden. For love. She sighed and the talisman slipped to the side, cool metal following the curve of her breast. She placed it again on the flat of her sternum. In her stories, heroes and heroines were always undertaking impossible tasks, always courageously enduring gruesome torments, always suffering, always striving… for love. Love was both the trial and the prize. Shazia knew she had that heroic capacity, the capacity to sacrifice and struggle for what made her feel alive. What made her heart beat faster. Certainly her mettle had never been tested. But she knew it. She knew she had the power, the passion, to run through flames. More importantly, he knew it. He had known it at once. Shazia shivered, deliciously replaying every second of the previous evening. Almost without realizing it, she began to croon softly to herself. “Raat ki rani,” she murmured. “Raat ki rani.” She loved the jasmine bower, loved the way its white flowers starred the darkness, and she loved the sound of the words that named it. Raat ki rani. Queen of the night. “Raat ki rani,” she murmured again. “Queen of the night. Raat ki raja…” She almost giggled. “Raat ki raja. King of the night. Raat ki raja…” Her sleepy singsong was fading to a whisper. “Raat ki raja. Raat ki raja, mere ko le jao….” King of the night, take me— Suddenly her husky voice sounded in chorus. Mithoo had extracted his head from beneath his wing and was croaking along. Shazia laughed and fell silent, drowsy and warm. It was just as well she was interrupted, she thought. King of the night, take me… where? Such silliness, she thought, the smile lingering on her lips. King of the night indeed. Her anxiety about Shakuntala's odd summons drifted to the margins of her consciousness and sleep once again claimed her. **** Once in the corridor with Shakuntala, the old servant's powers of speech returned to her. “Suleiman is gone!” she said excitedly, as if 26

Midnight Flame relishing her ability to shock the pretty young maid. She drank in Shakuntala's pained reaction for several breaths before continuing. “His horse arrived at the palace with a note tied to the withers! Begum Mumtaz is beside herself….” Shakuntala turned her head to hide the complexity of her reaction, busying herself with arranging her sari, draping the pallu, the wide border printed with lotus flowers, over her left shoulder. “What kind of note?” she asked, keeping her voice even. “Who wrote it?” The servant raised her eyebrows so that the furrows in her forehead scurried toward her hairline. “Bilal Nazeem Shah,” she said in a stentorious whisper. In spite of herself, Shakuntala couldn't keep her eyes from widening. Bilal Nazeem Shah was a legend in Shahjahanabad, and not only because of his sumptuous palace and the mysterious sources of his ever-increasing wealth. Stories of his strange history and ill-fated family had circulated through the city for years. In fact, those stories were some of Shazia's favorites, the only ones that had to do with real-life present-day people she bothered paying attention to, and, of course, embellishing with her own more glorious versions. Yet, in Shakuntala's mind, Bilal Nazeem Shah might as well dwell far away, in a distant part of the Empire, like the Emperor himself. As far she knew, he had never numbered among Zuben's guests at the haveli. His orbit was larger, higher. Shakuntala knew a little about the goings-on in Shahjahanabad— more than Shazia, definitely. She listened to the servants gossiping in their quarters and to the merchants in the bazaars making dire predictions about the city's future. The Emperor was not coming back. He was coming back soon. He was never coming back. In this fashion, the merchants bickered on and on, speculating rashly about the Emperor's tactics, about the cost of the wars in the Deccan, the cost in lives, the gains in glory and saved souls. They spoke of those nobles who had risen to prominence in Shahjahanabad during the Emperor's absence, those nobles who were going to rise, those who had fallen, usually due to the machinations of their rivals. But these courtly intrigues were, for 27

the most part, localized, concentrated amongst the nobles who lived in mansions near the palace fortress along the Yamuna. That area was the center of political life. The nobles who chose to live farthest from the palace fortress, those whose havelis lay along the city walls, largely avoided the vicissitudes of politics. They tended to be pleasure-seeking, detached, gluttonous, and self-satisfied. Or at least, that was what Shakuntala had gathered through watching Zuben and his friends while away the hours over huqqas billowing with thick, intoxicating smoke. What could Suleiman possibly be involved in that would bring him into contact with Bilal Nazeem Shah? Shakuntala bit her lip. Obviously the horseman in the garden had something to do with it. Shakuntala had been unable to sleep, even after Shazia's breathing had become light and regular. She had lain awake trying to fit the pieces of the encounter together, and when she finally drifted off, just before the servant's call shattered those few precious moments of respose, she had done so clinging to the hope that the whole episode would melt away like a shadow in the dawn. Instead, the morning had brought new shadows. Dark tidings. “What about Zuben?” she asked, knowing already that Shazia’s father could not be counted on to take any firm action, even if his son's life, or at the least, his future prospects, were in jeopardy. “He has not risen,” replied the servant, simply, though both she and Shakuntala understood that this meant he could not be roused. How many days of the year did Zuben spend dead to the world? What a strange pastime, marveled Shakuntala whenever she thought about Zuben's habits. For her, the pursuit of oblivion held no appeal. “It is just Begum Mumtaz holding court right now,” continued the servant. “She is calling us all to her, to tell her what we know. Come.” Shakuntala followed her through the vaulted hall. The high archways were supported by grand pillars carved with vines and flowers. Lanterns with scented oils burned at the base of each pillar. Exquisite paintings of faraway lands adorned the walls, and a lush, deep red carpet from Persia covered the floor, so thick and soft that the heaviest steps could not be heard approaching. Though of 28

Midnight Flame course, thought Shakuntala, smiling slightly, a woman's bangles always gave her away. The soft music of her movements helped to soothe her nerves. The fledgling day already showed signs of the unbearable heat that would characterize its maturity. But with the sun still low in the sky it was pleasant enough to move about out of doors. Shakuntala crossed the zenana courtyard and entered the garden beyond, as she had just a few hours before. How different it all seemed in the daylight! The rose bushes that had held any number of thieves and demons in the night now revealed only profuse blossoms, symbols of purity. The ominous statues showed their graceful lines and whimsical, sylvan shapes. Shakuntala's eyes flew toward the garden labyrinth, the hill in the north of the garden, but of course, she couldn't see it from her vantage point. Her view was blocked by the rather austere sandstone library, the least ornamented, and least visited, of all Zuben's structures. Mumtaz was sitting in a pavilion in the garden. Silver trays of breakfast sweets and tiny cups of syrupy coffee and steaming mint tea were arrayed around her, but it was obvious she had barely touched the tempting repast. She was listening to a young man—a stablehand Shakuntala recognized although she couldn't remember his name—just finishing a breathless, stuttering speech. When he broke off, pocky face flaming, Mumtaz let her gaze travel across the garden to the nearby pool. Shakuntala noticed that the waters of the pool were lower than usual, a large white rim of marble limning its contours. The water running though the feeder watercourses too seemed reduced. It wasn't trickling per se, but the flow was not abundant, rippling with depth and light, as it should be. Everything was somehow off this morning. Wrong. Shakuntala realized she was gnawing her lower lip and tried to compose herself. She found a gap in the crowd of servants thronging the pavilion so she could get a closer look at Mumtaz. Mumtaz's profile was lovely even in distress. The corners of her sensuous mouth turned down and her high forehead and strong jaw seemed sweetened by the tinge of sadness. Shazia looked a good deal like her mother, although she wouldn't believe Shakuntala when she said so. Mumtaz was widely remarked for her beauty, for 29

the symmetry of her face and the grace of her figure. Mumtaz was willowy, Shazia was curvy and muscular. Mumtaz had slanted and poetically dark eyes, while Shazia's eyes were wide and importunately striking, the color varying from leaf dark to emerald bright. But their straight noses, firm, slightly pointed chins and regal foreheads were alike, as were their smiles. These days, however, Mumtaz seemed to find little reason to smile at Shazia, or to smile at all. It wasn't just lingering nostalgia for village life. Marriage to Zuben couldn't be easy. Although Mumtaz was distant with her staff, she never lashed out, never succumbed to temper or swung too far to the side of prodigality or thrift in dispersing funds to the kitchen staff or the washermen. Lately, though, there had been less money provided for the household meals. Mumtaz had advised the staff to purchase fewer delicacies in the market. And Shakuntala had heard from some of the maids that Mumtaz told them to hold off on picking up the cloth of gold for Shazia's new veils and saris. Yet these new austerities, Shakuntala was positive, had nothing to do with Mumtaz's whims, and everything to do with circumstances beyond her control. Circumstances that Shakuntala was only beginning to understand. Shakuntala knew that Mumtaz would be bitterly affronted if she suspected it, but part of her servants' devotion stemmed from sympathy. They pitied their beautiful and clearly melancholy Begum, a woman who, everyone in the servants' quarters agreed, should have been treated better by her husband. Shakuntala willed Mumtaz to look up, to see her, so she could offer her mistress some sort of support. But Mumtaz kept her gaze trained on the sunken water in the pool. Two girls from the kitchens, Heena and Noor, caught Shakuntala's eye and beckoned to her from the other side of the pavilion. Shakuntala hurried to meet them, eager for the opportunity to hear a report of what she had missed. “It's too awful,” moaned Heena, clutching Shakuntala and putting her lips so close to her ear that Shakuntala was deafened by her whistling breath. Her arms tightened around Shakuntala's neck and she swayed, almost toppling Shakuntala with her considerable bulk. “I can barely stand, the shock is so great,” Heena continued. 30

Midnight Flame “My head is pounding.” Heena was very young—twelve years old— and already as round as a gulab jamun. Shakuntala had heard Heena was fond of eating gulab jamuns, and that she had been known to snatch the syrupy little deep fried balls of dough from their platters. She was notorious amongst the kitchen staff for stealing sugar, and equally notorious for shirking work. Now she buried her face in Shakuntala's shoulder. Shakuntala cast a helpless glance at Noor, who seemed unmoved by Heena's imminent collapse. “I don't care if you can stand or not, Heena,” said Noor. “You can shuck peas lying down.” “Noooo,” moaned Heena, squeezing Shakuntala even more tightly. “How can one talk of shucking peas with our young prince in such peril?” “So Suleiman is in great peril?” asked Shakuntala, trying vainly to extricate herself from Heena's clinging grasp. “Great peril!” cried Heena, and in her paroxysm of emotion she nearly choked Shakuntala, who at last wrenched free, leaping back several paces. Peering from beneath her eyelashes, Heena scanned the crowd for another body on which to drape herself, and, failing to identify a suitable candidate, regained her strength and stood of her own accord. Shakuntala ignored her and addressed herself to Noor. “What kind of peril?” Noor shook her head. “Suleiman broke the law,” she said. “That's all we know. Bilal Nazeem Shah is holding him until his fate can be decided.” “He committed a crime?” asked Shakuntala. “Against Bilal Nazeem Shah?” The masked horseman appeared before her eyes. Surely he was to blame! What crime would Suleiman ever think of committing? “That’s what was written in the note,” said Noor. “Eijaz just told Begum Mumtaz that he saw Suleiman leading his horse from the stable around midnight. And it wasn't the first time he'd seen him sneaking in and out of the stables in the middle of the night.” “Eijaz is keeping strange hours himself,” said Shakuntala, and Noor arched an eyebrow. 31

“Not so strange.” Noor smiled, and Shakuntala blushed to catch her meaning. Noor was younger than Shakuntala, but her ripe body made her appear the older of the two. It was well-known among the servants that over the past year she had found the attentions of at least two young men not altogether displeasing. Surely, she had seen many midnights come and go in the gardens. Often Shakuntala felt like a bony-kneed child in her presence. Just because she hadn't stolen kisses from some broad-shouldered stablehand under the oleanders didn't mean she was naive about the ways of the world! “I suppose then that Suleiman's late hours are similarly explicable,” said Shakuntala stiffly. She wasn't sure why, but something pained her about this understanding of Suleiman's behavior. He was so intelligent and handsome. He must have admirers in every sector of the city. Why wouldn't he ride out at midnight on romantic errands? Who was she to think twice about such things? To wonder what sort of girl might have caught his fancy. To wonder what they did together. If they managed to meet secretly. If he pulled her up onto his horse and galloped her through the streets of the city to the gardens in the north. If he carried her from the saddle and laid her down on a sweet bed of herbs…. Noor sniffed. “It doesn't seem that a liaison on one of Bilal Nazeem Shah's boat launches would be enough to incur such extreme treatment. And the note mentions other young men. A whole group of them were apprehended. Begum Mumtaz has sent servants to make inquiries in Chandni Chowk and figure out whose sons are also being held.” “Bilal Nazeem Shah is the most powerful man in Shahjahanabad,” said Shakuntala almost to herself, repeating a bit of wisdom she'd overhead in the market. “He's the richest,” said Noor coolly. “My father says that with the Emperor gone, nothing is stable enough for any one man to be sure of his power.” Once again, Noor's breezy knowledge left Shakuntala feeling hopelessly immature and vaguely resentful. “I think Bilal Nazeem Shah is a djinn!” piped up Heena, her cheeks flushed. “He takes delight in locking up young men. Suleiman is probably chained in a tower by the bones of poor Prince Ahmad!” 32

Midnight Flame At the mention of Prince Ahmad, Shakuntala shivered, but Noor was rolling her eyes at Heena. “A djinn!” she said. “The same djinn who's been taking spoonfuls of honey from the casks in the pantry?” Heena shook her head gravely. “That's a different djinn,” she said. “A bitter djinn who finds little pleasure in the world of men. He needs to sweeten his disposition with candies or he would wreak all kinds of mischief.” “You're shameless,” complained Noor. “And I'm not finishing your bucket of pea pods. Get your djinn to do it for you if your head hurts you so badly.” Shakuntala edged away from the quarreling girls. She doubted they had much else of use to tell her. Eijaz, however, might have something to offer. She glanced around for the homely, goodnatured youth. She didn't see him, but she saw—threading his way unsteadily between the fruit trees trailed by a retinue of tray-ladden servants—a flash of royal blue. Zuben. His clothing was boldly colored and costly, but his sash sagged and his turban was sloppily tied, the sapphire pin listing to one side. Shakuntala winced as she imagined Mumtaz's discomfort at seeing her husband appear before so many servants in such a state, untidy and reeking of smoke. At least he was awake. At least he was walking of his own accord. Lately he had taken to traveling in a palanquin between the haveli buildings, a heavily ringed hand parting the embroidered curtains from time to time to drop an apricot pit or the smoldering nub of a cheroot. He passed close by Shakuntala on his way to the pavilion and she could see that his eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. She followed him up the marble steps and joined Mumtaz's personal attendants, who stood close to their mistress, some clasping hands for comfort. Zuben sank onto a cushion beside his wife and a servant placed a silver huqqa in his hands. Mumtaz did not look at him and he took several long puffs before speaking. “Morning is pleasant,” said Zuben at last. “Though it becomes rather commonplace if observed too frequently. Unlike a beautiful wife.” Zuben smiled benignly at the hovering attendants. “A beautiful wife presents some new charm at every inspection.” Zuben, who could be nasty when sober, was garrulous when 33

intoxicated and at these times his cruelty took the form of exaggerated courtesy. Shakuntala detected traces of lingering drunkenness in his tone. “Morning is pleasant,” agreed Mumtaz curtly. She adjusted her shawl with a trembling hand, then flung up her head. She glared at Zuben and in her passionate rage Shakuntala saw the resemblance to Shazia more clearly than ever. “There is nothing pleasant about the circumstances that caused me to call you from your chambers,” burst out Mumtaz. “No,” said Zuben mildly, lifting a tiny cake from a platter and sniffing at it. The powdered sugar flew into his nose and he sneezed. “What a horrid little confection,” he remarked, letting the cake drop. He fished an almond from a bowl of nuts and bit it delicately. “The morning is a time for fruits and nuts,” he said. “If one wants to remain in good health.” He stroked his large belly thoughtfully. “Is that coconut juice?” he asked and lifted a milk-glass goblet. He peered into the goblet and placed it down again, plucking a golden Kabul grape from its cluster on a silver tray and bringing it slowly into his mouth. “Zuben,” said Mumtaz, lowering her voice. “Bilal Nazeem Shah should be holding his durbar within the hour. You must go to him and… and…”—she flailed for the right word— “…and demand that he release our son.” Zuben laughed. “Demand such a thing!” he said. “Demand! Demand something from Bilal Nazeem Shah.” He shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I don't think that would do at all. Besides, from the letter you were kind enough to send me— Before dawn, was it?” He pretended to consider the question. “Yes, I believe so. I think the letter came just before dawn. Just in time for first light!” He clapped his hands as though delighted, and Mumtaz watched him warily. “First light is extremely pleasant,” said Zuben. “I quite enjoyed being shaken from slumber to absorb its healthful properties. It has done wonders for my head. The diffuse throbbing is all gone, concentrated in one stabbing pain, right here.” He tapped between his eyes, still smiling at his wife. “From the letter,” he continued, “it

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Midnight Flame would seem that Suleiman has behaved deplorably. Far be it for me, as a good father and Muslim, to put my son above the law.” “We don't even know which law this man claims our son has broken!” protested Mumtaz. “Which law!” cried Zuben. “How like a woman to focus on trivial detail!” he glanced around for male affirmation. Many of the servants who had first answered Mumtaz's summons were drifting away, returning to the kitchens, stables, barracks, and workshops. Of those who remained, only women gathered in the pavilion. The men stood in a large group near the sunken pool, smoking cheroots in the sun. Every now and then a chuckle stirred them and Shakuntala blushed to imagine their coarse jokes. Zuben sighed. “My dear wife,” he said. “Law is a big concept. Our son has transgressed. That is what matters. It is a pity. He'll learn, I'm sure, from his mistake.” “But what was his mistake?” Mumtaz howled. She rose off the cushion, her face an anguished mask. Zuben arched an eyebrow. “Breaking the law, of course,” he said, looking at Mumtaz with faint surprise. Then he smiled again, indulgently. “It is difficult for women to understand certain concepts. I have no doubt, though, that Bilal Nazeem Shah and I are of the same mind on this issue.” “Oh, yes,” hissed Mumtaz. “I'm sure you and Bilal Nazeem Shah understand each other perfectly on this issue.” She seemed to be implying something, something significant, and Zuben's smile slipped slightly before returning, larger and falser than ever. “If you're not going to the durbar, then I have nothing else to say.” Mumtaz held Zuben's gaze for a long moment, then, rising, she turned her back on him and swept from the pavilion. Zuben stared after her. He knuckled his inflamed eyes and returned his attention to the trays and cups around him. “Where is the date wine?” he asked. “Who forgot to bring the date wine?” The girl beside Shakuntala, Maha, stirred slightly. Zuben squinted at her. “Was it you?” he asked. “At this hour,” Maha began in her soft voice, “date wine is not often served.”

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“I am not an expert on this hour,” said Zuben. “But if I can endure it so can the date wine. Bring it at once.” He leaned farther into the cushions, rubbing his temple with one hand while the other fumbled to secure his turban pin. As he shut his eyes, he murmured to himself. Shakuntala leaned forward to hear. “Bilal Nazeem Shah,” murmured Zuben. The second phrase was muffled by his hand, but it sounded like “Suleiman, you have cost us everything.” Shakuntala darted from the pavilion. But she was not racing to fetch Zuben his date wine. She needed to find Eijaz at once and find out everything he knew before returning to Shazia. **** From the balcony, Shazia watched the morning parade of washer people and cooks, stable boys and tailors. After emerging for the second time from a fitful slumber, she felt wide-awake, her body thrilling with nervous energy. She wanted to hurl her leg over the balustrade and clamber down into the courtyard, barefoot, head uncovered, as she had last night, under cover of darkness. Curse the daylight! thought Shazia. And all the rules and restrictions it brings. She paced the balcony like a captive panther, raking her curls back from her face, heedless of whoever might be watching her from the garden lanes. If her mother saw her in her unkempt state, so much the better! Maybe then she'd be called to her private chambers and, between reprimands, she could beg to be told what was going on. She was always the last to know everything! It wasn't fair! If she had a hair out of place, tongues wagged for a week. But for all the talking that went on about her, no one bothered to talk to her. She had to wait for gossip to make its way through the servants' quarters to Shakuntala's ears and then piece stories together from Shakuntala's breathless, disjointed accounts of tenth-hand fragments! And what was keeping Shakuntala so long? Shazia scanned the groups of young maids and kitchen servants who scurried between the haveli's many buildings, but she didn't see Shakuntala among them.

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Midnight Flame The sun was heating up the white marble of the balcony. This day would be even hotter than the day before. The thick, scorching air increased Shazia's agitation. The light seemed to buzz. She gazed toward the garden labyrinth, the dark bower of drowsing raat ki rani, the lines of ethereal cypress trees rising like smoke. She had to know why the servants were running about so quickly, as though they were the restless bearers of some great secret. She was done with waiting. Hastily, she parted her hair into three sections and twisted the sections together to form a nominally acceptable plait. Good enough, she thought. At least, her dupatta would hide the worst of it. Inside the chamber, she slipped out of her paper-thin nightdress and dressed herself in a light-weight silk lengha, a green silk skirt with dazzling zardosi around the waist and hem and a sleeveless choli. If Shakuntala were there, she would have insisted Shazia cover more of her body, but Shazia couldn't bear to drape her limbs with clinging layers of gauze in the overpowering heat. She covered her head with a green silk dupatta and barely glanced at herself in the mirror. Almost as an afterthought, she retrieved the serpent talisman from beneath her pillow and slipped it between her breasts before rushing out into the hall. She flew between the pillars and down the marble stairs. Just as she rounded the corner into the hall that opened onto the courtyard, she banged head-on into a man who caught her by the arms, taking advantage of her momentum to yank her against his body. Shazia's face was crushed against the raw silk of his jama. Her nostrils widened as she inhaled his unpleasant odor of stale smoke and liquor. Squirming, she pulled herself free from his embrace, expelling her caught breath in a snort of disgust. The man smacked his lips at her, a gesture that registered surprise and pleasure at the unexpected contact. He straightened his jama, running his palms over his chest, while screwing up his left eye in a licentious wink. Shazia recoiled even farther. She loathed Mansoor and called him Frogface behind his back. His bulbous eyes and wide mouth did give him a froglike appearance. Even kind-natured Shakuntala had to admit it. Mansoor, young and unmarried, came from a family of wealthy 37

merchants. Due to his love for dice and hashish, he had made himself a great favorite at Zuben's court. His name was often linked to Shazia's when the women speculated about potential matches. True, Mansoor lacked ambition and moral fiber, and his family had no claims to noble bloodlines, but he was heir to a considerable fortune. Shazia, what with her unconventional tastes and violent temper, wasn't exactly a prize despite her wealthy father. The noblemen of Shahjahanabad liked to break their horses, not their women. Sweet, yielding girls were the fashion. Strong-willed, stubborn, unpredictable young women who spent more time embroidering the truth than they did embroidering silks did not attract male admiration. Shazia understood that the women of the haveli thought little of her marriage prospects. Reluctantly, Shakuntala would share bits of their conversations, giving Shazia a sense of what was said. Shazia knew that Shakuntala hoped she would use popular opinion as a guide by which to adjust her behavior. Shazia also knew that, due to Shakuntala's habit of diluting mean-spirited gossip with a few drams of fabricated good feeling, what the women really said about her character and marriageability was even worse than she imagined. Really, though, she couldn't think of a fate worse than being matched with Mansoor. “Out of my way, Frogface!” she cried in her head, pressing her lips together to keep herself from speaking aloud. The result was an odd grimace that Mansoor chose to take as a smile. He beamed at her. “Who would have suspected that a morning begun with such bad tidings could end with you in my arms?” he asked, and winked at her again, one deliberate wink followed by several quick ticks of his thickened eyelid. Shazia wanted nothing more than to push past him, stomping on his slippered foot as she went, but he had baited his hook with the hint about “bad tidings” and she found it impossible not to bite. “For me, the morning's bad tidings are borne out by this encounter,” huffed Shazia. “I've broken my nose on your sternum!” She ran her fingers gingerly along the high, slender arch of her

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Midnight Flame nose. “I don't suppose anything will go right today,” she continued, still pressing her nose. “I can barely breathe.” Mansoor murmured, “I too feel breathless” and caught her hand between his. Shazia clenched her teeth and extricated her hand as politely as possible. “Well, we've all had a shock,” she said. “The news is troubling, isn't it?” “Troubling indeed,” agreed Mansoor, cocking his head to the side. He waited, blinking at Shazia. She cast around for a way to continue the conversation without admitting to her ignorance. “What do you think of the situation?” she asked, finally. Mansoor took her hand again. “I am gratified that you care to discover my opinion,” he said pompously. “I assume you trust me, because you know that I hold Suleiman as dear as a brother.” “Of course,” said Shazia mechanically. Inside, she recoiled at the suggestion. Mansoor and Suleiman, as dear to each other as brothers! Hardly likely! Despite the distance Suleiman had put between herself and him, she still felt like she knew her selfcontrolled, intelligent, highly particular older sibling well enough to be absolutely certain he would never find anything worthwhile in the company of a man such as Mansoor. Mansoor was sloppy and indulgent, crafty but without cultivation, whatever native intellect he might have possessed irrevocably dulled by drink and base concerns. Suleiman had the soul of a poet, or a philosopher, thought Shazia. He was restless, dissatisfied, critical, brilliant, sometimes cruel, but never craven, never the drunken, lip-smacking toad! He had principle, integrity. He was disgusted by Mansoor, as disgusted as she was. He had to be. You don't know that, whispered a small voice in Shazia's mind. You don't know anything about your brother. Not what he does with his time, not who his friends are. You don't know what tidings Mansoor speaks of, tidings that seem to concern him. The pain she felt in her breast surprised her. “Yes, I know that you and Suleiman are close,” she said. “I am sure Suleiman confided in you… about…” she wasn't sure how to complete the sentence and settled for a repeat. “About the situation,” she said, flushing at the clumsiness of her wording. 39

Mansoor, however, didn't seem to notice. Her flattery, and the feel of her tapered fingers trapped in his moist palm, had transported him into a muddle-headed rapture. “Suleiman tells me many things,” he said. “Many things. Things that would startle an innocent girl like yourself. He is a complicated man, your brother. We understand each other, yes.” He sighed. “Accept these words of comfort, my sweet. I don't believe Suleiman broke any law!” Shazia started at his words and Mansoor stared into her widened eyes, interpreting her dumbfounded expression as awed respect for his boldly voiced sentiments. Encouraged, he plowed ahead. “I defy Bilal Nazeem Shah! Even if your brother stood accused by the Emperor himself, I would not believe a word said against him. Wait until I have the opportunity to make my voice heard! I will defend Suleiman, you will see. I will use my influence on his behalf.” Mansoor's voice swelled as he spoke, carrying himself away with visions of his own eloquence and power. Shazia had ceased listening. Could it be? Suleiman… accused by Bilal Nazeem Shah? Bilal Nazeem Shah. Shazia's whole body tingled with dread. Bilal Nazeem Shah, that creature of myth, that fairy-tale monster! When she had first moved to Shahjahanabad and heard the tales of Bilal Nazeem Shah, she had wept with outrage and pity. She had trembled at the horror. The beautiful, broken-hearted wife. The doomed princes. Bilal Nazeem Shah was merciless. He was pure evil. She had scarcely believed that he was real, that he was a man. For her, he occupied the realm of djinns and demons. Suleiman accused by Bilal Nazeem Shah? It couldn't be! Of what was he accused? “What will you say in Suleiman's defense?” she asked, snapping back to attention, trying to pump Mansoor for more information. “Given the nature of his trespass?” Mansoor patted her hand reassuringly. “Don't worry about such things,” he said. “I will say what I will say. My name is not unfamiliar to Bilal Nazeem Shah and my words are not without weight. When I say what I say, Bilal Nazeem Shah will listen.”

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Midnight Flame Shazia curved her lips in a humorless smile. He's bluffing, she said to herself. He has no idea what Suleiman did. She freed her fingers more forcefully than she had before. She had to find Shakuntala. She tried to push past Mansoor, but he blocked her way. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. “You should return to the zenana,” he breathed. “You are so ripe, Shazia. Like a dripping peach.” He ran his knuckles across her bare shoulder and she shuddered with revulsion. “When a woman becomes ripe, she is in the most danger,” he whispered, lowering his head so that his face came close to hers. “The juices rise so close to the surface.” His fingers grazed her neck. “The flesh is so tender.” Shazia couldn't endure his fetid breath a moment longer. She jabbed her elbow into his ribs and ducked beneath his arm, running through the archway into the garden. Presumptuous, revolting frog! Her skin crawled where he'd dared to touch her. She'd like to crush a ripe fruit in his vile face! She sped through the courtyard. Where could Shakuntala be? Deep in hushed conference with Mumtaz in some quiet corner of the garden? She realized she was following the path towards the garden labyrinth. Some part of her believed that if she ran through the labyrinth, if she threaded her way through the cypress trees, if she reached the dark bower of raat ki rani, Suleiman would be there, waiting. The masked horseman would be there too, at her brother's side. All would be as it had been in the night, before Suleiman turned his back on her and disappeared into the shadows. What had happened to Suleiman? What awful fate had befallen him in the darkness? Shazia saw a cluster of serving girls beneath a mango tree. Some stood, fanning themselves, and others knelt around a prone figure. Shazia slowed her pace. A very plump girl lay on her back in the shade of the tree, an arm slung across her face, covering her eyes. “Get up, Heena!” shouted a tall, full-figured young woman, standing with one foot on either side of the whimpering girl on the ground. “I'll bring that bucket of peas into the garden and empty it on your head! You can shuck them right here on your back.”

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“Noooo,” moaned the plump girl, feebly. At that moment, the angry young woman glanced over and caught sight of Shazia. “Excuse us, Shehazadi!” she cried. “We were heading back to the kitchen when Heena felt faint. It's the heat, and the excitement of the day. The poor thing is quite overcome.” Heena nodded, arm still covering her eyes. “Too awful,” she whimpered. “Too, too awful. Who can think of peas?” “Who indeed?”asked Shazia. She contemplated the small circle of girls, their fresh young faces and parted lips. They were pretty young things, dressed in colorful but inexpensive cotton saris, their glossy braids smooth, the tiny gold rings in their noses glinting in the sun. “You've heard the news, then?” The tall young-woman standing over Heena dropped her gaze. “Yes, Shehzadi. We have heard that Suleiman has been taken.” So it was true. Shazia's knees wobbled. What if she were to join Heena on the cool earth beneath the mango tree? She could imagine her mother's stony face when the word reached her. “And then, Begum Mumtaz, Shazia flung herself onto the ground with the kitchen maids and had to be carried to her chambers!” No, pride forbade it. She would not collapse. At least, not until she heard more details. “Have you seen Shakuntala?” she asked. “She is with Eijaz,” piped Heena, peeking up at Shazia from beneath her arm. “We saw her follow him toward the stables.” She tittered. Then she pressed her arm against her eyes and whimpered. “Oh,” she said in a faint voice. The tall young woman and Shazia frowned simultaneously. Shazia was beginning to doubt that Heena was quite as overcome as she wanted the other girls to think. From the expression on the tall young woman's face, she had no doubts at all on the subject. Shazia grinned at her and, surprised, the tall young woman grinned back. Shazia enjoyed the fleeting moment of connection. “Thank you for your help,” said Shazia. She glanced again at Heena. “Best of luck with the peas,” she said. As she walked away she could hear the girls' eager chatter. “Why, she's absolutely gorgeous!” Shazia felt heat come into her face. Perhaps the girls were resuming an interrupted conversation? She touched a finger to her 42

Midnight Flame lips. Certainly the word “gorgeous” had never been applied to her before. Had she become more beautiful in the night? Had something been illuminated inside her? Did some inner light suddenly give the soft impression of loveliness? Perhaps the heat of dark eyes had struck some small, rose-colored flame in her breast? Shazia's lips curved in a smile before she caught herself and frowned ferociously. How could her head still be filled with romantic fancies? Suleiman had gotten involved in something dangerous. He was held captive, maybe even hurt, and she was constructing a flattering dreamworld based on gossiping maids. What kind of sister was she? Squaring her shoulders, she focused all her energy on finding Shakuntala. It wasn't difficult. As she approached the stable, she spotted Shakuntala sitting on a marble bench, deep in conversation with a short, sturdily-built youth. He had uneven features and a terrible complexion but his eyes were bright and candid. He leaped to his feet when he spotted Shazia, bowing in a paroxysm of selfconsciousness. Shazia almost laughed at his discomfiture, but she didn't want to embarrass him further. She inclined her head graciously. Shakuntala came towards her, her delicate face pale. “The news is bad,” she began, and Shazia cut her off. “Tell me what Suleiman has done,” she said. Shakuntala glanced at Eijaz. “The reason for his detention was not given in the letter.” “Letter?” repeated Shazia. “The letter the guards discovered, tied to his horse,” said Shakuntala. “When Suleiman's horse returned at dawn. Without him.” “Just Suleiman's horse?” asked Shazia sharply. Shakuntala shook her head gravely. “I have only heard mention of Suleiman's horse, Shehzadi,” she said. She glanced again at Eijaz. Shazia fixed her shining eyes on him. “Did another horse return with Suleiman's?” she asked. “A black stallion?” 43

“No, Shehzadi,” said Eijaz. “There was no other horse.” “Rumor has it other young men were captured along with Suleiman,” said Shakuntala. “But we do not yet know what young men, from what families. Eijaz tells me that last night was not the first night Suleiman left the haveli on horseback.” Eijaz nodded reluctantly. “I don't mean to contribute to idle talk about Suleiman and his activities,” he said. Shazia waved her hand impatiently. “I am his sister. Nothing you can say to me about Sulieman could be considered idle talk.” “He has been riding out of the haveli at midnight several times a week for many months now. I assumed….” he stammered and paused. “Yes,” Shazia pressed him. “You assumed…?” Eijaz cleared his throat and began to examine his callused palms. “I assumed… that he was visiting… a young lady,” he finished, still studying his hands. “I see,” said Shazia, hiding her discomposure. “But you had reason to reconsider this assumption?” “I have not said this to anyone.” Eijaz looked up, his round, clear eyes seeking Shakuntala's. “Not even Begum Mumtaz.” “I told Eijaz that he could trust us,” said Shakuntala, nodding supportively at Eijaz. “That we would not reveal the source of any information he had to give us. And that we have Suleiman's interests in our hearts.” “What is it you have to say, Eijaz?” asked Shazia, gently. She liked this nervous young man. Everything about his demeanor—his homely face, his clear, shy gaze, his straight back and broad shoulders, his quiet voice—suggested decency. “A few times,” said Eijaz. “When I myself have been in the garden at night—” His face grew even redder and his stammer returned, but he forced himself to continue. “I have seen Suleiman meeting other young men.” “Where?” asked Shazia, though she already knew. “By the haveli's northern gates,” said Eijaz. “At the mouth of the garden labyrinth, or nearby, in the cypress grove.” “Did you hear their discussions?” asked Shazia.

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Midnight Flame Eijaz drew himself up so that his back was even straighter. “I do not eavesdrop on my betters,” he said stiffly, and Shazia could see she had offended him. “I meant no disrespect,” she said. “But you didn't see or overhear anything that would intimate the motive for their gathering?” “They carried swords,” he said. “One of them, a tall man, wore a covering over his face. Their business seemed serious, Shehzadi. On the last full moon, the gardens were luminous as day. I had been in the cypress grove on business of my own.” He looked so mortified that Shazia did not bother to question the nature of his “business.” The answer was obvious enough. For an instant, the faces of the pretty serving maids flitted through her mind's eyes. Was it one of them? She wondered. They could do much worse than this awkward, honest young fellow. “Suleiman appeared from the garden labyrinth,” he said, “and whistled quietly, a few notes, like a birdsong. More men appeared from the trees. They must have entered from the northern gates. I stood silently so that my presence would not be known. I did not understand their conversation, but I noted the swordhilt of the man closest to me bore a strange emblem, an emblem I have seen since on Suleiman's swordhilt.” “A serpent,” whispered Shazia. “A serpent twined around a flowering staff.” Eijaz looked at her wonderingly. Shazia sat on the vacant marble bench and dropped her head into her hands. What did it all mean? “If you'll excuse me,” said Eijaz at last. “The horses need watering. The watercourse to the stables has run dry and I must form a team to bring buckets from the garden pool.” Shazia nodded mutely, watching Eijaz's straight, broad back as he struck out purposefully for the stables. Shakuntala dropped beside her on the bench. “Perhaps you should speak with Begum Mumtaz,” she suggested. “She seemed quite distraught.” “She did not see fit to summon me to her,” said Shazia dully. Years ago, bitterness would have been her dominant emotion. Now

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she spoke as though recounting bare facts. “My presence does not lessen my mother's distress. You know it well, Shakuntala.” Shakuntala flinched at Shazia's resigned tone, her heart swelling. Shazia was so filled with emotion, with passion, and every member of her family rebuffed her affection… Mumtaz, Suleiman, Zuben. Didn't they understand the hurt their self-involved coldness caused the loving young girl? She squeezed Shazia's shoulder, folded her dupatta back where it covered her face. The proud nose, the sad line of the full, dark lips—she felt as though she were again gazing at Mumtaz in profile. “Anyway,” said Shazia. “It seems we already know more than my mother. Suleiman has committed some rash deed in the company of a small band of men, a group that identifies themselves with a sign. This sign.” She produced the talisman, the metal warmed by her skin. She held it up to Shakuntala. “From the horseman,” said Shakuntala. “From… Gibran.” It was the first time Shakuntala had spoken the name, even in her own thoughts, and her voice faltered. Shazia turned the talisman in her fingers. “Gibran,” whispered Shazia, a question in her voice. “It's the name I heard your brother call him,” said Shakuntala. “When they spoke to each other from their horses. Gibran. I'm almost certain.” “Gibran,” repeated Shazia, staring at the intricate lines of the symbol, the tiny petals of the blooming rod. “Gibran.” She shook herself and looked at Shakuntala. “Did you make out any more of their conversation?” Shakuntala shook her head, hands in her lap. “No,” she said. “But perhaps we should talk to Begum Mumtaz. Tell her that we saw Suleiman last night, and in strange company.” “And what good will that do?” asked Shazia slowly. “Until we understand who this Gibran is, why Suleiman was meeting him in the garden, what they did, and why, I don't see the use in saying anything to anyone. It's like a dream. Suleiman is being held, is being held by—” “Bilal Nazeem Shah,” finished Shakuntala.

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Midnight Flame The girls sat on the bench in silence. Bilal Nazeem Shah's name had not passed between them for years. But once they had spoken the name often, had told and retold his story, huddled together on the balcony in the ensorcelling light of the moon. “It's like one of your stories has come to life,” whispered Shakuntala. “And now we are characters in the tale. I wish you could invent the ending of this one.” “Maybe I can,” said Shazia, but so low that Shakuntala couldn't hear. She shut her eyes against the glare of the overhead sun. Twenty-one years earlier, Bilal Nazeem Shah completed his palace, a glittering structure with a dozen gilt domes and as many spires, the walls built of marble and red sandstone, so that it looked like a thousand roses and lilies blooming into the sky. He planted star-shaped beds of lilies and roses in the house garden, and throughout the grounds the balance of craft and natural splendor was so harmonious the guests were never certain whether a blooming jasmine bush was sculpted by hand, or whether a building was in fact an enormous flower. Bilal Nazeem brought his young wife to live in the palace and together they hosted parties that became legendary from the Himalayans to the Bay of Bengal. Emperor Aurangzeb contributed confections, exotic fruits, and foreign delicacies to their table. Candied apricots from Bisra, European port, Chinese teas. With Aurangzeb's aid, Bilal Nazeem Shah courted dignitaries and merchants from far lands, financing trading ventures in Surat, the Emperor's most prosperous port. When his wife became pregnant, the whole city rejoiced. Bilal Nazeem Shah began work on a second palace, a palace that was to surpass all others in its grandeur, a palace that would take decades to build. Excavation began on the banks of the Yamuna and the foundation stones were laid. The palace would some day be the home of his firstborn and heir. A son, predicted Emperor Aurangzeb's astrologer. A son like a golden flame. Fierce, strong, and pure. A son that would increase the glory of the Mughal Empire.

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One night, late in her pregnancy, Bilal Nazeem Shah's wife could not sleep. The moon had vanished from the sky. The night was glittering with dark, a barbed blackness, innumerable points of starlight piercing the heavens. She rose from her bed, wandered the halls of the vast zenana, and entered the courtyard. She stood alone on the tiles, listening to the falling water in the fountains. The silver blades of the stars were honed on the black stone of the night, the hard, polished dark of the night, and the wicked-edged, needle-thin lights struck into her womb. She sobbed aloud in the courtyard as the pain took hold. She sobbed aloud but no one heard her and she gave birth, unattended, on the tiles, gave birth to twin boys under unlucky stars. When the sun rose the servants saw her from the balcony, her red blood, the red marigolds flaming in the newly risen sun, and the twin boys like ingots of gold, howling at her breasts. The astrologer was summoned and he hid his face from Bilal Nazeem Shah before he uttered his words. The force of the night had broken the future in two. Had shattered Bilal Nazeem Shah's golden son into two sons, dark and light. The road to glory had forked. One of the twins would be his father’s undoing. His glory would be the glory of destruction, heralding the end of an era, the end of an Empire. These twins had been born at the crossroads of time. They held death in their small fists. The astrologer could read no more of the prophecy than that. Bilal Nazeem Shah walked for hours around his palace. He followed paths to each of the cardinal directions. He walked in a five-pointed star. He walked until the sun sank in the sky and he stood alone, as his wife had stood alone, in the darkness. He stood in the darkness in the center of his gardens, at the reflecting pool. Then he went to the zenana. He took the babies from their wet nurse and carried them, one under each arm, to the edge of the deepest well. He lifted the babies over the dark opening. But at that moment, his gentle wife, who had sensed the tragedy about to occur and followed him through the gardens, threw herself upon him, staying his arm before he could hurl both babies down into the depthless shaft. Only one fell. Infuriated, he tried to shake his wife's grasp, but she was like a woman possessed and would not 48

Midnight Flame release him, begging to die alongside her remaining son if she could not prevent his evil deed. Agonized, Bilal Nazeem Shah dragged his wife and their son back through the garden and into the palace, opening the silver door that led down a narrow stair to the underground sitting room, the cool mud-floored room with a pool in the center, the palace cistern on one side and damp stone walls on the other three. “If you choose death instead of your duty to your husband, then die,” said Bilal Nazeen Shah. “I won't stop you.” And with that he ascended the stair, leaving the woman he loved and her newborn babe locked beneath the palace. On the eighth day of their captivity, the astrologer returned to the palace with a warning for Bilal Nazeem Shah. More misfortune would befall him if he tried to avoid his destiny by injuring his progeny. Bilal returned to the underground chamber. His wife could not be stirred. Her son was cradled against her breast, crying weakly. Bilal bore his wife and son up into the fresh air, but his wife did not live to the next moon. Some said she died of a fever, others, a broken heart. Bilal Nazeem Shah continued to acquire wealth, to host parties, to construct gardens in the northern reaches of the city. He stopped construction of the new palace and sold the land and the foundation stones to another noble, who finished construction within a few years, building a large, competent mansion, nothing on the scale Bilal Nazeem Shah had foreseen. In public, Bilal Nazeem Shah never spoke of his sons, not the son he had killed or the son he had spared. That the son still lived was a known fact. Sometimes he conversed with Bilal Nazeem Shah's personal friends. Sometimes he was spotted by curious guests. Sometimes he was spoken of by Bilal Nazeem Shah's servants in the market. His name was Ahmad. In Shahjahanabad, when the sad history of the family was rehearsed, as it often was, especially to visitors who showed interest in the city's lore, Ahmad was referred to as “the captive prince.” He had grown into manhood almost entirely cloistered behind his father's walls. And perhaps, despite all his father's cautions, he carried the dark flame of death in his hand. 49

“Bilal Nazeem Shah,” repeated Shazia. She thrust out her jaw. “I'm not afraid of him!” she cried. “Just because I made him the nightmare of my childhood, with all those silly notions of “the captive prince” and dark prophecies, doesn't mean he's anything other than a cruel, vain, terrible man. I'm not afraid of any man! I won't let this Bilal Nazeem Shah make my brother into another captive.” “Your father refused to attend his durbar,” said Shakuntala. “No steps are being taken to secure your brother's release.” “I didn't expect my father to take any such steps,” said Shazia. “And if my mother did, she is double the fool!” Now the bitterness crept into her tone. She rose from the bench. “I'll go,” she cried. “I'll go to Bilal Nazeem Shah.” “To the durbar?” Shakuntala's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “No. No, I'll make a personal appeal,” said Shazia. “This afternoon! I can order a coach and tell my mother that the heat has made me faint. I need moving air. We'll ride to Bilal Nazeem Shah's palace and you can wait for me in the coach outside the palace walls. I won't leave unless Suleiman comes with me.” Her eyes were glimmering, her dusky skin blooming across the tops of her high cheek bones. She was transfigured by hope and wrath and looked for all the world like a warrior queen. “I need you to fix my hair. I need jewels.” Shazia fingered her bare neck. “Let's go! There's no time to waste.” She struck out so quickly for the zenana that Shakuntala had to sprint to catch up. “Do you really think that Bilal Nazeem Shah will be so easily convinced?” asked Shakuntala, breathlessly. Shazia didn't answer. She was lost in thought the entire walk back to the zenana, and even when the girls reached the chamber and Shazia dropped onto a red velvet cushion she remained silent. Uncharacteristically silent. “What are you contemplating?” asked Shakuntala warily. She picked a silver brush with a mirrored back to tussle through Shazia’s curls. “Ahmad!” cried Shazia. This was not the answer Shakuntala had expected. Shazia was moving restlessly on the cushion as she 50

Midnight Flame thought, and Shakuntala's brush snagged again and again. Shazia didn't even notice. She was lost in her schemes. “I'll go to one captive prince to find out how to free another!” she said. “I won't make any demands of Bilal Nazeem Shah directly. I'll go to his son. Ahmad has spent a lifetime in that palace. He must know everything that goes on. He can tell me where Suleiman is being held. Or he can tell me the best way to approach his father.” Shazia didn't want to admit it, but her fear of seeing Bilal Nazeem Shah face to face had contributed to her enthusiasm for this new plan. “I'll go to Ahmad!” she cried. “I'll find my way to his chambers and explain my purpose. It's perfect. Don't you agree?” She said it so forcefully that Shakuntala could only nod helplessly. “Approaching Ahmad might be better than approaching Bilal Nazeem Shah,” she said cautiously. She smiled slightly. “Young men tend to be more willing to cede information to beautiful young women.” Shazia only snorted. “Beauty has nothing to do with my plan. I am concerned with justice.” Shakuntala reached for a bottle of itter to smooth into Shazia’s hair before making the plait. “He's my brother,” said Shazia. “He's my brother,” she repeated, the words vehement. “I will take the risk.” Shakuntala did not respond. Shazia twisted around, taking hold of Shakuntala's shoulders. “Shakuntala, listen,” she whispered, close to her friend’s ears. “we have nothing to lose. Nothing bad is going to happen. Trust me. Trust us. It’s a harmless visit. What else are we going to do? Sit around here and wonder where Suleiman is? Hope that he someday comes home? If not tomorrow, the day after? Or the week after? Or the month after? Or the year? I promise I won’t do anything silly. I promise I will be reserved. I'll find Ahmad, but then I'll hold back. I'll wait to see what his character is like. Only if there is any indication that he would listen to me will I approach him. Otherwise, I will keep my distance and report back to you. Then we can devise a more solid plan.”

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“We have no idea what your brother is involved in,” whispered Shakuntala, the fear she had been repressing all morning surfacing in her voice. She reached for Shazia’s waist and fingered the tassels at the belt of her gown. She moved her hand up to cup her chin. “Shehzadi,” she said in a tone that attempted to be firm but hinted at her resignation. “If anything were to happen to you at Bilal Nazeem Shah's palace, both you and Suleiman would be in the hands of that beast. Do you understand?” “I know!” cried Shazia, and the drama of the situation began to appeal to her sense of adventure. She couldn't keep a gleeful note from creeping into her voice. Shakuntala pursed her lips. “Well, then. A disguise.” She considered. “We will have to dress you appropriately. Not as a princess, but as a peasant. Whatever happens, do not reveal your identity, and do not show your face. Whatever he can make out through your veil and silhouette will be enough.” She walked briskly to Shazia’s armoire, ruffling through the layers of silks, chiffons, velvets and brocades. There was nothing fitting for a peasant girl. “What about your clothes?” asked Shazia excitedly. “Could I wear anything of yours? You have such beautiful things. Not fussy like the things I have to wear, but things you can run and jump in! Let’s look at yours!” The trunk at the corner of the room contained Shakuntala’s belongings. They rifled through them together until they discovered a parrot-green salwar kameez, the long tunic and loose pants made of simple cotton, with a cream-colored bust panel adorned with pink and powder-blue parrots. Shazia laughed as Shakuntala displayed the kameez. “In that outfit, Shakuntala, you’re going to turn into a parrot. You’ll marry a parrot prince and hatch a clutch of parrot eggs!” “So I like parrots!” cried Shakuntala. “So what? They’re intelligent and beautiful!” “I don’t dispute that!” Shazia gasped, bunching the green cotton to her breast. “Many a girl will do worse than marry a parrot prince. It’s just that—”

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Midnight Flame “It’s just that you like to poke fun at everything in the world!” muttered Shakuntala. “I may turn into a parrot, but you’re a monkey! Swinging around in the trees with your great long arms.” Shazia let the fabric drop and lifted her arms like a monkey. She laughed and then let her arms fall. “They really are shockingly long aren’t they?” she mused. “Shockingly!” snorted Shakuntala. “Now, how will we get you into this without breaking all the seams? We might have to oil you.” Shazia sighed. The girls had to wiggle and contort, but finally, between the two of them, they managed to encase Shazia’s more abundant body in Shakuntala’s light garments. “I don’t know if you’re going to escape attention in that get-up,” said Shakuntala, shaking her head. “But no one will connect you with your family.” “Is it that awful?” asked Shazia, mirth still dancing in her eyes. The green fabric picked up their emerald lights, and the sheer cotton hugged her swelling breasts and hips. A few stray curls snaked from her plaited hair and framed the bold lines of her face, the high cheekbones, the sharp chin. Shakuntala shrugged. She never knew what to say when Shazia spoke so disparagingly of her appearance. Shakuntala had once seen a tiny tornado in the house garden, destroying tulips. The air became a riot of petals, red and gold whirlwinds. That was Shazia. She was stunning. Like a storm on the surface of the sun. Shakuntala knew it would be useless to try to convince her that she was anything but overlarge and awkward, unfit for the admiration of poets and princes. Shazia pivoted in front of Shakuntala, her hands outspread to indicate her inability to improve upon her preposterous disguise. Shakuntala regarded her silently for another long moment. The humble garb of a peasant woman was ridiculously out of keeping with her upright carriage and magnificent physique, every lineament of which screamed of her high breeding and arrogance. “It will do,” Shakuntala said at last. “It will have to. Suleiman doesn’t have anyone else.” Her soft voice grew softer. She didn’t want her voice to break, to betray the depth of her feelings for the brilliant, beautiful young man, so unthinkably far beyond her in 53

station, learning, and accomplishment. She bent hastily to pick up Shazia’s discarded dupatta and jewels, but not before Shazia saw the tears shining in her round, dark eyes. What complex of emotions they indicated, Shazia didn’t dare to imagine, but she embraced the smaller girl fiercely. “He doesn’t need anyone else,” she boasted, summoning a bravado she didn’t feel. “He has more than enough of a champion in me!” “I can’t breathe,” Shakuntala murmured, and Shazia released her. “It’s those fragile bird bones,” she said, and Shakuntala smiled, a tremulous smile, her playful spirit returning. “Do you mean my parrot bones?” she asked archly. Shazia only grinned in return. “Thank you, sister,” Shazia said. “Thank you for your help.” She kissed Shakuntala impulsively. The heat of her kiss rested momentarily on Shakuntala’s cheek. Shakuntala fell silent. “I will go see about the coach,” said Shakuntala after a time.

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Chapter Three The day had barely dawned, but already the air felt hot, thick with dust. Beyond the eastern wall of the city, the Yamuna moved lazily, blue and brown currents churning slowly. The sandy beach along the riverbank below the Emperor’s fortress was already thronged with servants drying brilliant bolts of crimson and blue and yellow cloth in the sun. Farther up and down the river, the slopes stretching down from the bluffs were lush with almond, orange, plum, and mango trees. Brightly colored birds stirred in the greenery. Bilal Nazeem Shah watched the river from an open marble balcony. His black eyes, so often gleaming with appraisal or malice, were dull beneath thick brows, once raven, now shot through with silver. Some time yet remained before he would walk through his gardens to his diwan-i amm, his public audience hall. Usually his daily audience involved little more than household affairs. He reviewed plans and haggled over bills, arranged evening entertainments with musicians and poets, read reports from his ship captains and from the head of his stables. But today he suspected that the pleasant, if tedious, business of managing his wealth and time would be rudely interrupted. Bilal fingered his heavy mustache with manicured fingers, his full lips curling in a sneer as his thoughts returned to the previous night. What would he do with those… boys? He refused call them men. They had acted with the destructive impulses of children, and he should see them punished like children. Whipped, perhaps, on their bared backsides in the middle of the bazaar. Luckily, their little raid on his cargo barge had been interrupted by the crew before more than a few crates could be hurled into the river. But those crates contained very valuable goods. Bilal ran his thumb back and forth over his eyebrow, thinking. He had many cargo barges. How did the boys know to target that particular barge? It had only arrived that evening from the 55

Himalayas. By morning, the cargo was to have been unloaded and carried to the storage facility. Did the boys know what the crates contained? With whom did they plan to share their information? Bilal did not look upstream, where his barges were docked among other crafts. Rowboats, sloops, square-riggers, the massive pleasure boats of the nobles and the Emperor himself. In his mind, an anxious glance in that direction indicated weakness. Those pimpled adolescents might have cost him a night's sleep, but that was all. He would not panic. He would not stalk the wharf in the blazing sun, peering across the decks of his barges, peering up at the furled sails of his sailing ships as though assailants could be hanging inside, nestled like bats. The boys' ringleader had identified himself as Suleiman Wali Dad, the son of Zuben Wali Dad. Zuben Wali Dad. Bilal pounded on the balustrade with his fist. Zuben could not have put his son up to it. What did he have to gain? Nothing, on the face of it. And Zuben was hardly a man to take risks. Of course, Bilal did not know Zuben Wali Dad personally—they communicated by letter or through underlings —but he knew the type. Bloated, cosmopolitan in desire, provincial at heart. Country gentlemen who fancied themselves more stylish than their neighbors often moved to Shahjahanabad so they could indulge their fantasies. Building garish havelis with bulbous domes, loosing flocks of peacocks in their gardens, spending small fortunes on English marmalades and tea biscuits to impress the zamindars who paid them visits. Bilal snorted. This boy, this Suleiman, was nothing like Bilal's image of the father. He was slender, all glaring eyes and wild black hair. He had been dragged before Bilal dripping wet with river water. According to the guards, he had flung himself over the side of the barge to avoid capture, but even half-asleep the seasoned crew members were able to dive in and catch him before he had taken two strokes toward the shore. Bilal had taken care not to step too close, lest the puddles forming on the tile damage his slippers. “Keep him from the carpet,” Bilal had commanded his guards. The captured boys had been brought to his most severe chamber— black-and-white tiled floor, pillars of black stone. The windows looking onto the veranda were unadorned with drapes, and the 56

Midnight Flame other walls were bare of tapestries or ornament, except for one row of mounted scimitars. The scimitars were antiques, the metal nicked and dented from hard use. Looking at them, gleaming dully in the large, sparsely furnished room, it was difficult not to imagine the nature of that use. This was as Bilal intended. He saw several of the half dozen young men blink dazedly at the scimitars, fidgeting with discomfort and apprehension. For his part, Bilal wandered back to the carpeted seating area, where a huqqa stood between piles of brocaded cushions. He lit the huqqa and sucked the mouthpiece with voluptuous enjoyment, aware that the tension in the room increased as the silence drew out. The boys were exchanging glances. All except the slender one, Suleiman, the one who had spit out his name while staring Bilal straight in the eyes. He looked straight ahead, face shuttered, eyes alight. “Forgive us,” offered one of the boys, in a low, hoarse voice. His skin was coarse-grained and his thick eyebrows grew together over a remarkably flat nose, the result of an accident or a congenital misfortune, Bilal could not tell which. “It was a prank,” continued the boy. “We've all taken too much wine and our sense of mischief overstepped its bounds.” “How well I remember the days when a cup of wine had such an effect on me,” said Bilal. He approached the flat-nosed youth until their faces were so close a more prominent nose would have touched Bilal's own. “One mouthful and I found myself dressed in black jamas, armed with a short sword, spontaneously boarding a heavily freighted barge so as to lighten her load with the help of a rabble all mysteriously taken by the same idea.” Bilal let the smoke from his mouth billow across the youth's face. “No,” sighed Bilal. “I do not think this action was the product of wine and high feeling. You will forgive me for this little treason against the lauded inanities of the youthful spirit. It is not that I don't think youths are fools.” He stepped backward so he could observe the whole miserable group. “It is just that I would caution the youths”—he stretched the word—“against thinking that I am a fool.”

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“We can pay you for the cost of the destroyed merchandise,” said the young man who stood beside Suleiman. Bilal noted the crafty light in his eyes and the sidelong look he could not help exchanging with the boy next to him. “Can you?” said Bilal lightly. “Then you know exactly what the crates contained? And the worth of those goods to the penny?” The boys remained silent. “Perhaps you are men of such means that all sums are the same to you,” said Bilal. “How fortunate. Well, we will wait before we speak of remuneration. My considerations are not purely financial, you realize. Also, it would hardly be fair to set a price now, when you are all so obviously the worse for drink.” He could tell by the way Suleiman clenched his jaws that he was finding it difficult to endure his condescension. He paused in front of the defiant youth. “I would have thought your fathers had taught you how to hold your liquor,” said Bilal, holding Suleiman's gaze and injecting as much scorn as he was able into his words. “After all, they have devoted many years to mastering this most important skill.” Suleiman jerked involuntarily, as though he longed to lunge forward at Bilal, but the guards whose meaty hands easily encircled his thin forearms held him fast. “I acted soberly and with purpose,” Suleiman managed between gritted teeth. “And if I have the funds to cover the cost of what I destroyed, then I erred in my selection of crates.” Bilal stared into Suleiman's blazing eyes before dropping his gaze to the boy's dagger. He drew it from his belt and the boy jerked again but could not move to stop him. Bilal let his fingers travel over the hilt. “This is a fascinating symbol,” he said, tapping the jewel-eyed serpent. “I seem to have seen it somewhere before. Oh yes….” Pacing the line of boys, he paused in front of the flat-nosed youth and drew his dagger as well. “Yes, here it is again. I suppose it is a popular decoration these days. Some innocent little token that signifies youth. I don't suppose,” said Bilal slowly, “that this serpent has some special meaning for all of you.” He waved at the group. “And that it unites 58

Midnight Flame you in some common… what was the word?” He looked at Suleiman. “Purpose? That would imply a great deal more organization and sobriety that some of you want to take credit for.” Bilal turned to Madsud Yar, the one-eyed captain of his guard. “Take their daggers and lock them up,” he said. “We will continue this conversation when all of our minds are clear. Lock them in the stable. Except that one.” He pointed at Suleiman. “Take him downstairs.” Madsud Yar raised the eyebrow over his remaining eye. “Downstairs?” he asked. Bilal nodded. “I will bring you the key.” He looked again at Suleiman. “It is cool downstairs, and as the boy seems to have an affinity with snakes, the company will be to his liking. Good night,” said Bilal, his smile taking in all the young men. “Sweet dreams. I am sure you will sleep well after such a busy night, even if the accommodations are slightly cruder than those you're accustomed to.” Bilal doubted Suleiman slept at all on the packed earth in the little room beside the cistern. For years, the room had remained empty. The pool had dried, leaving a shallow pit of mud tracked heavily by rats. Years ago he had taken to locking the heavy silver door at the top of the stairs after he heard from a house maid that Ahmad had been sneaking down there, sitting for hours in the mud. Brooding, most likely. Breathing in the dank, thick air, trying to access memories lost to him forever, trying to keep the old stories alive, stories Bilal forbade his staff from mentioning but which could not be eradicated. Stories that haunted the palace and most especially that underground room, the room dug to provide his family a cool escape from the hot days of the dry season and which had provided no escape. It was a fitting enough place to put Suleiman. Bilal imagined there were snakes aplenty, nests of snakes, hanging nets of cobwebs, the dusty droppings of long dead mice. The chill, the impenetrable darkness, the scurrying creatures—these must have tortured the boy's senses, depriving him of even the most fleeting slumber. But although Bilal himself lay down on sandalwood-scented silk sheets in a spacious, ventilated chamber, sleep was also denied to 59

him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that strange serpent and wondered at its import. Could those spoiled dandies who could barely sprout mustaches possibly have formed a secret organization to attack his barges? Those frightened little boys? The notion was preposterous. They had no will, no initiative. They were sheep. Followers. Someone put them up to it. Suleiman, clearly. But who put Suleiman himself up to it? Not Zuben. He was too craven, too much in Bilal's power. Could it be Abdul Hameed? Ibrahim Ghori? Siya Ji? The names of rivals drifted through his consciousness. There were dozens of nobles in Shahjahanabad who would relish seeing him ruined, who held vendettas against him for past dealings or simply begrudged him his fortune and coveted his palace, his property. Bilal tossed and turned, dismissed all thought on the matter a dozen times, but still, sleep would not come. He found that his eyes had wandered towards the imperial fortress, magnificent on its high bluff, and then down toward the beach beneath. What if Aurangzeb did return? Every day new rumors were whispered in private chambers, pavilions, salons. Bilal Nazeem Shah was not the only man with something to lose if the Emperor suddenly rode through the city gates to rule again with an iron fist. But Bilal stood to lose the most. Below the imperial fortress, the river bank was thronged with servants. Bilal's eyes tracked a young servant girl as she spread a rippling marigold-orange fabric across the sand. Her heavy black braid fell across her shoulder as she knelt. Her brown arms were rounded and he could see the winking gold of thin bangles sliding down her wrists. Even at this distance, he could tell she was lovely. Young. He had remarkably keen vision for a man of his years, and impeccable taste. Yet, on this of all mornings, he had more important things to do than contemplate some Rajput house girl! He let his hand graze the balcony’s cool balustrade, leaning against it to peer more intently at the girl. The direction in which his mind had strayed disturbed him. Seeing those young men last night, with all their nervous energy and foolish pride, young men who schemed and committed rash

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Midnight Flame acts, he could not help but think of Ahmad. They were all of the same age. The girl by the river rose, swaying enticingly as she walked. Ahmad was old enough to be interested in girls like that. And to be interested in who knew what else. For years, Bilal had lived in fear of the day when his son would prove too willful to be contained. He had kept the boy sheltered, kept him away from young people of his own rank, kept him more or less imprisoned, some would say, locked in a palace building with his tutor, Saif Bijapuri, studying such things as befitted a khanaza. Poetry, Islamic law, etiquette, calligraphy. He had controlled his son’s environment down to the smallest detail. Ahmad practiced horsemanship and archery in the courtyard, never on the city outskirts, let alone on the other side of the walls, in the suburbs or the open reaches beyond Shahjahanabad. In fact, Ahmad never left the palace grounds unattended. He did not gamble at the elephant fights or cavort in the Chandni Chowk or boat down the Yamuna with high-spirited youths in the moonlight. He did not even know such activities existed, or if he did, he never spoke of them. He barely spoke at all. Or if he did speak, it was not to his father. And if he voiced discontent to Saif Bijapuri, the man made no report of it. Once a year, Bilal invited Ahmad on a leopard hunt, gathering a hunting party of his most trusted friends and servants. They rode through the Turkmani gate on richly caparisoned elephants to chase their elegant prey in the forest. They brought lavish provisions, sweets and heady liquors, and the hunts involved more hours of encamped revelry than quiet pursuit. Muskets and pistols lay scattered in sticky puddles of mango juice and tents toppled as inebriates stumbled against the thin poles in the night. Never did another young man number among the raucous party. Graybeards every one of them. Except for Ahmad. Ahmad kept himself at a distance from his father during these times, standing at the edge of the firelight, his tall, muscular body half in shadow. Sitting in a knot of hoary old merchants and handsomely attired aristocrats, laughing, passing his jeweled huqqa, Bilal would spare his son a surreptitious glance. The boy’s 61

strong, lithe figure, his attitude of wary grace, the almost visible tension tightening every sinew, the way he hovered just beyond the circle of light, as though ready to flee, ready to pounce—everything about him reminded Bilal of the very leopard they had come to stalk. To kill. For the past five years now, Ahmad had been the one to make that kill, to fire the impossible shot through the dense foliage. He had done it twice with a musket and thrice with an arrow. The boy was quite a hunter. He wrote a flowing script, had the rudiments of botany, alchemy, and zoology, could quote the Quran, compose poetry in Persian, could play the dhulak and the tambur. Recently, his face had lost its softness and the hardened planes of his cheeks and jaws indicated strength of character. His eyes were large, thickly lashed, lotus-shaped and luminous. His mother’s eyes. As much as Bilal wanted to deny it, his son was grown. Every day, when he arrived in the public audience hall, Bilal longed to pass his son by without acknowledging him, without seeing him, without seeing the truth. But every day he swept past and nodded at Ahmad curtly. Ahmad nodded back, his midnight bright eyes burning. He was grown. He was a man. He couldn’t pace the palace grounds forever. Removing him from the society of his age-mates and equals did not guarantee anything. Bilal’s lips twisted into something even uglier. The girl had drifted down to a flat rock and was dipping a finger in an eddy so as to splash a square-bodied girl a few feet down river. Bilal could not distinguish the feminine shrieks from his distant balcony, but he could imagine them clearly enough. If he denied his son normal congress with eligible noble women, princesses, the daughters of wealthy men, the best that Shahjahanabad had to offer, then before long his son’s eye would be caught by someone else. A high-breasted washing-woman, a sloe-eyed daughter of a blacksmith, or, worse, any of the lascivious brats of his innumerable cavalrymen. These liquid-hipped girls seemed to be everywhere, slipping around the gardens and thronging the bazaars that pressed up against the walls of the forecourt. Ahmad must marry. The thought came to Bilal like the first thunderclap of the monsoon. He knew the deluge would follow. 62

Midnight Flame Ideas flooded him, and his fingers tugged his mustache without his noticing the frantic prestidigitations. Yes, Ahmad must marry. The sooner the better. He must marry a highborn girl, a beautiful girl, a girl who would stupefy his senses, enthralling him, drugging him with passion. A girl who could control Ahmad in a way Bilal no longer could. When Ahmad was a boy, books and locks and keys had been enough. But now Ahmad was a man, and Bilal knew that a more subtle slavery was required. The girl would control Ahmad, and Bilal would take on the easier task. He would control the girl. The sun had lifted in the sky. Even filtered through the floral motifs of the marble jali, the light was intense. The waters of the Yamuna glowed like a silver foil. Bilal’s stomach rumbled and he realized he had neglected his breakfast, which was still waiting in his chamber on golden plates. He would need his strength for the upcoming audience. He turned, trading the glare of the sun for the suffocating stillness of his chamber. After he had eaten, Bilal tied his turban, fine white linen glimmering with golden threads, and fastened it with his favorite sarpech, a massive emerald. He tucked a jade-hilted dagger into his emerald green sash. Surveying himself in the mirror, he confirmed what he already knew. Though his thick black locks were glazed with silver and long lines cut his broad forehead, his face was still striking, the hawk nose, cleft chin, and thick black mustache seemingly unaltered by time. His shoulders remained square. He was a man not quite in the peak of life, but far from failing. “This is my time to build,” thought Bilal, staring at his reflection. “This is my time to make my mark on this city. To shape the city.” He took the long route to the public audience hall. Bilal’s palace grounds were impressive, even for a great amir of Shahjahanabad. Verandas with multi-lobed arches were interspersed through a garden cut with marble and jasper waterways, some spanned by little footbridges so that one could cross to the shining pools and marble fountains inlaid with colored stones or floral patterns of green porphyry. Mangos and oranges weighed the branches of the trees so that the branches bowed into fountain-shapes, the leafy cascades mirroring the falling water.

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Gold and green globes rolled under foot. The dew had long since evaporated. Bilal walked, his eyes roving for any sign of neglect. A thirsty rose was enough to draw his ire, and his fleets of gardeners, blacksmiths, stable-hands, diggers, axemen, stone-workers, sweepers, clerks, weavers, potters, dyers, carpenters, and water-carriers were always scurrying to ensure that every object in his purview was flawless, sparkling, and positioned so as to be in harmony with the underlying principles of geometric order. His library, mosque, bathhouse, stables, storerooms, women’s quarters, courtyards, audience halls, and arcades had been built after painstaking consideration. Their layout was perfect. He saw to it they were perfectly maintained. Bilal took a sensual pleasure in the resonances between the natural landscape and his many buildings, the balance he had achieved between open gardens and marble enclosures, spaces and masses, water and light. His palace pleased him. Once he had started to build an even more magnificent palace for his heir, a palace that would be the home and the pride of his family. But then fate had turned against him. He did not like to think of those days twenty-one years ago, the darkest days of his life. His star had been rising. His first palace was complete, his wife Zahara was pregnant and blissful. She would stand in the shade of a cusped arch in an arcade staring out into the garden, watching the branches of the neem trees sway in the wind, a dreamy expression playing over her features. He remembered a cool morning, how he came upon her, how he watched her watch the trees, the feeling of pleasure that surged through him. She had almond blossoms woven through her tresses. Beneath her pearllined brocade bodice her stomach was round, full with life. His life. His son. At that time, his palace just completed, he had already begun hiring architects and builders to construct the next palace, the marvelous, near impossible palace of his dreams, the palace that would surpass even the Emperor's magnificent complex in grandeur and that would be his son's glory and his grandson's glory and so on, into the distant future. He had not imagined he would be able to begin construction so soon after finishing the first palace, but he 64

Midnight Flame was accumulating the capital he needed faster than he could ever have expected through his connection with Inayat Khan, the chief minister of Surat. Inayat Khan was a shrewd, unscrupulous man, involved in illicit deals with the British and the Portuguese traders who flocked to the prosperous port city to buy Indian goods, indigo, camphor, saltpeter, shellac, and of course, cannabis and opium. He helped the foreigners circumvent the Emperor's taxes and charged only a small tax of his own. Bilal had caught wind of these shady transactions when the Emperor asked him to visit Surat to investigate Inayat Khan for corruption. Bilal had traveled west, in a caravan of royal horses and camels, to spy on Inayat Khan and examine his ledgers of accounts, and he had found ample evidence of wrongdoings. But instead of turning Inayat Khan over to the Emperor, Bilal simply demanded his own cut of the action. It was his first taste of the double dealings and power plays that made life so exhilarating for the ambitious nobles who had been taken into the Emperor's confidence. He liked it. He liked toying with Inayat Khan, trapping him and extorting him. The man was a weasel, playing the same game and trying to increase his portion of wealth from the Imperial coffers. Bilal, although new to this game, soon discovered that he played it better. Months later, when the Emperor gave Bilal money for Inayat Khan to appoint 5,000 soldiers to protect Surat and Mughal mercantile interests, Bilal gave Inayat Khan enough money to appoint only 1,000 soldiers. By pocketing the difference, Bilal planned to hire a team of quarrymen to begin digging and transporting jasper from the hills for the channels that were to feed the system of pools in his new palace's gardens. He could not have known the Marathas were about to attack Surat. That their Chief, Shivaji, and his forces would sweep through the poorly defended city, seizing goods and massacring men. Many men. Men whose deaths were on Bilal's head. Not that anyone knew Bilal was to blame. Bilal had let Inayat Khan bear full responsibility for the missing soldiers, and Emperor Aurangzeb directed his wrath at the unfortunate captain.

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But the stars knew it. That same week as the attack, Zahara fell in the zenana courtyard and gave birth prematurely to twin boys. Boys that the astrologer warned him represented not his salvation, not his immortality, but his destruction. For the past twenty-one years, Bilal had kept Ahmad close to him, watched him grow, waited for him to show by some word or deed that he was destiny's weapon. Waited to see how the fatal blow would fall. But maybe that blow would never come. Maybe the prophecy had already been fulfilled. His sons had already destroyed his life. They had killed his wife. They had killed his hope. In his grief and rage, he had abandoned his greatest project, the palace that was to have rivaled the palaces of heaven, those palaces never paralleled on earth, built on saffron soil of gold and silver bricks, mortared with musk, studded with pearls. He had failed himself, his talent, his dreams. He could no longer live with this sense of failure. He could no longer allow fear to check his ambition. He was finished with this half-life. He would no longer move forward while looking backward over his shoulder. Instead, he would hurl himself headlong into the future. He would begin again to build a palace, the palace, the palace he had conjured in his visions, more beautiful than any palace yet built under the sun. His fortune was now great enough that expense proved no obstacle. There was nothing to limit him but the scope of his vision… and the patterns formed by distant stars on that lonely, bloody night. Bilal would fight against the stars. He would fight against fate. Ahmad was just a boy, a mortal man. He would not be able to stamp his feet and cause the earth to quake, cause the palace to topple, the gold to crack and flake from the rooftops. Bilal would take every precaution. He would keep Ahmad away from the new palace, continue to keep him contained and limit his movements. He would pacify him with a beautiful wife and let him live his life within the tiny orbit of his princely chambers. Surely Ahmad could not hurt him more than he had already had. Bilal had suffered enough, paid enough. He needed to make sure that this Suleiman and his followers did not pose a real threat to his income. And soon, the turrets of his 66

Midnight Flame new palace would rise into the clouds, the hanging balconies would froth with lattice-work as intricate as lace, and rose-water would cascade from silver faucets into a hundred pools of glimmering water. Imagining the palace of his dreams, Bilal paused beneath a tree. He felt a moment of peace and almost smiled, head tipped up to drink the shade. “You have finally taken me up on my challenge!” called a man, his deep bass voice resounding from an impressively thick chest. Bilal spun around to see who approached him. The man came toward him on the path from the direction of the forecourt. His turban was no less intricately tied than Bilal’s, but his sarpech was more modest, small and blue, a carved piece of lapis lazuli. Bilal’s lips twitched in a barely suppressed smile. “What challenge, old man?” he called back. “To wrestle me beneath this tamarind tree, and your fortune the wager!” bellowed the man, who was not a day older than Bilal by anyone’s guess. His name was Ghazi Hussain Ali. A former governor of Lahore, and a confidant of Emperor Aurangzeb, he had moved to Shahjahanabad nearly a decade ago, where he enjoyed favor at the Imperial court, although he did not hold an official post. He still maintained a palace in Lahore, although his palace in Shahjahanabad had no equal in splendor, excepting, of course, the Emperor’s fortress and the palace of Bilal himself. Ghazi Hussain Ali and Bilal Nazeem Shah had formed an instant friendship years earlier when their paths first crossed in Aurangzeb’s court. They met behind the silver railing at the Emperor’s Hall of Ordinary Audience, where visitors and great amirs mingled as the Emperor gave audience. As the Emperor appraised the wares of Turkish gold-lace merchants and Iraqi perfumers, Ghazi and Bilal discussed their own appraisals in low tones, discovering they shared the same exacting standards and encyclopedic knowledge of the Empire’s luxuries. They shared many other things as well—vast riches, the favor of the Emperor, fascination with architecture, appreciation and patronage of the arts, and even a wall of their palaces, the grounds of which abutted on the north-south. 67

Their competitiveness with each other was mostly of a joking variety. “My fortune could be the wager of our match,” said Bilal goodnaturedly. “But you would have to sell your palaces and horses and still borrow twenty times your weight in gold to pay me what I’m due should you lose.” “You may be a richer man than I,” agreed Ghazi, falling into step with his friend. “But I have a wife to oil my limbs with attar of roses and I will slip through your grasp like an eel.” “I believe I met the Turk who taught your wife that trick,” said Bilal, stopping to face Ghazi, whose mouth tightened briefly before he chortled, clapping Bilal on the back. “My innocent wife,” sighed Ghazi. “If she were schooled in the tricks of the Turks, I would not have wasted so many jewels on concubines.” His tone turned serious. “But truly, Bilal,” he continued, “you might be better off wrestling an old man than sparring with a half dozen of the youngest and strongest.” Bilal started, surprised that word had gotten out so quickly. He recovered his poise. “They may be young and strong,” he said with a sneer. “However, you know as well as I do, they are not men. They are puppies. Lap-dogs. Silly petted things. They have gotten into mischief and they must be punished. Do not look at me like that. I am not going to put them in a sack and drown them. I am going to slap them on their noses.” The men started walking again, Ghazi shaking his head. “The whole city is talking, Bilal,” he cautioned. “The boys you have rounded up do not come from the most powerful families, but they are highborn. Wealthy. They cannot simply disappear. You are going to have to account for yourself.” “These highborn knaves were destroying my property,” said Bilal smoothly. “I did not seek trouble with them. They came to me of their own accord, to do damage. And now they will leave my palace on my terms.” Ghazi was silent. Then he spoke: “A peculiar thing, this destruction. People are saying the boys boarded one of your barges? They hurled crates of goods into the river?”

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Midnight Flame “They waterlogged more jute than I care to think about,” said Bilal. “I did not sleep last night, and my accountants and I will be up all night tonight. That barge had just arrived from Agra. I was going to have it unloaded for sale in the market this morning.” “Jute, eh?” said Ghazi, and Bilal heard the scepticism in his voice. “And indigo. Camphor. Other goods,” said Bilal, quickly. “Why would a group of noble youths want to throw your jute in the river?” asked Ghazi, fixing Bilal with a penetrating stare. “That is what I want to find out.” Bilal met Ghazi's eyes with bland composure. Ghazi was a shrewd man. Bilal would have to tread warily. He wondered suddenly if the competition with his neighbor cut deeper than he had suspected. If the Emperor confiscated Bilal's property, Ghazi could stand to drastically increase his own holdings, buy his grounds and expand his own palace complex. Bilal hid his dawning suspicion, although he felt the tension between himself and the other man had subtly increased. “The drought has made everyone half-mad,” mused Ghazi to break the silence. “I do not remember hot, parching days quite like this, one after the other. Punishing us. I do not remember gangs of boys attacking the property of their elders. Sometimes, Bilal, I wonder if Shahjahanabad is dying. If the Empire is dying.” He choked back his words, disturbed by his loss of control. “Now you will take me for a sentimental fool,” he said, embarrassed. But Bilal was now looking at the earth, lost in thought. He too was old enough to remember the days when Shahjahanabad was thriving, growing. When every hour seemed to boast some new marvel. As a young boy he would wake up, heart thumping in time with the clamor of hammers and chisels, and run down into the street to see the carts creak past, overburdened with sandstone. The streets smelled of mud and dung and wet thatch as builders and peddlers erected hasty huts between the mansions of great men. Bilal’s father—Abdul Nami Shah—had been one of those great men. An amir under Emperor Shah Jahan, as his father had been an amir under Jahangir, Abdul Nami Shah had followed the Emperor to his new capital, moving his family and servants and 69

soldiers from the modest mansion in Agra. Shahjahanabad was the new center of the Empire, and therefore, the world. The universe. Even in his youth, Bilal marveled at the city. The streets and districts had been constructed, with awesome deliberation, in the shape of a strung bow. The north-south road that connected the Akbarabadi and Kashmiri Gates ran straight like a bow-string. The streets running in a curve from south to east to connect the Turkmani and Ajmiri gates, and streets running from north to east to connect the Mori and Lahori gates made the curve of the bow. The great bazaar, Chandni Chowk, was the arm of the archer. Bilal sometimes imagined himself as the arrow, the golden arrow that the city was about to loose from its great bow, sending him flying across the Empire, across the cosmos, into an infinity he could barely comprehend. Into God. He knew better than to speak this aloud. But he had always felt it, a kind of quivering might, as though the city really were a strung bow. He had always felt that potency. That vitality. Not anymore. When the Emperor departed from the capital years ago, the better part of his court and cavalry, along with a fair part of the capital’s servants, artisans, and nobles, left with him. They dwelled with him now, their red tents glowing in the southern plains of the Deccan. Like dying embers, thought Bilal. The Emperor was fighting to expand the Empire, to increase the glory of Allah, but in moving to the perimeters, he had left the center to collapse. Every man had to struggle to survive on his own terms. “The Empire might die,” said Bilal. “But we don't have to die with it.” “That is a dangerous sentiment,” said Ghazi, but Bilal laughed. “Aurangzeb's ears and eyes are turned away from us,” said Bilal. “That is why the Empire is dying. But paradoxically, it is why we have a future.” He broke off, afraid he had revealed too much. Ghazi let another pause stretch between them. “Should not the young have a hand in creating in the future?” he said. “Those coddled pups!” Bilal fell silent when he saw Ghazi’s expression. 70

Midnight Flame “I did not mean those young nobles you have locked in the library,” said Ghazi. “They are not locked in the library,” said Bilal mechanically. Ghazi held his gaze. “I mean your son. I mean Ahmad.” Ghazi had never dared to discuss Ahmad with Bilal before. The men stopped walking, and for a long moment, they did not move, each aware that a line had been crossed. Finally, Bilal moistened his lips. “Ghazi,” he whispered. “Twenty one years ago, I was told that my very life meant my doom. That my heir—my immortality—represented my destruction. Until you have endured the burden of such a prophecy, you would do better not to question me.” Now in danger of being late to the diwan, Bilal turned abruptly from his friend. He had thought too much about Ahmad for one day already. The subject brought him no peace. “Locked in the library,” he muttered to himself as he hurried toward the audience hall. As if he would trust those vandals amongst his books! So the whole city was talking about it? Well, if Ghazi Hussain Ali wanted to let his great ears flap in the middle of Chandni Chowk like an old woman, that was not Bilal’s concern. Drunken boys had cost him a few dinars in jute and indigo. A prank. He would disseminate this version of events. If any officials showed up to question his methods or his right to discipline, he would show them some broken crates emptied of their goods, and some sodden rope. By the time they asked to inspect the barge, the rest of the crates would be gone, taken in wagons to Paharganj. And if they asked to see the boys, well, he would produce them. It was doubtful they would start flashing their snake emblems and confessing their true purpose to officials. However, with a little pressure, Bilal was certain they would start confessing their true purpose to him. Bilal entered the hall. His household staff was already assembled, in the forefront, his mir saman, treasurer, accountants, and darogah. Ahmad was there, as well, sitting on the peacock-blue cotton floor covering in tight golden trousers and a golden coat. His skin was a duskier gold, gleaming in the heat. He fixed his father with his large black eyes, those eyes that were as beautiful as a 71

woman’s but filled with something darker than Bilal had ever read in a woman’s eyes. He nodded at his son as he passed him to take his seat on the cushioned bench at the back of the hall. Ahmad nodded back, the slightest possible nod, his sensual mouth set in a firm line, his face impossible to read. Bilal had feared a horde of clerks and imperial emissaries, milling about the hall with long scrolls of complaints and demands. But as he settled on the sumptuous brocade cushion, he saw that the hall was filled mostly with familiar faces. An imperial administrator held a letter from the Emperor containing a request for horsemen and camels. Bilal saw the administrator peering at Ahmad. Ahmad was a curiosity for visitors. Innumerable stories circulated about Ahmad in Shahjahanabad, the most of them false. That Ahmad was a half-wit was a tale that enjoyed popularity in the imperial fortress. Bilal wondered if the administrator was disappointed that Ahmad was not raving, drooling, clawing at his own skin. He looked disappointed. Bilal began to relax. If the boys had been put up to their little night raid by one of his rivals, would not that rival have contacted officers in the palace complex by now and sent them to harass him for information about the whereabouts of the young men? Not unless this rival had firm proof that the barge contained illicit cargo. Otherwise it would be unwise to connect oneself with petty acts of vandalism. And what firm proof could he have? None, or he would not have sent the boys to begin with. In their excitement, their eagerness to ransack and destroy, the boys had not opened any of the crates. Even when he released them, they would not be able to confirm or deny his claim that the crates contained jute. Foolish boys. Bilal's lips twitched in a smile. He knew already they would never make a public stand against him. Whatever rival might be paying them, he could not be as powerful or as feared as Bilal Nazeem Shah. He would let the boys go tonight. The memory of twenty-four hours locked in a stable would give them pause before they troubled him again. For good measure, he would threaten their fathers.

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Midnight Flame Suleiman, on the other hand…. Ah, that boy possessed a rare spirit. He didn't seem as careless, as likely to be motivated by greed or boredom, driven by immature lust for adventure. Bilal doubted he could bribe or threaten him into silence if he truly knew as much as he insinuated. Not if staying silent ran contrary to his purpose. What exactly did Suleiman know? Zuben was sworn to secrecy, was bound to secrecy by his own self-interest, but he might have let something slip to his son. Or Suleiman might have poked his nose where it did not belong. Bilal rubbed his eyebrow, pretending to listen to the carefully worded requests of his servants while his thoughts followed dark channels. He would have to deal with Suleiman separately. Suddenly he noticed that several graybeards had gathered at the gateway to the hall. Himmat Yar, Rawat Mal Jhala, and Hafiz Quli— great amirs who often passed the evening with Bilal, playing chess and ganfila, philosophizing about the ancient world, and making all kinds of contradictory claims about the future. “I will hear from you tomorrow,” said Bilal, cutting off the overseer of his kitchen with a wave of his hand. Then he enlarged his gesture of dismissal to include his servants and ministers. Ahmad rose swiftly, taking no pains to disguise his eagerness to leave the hall. He towered above the other men. He was at least a hand taller than his father. Bilal had realized this the last time they stood face to face. It was the night of the full moon. Both father and son had left their beds to wander the orchard, which sloped down to the Yamuna. Bilal could not forget the shock of suddenly seeing a man before him in the moonlight, a golden man whose radiance was only accentuated by the blanching light of the moon, the moon that seemed to suck the color from everything but him. It took Bilal a moment to recognize the man as his son. He seemed so much a part of the scene—the trees heavy with fruit, the river sliding by, the sharp smell of citrus mingled with the sweetness of night-blooming jasmine, and beneath, the warmer, more fetid smell of the river and the smell of the dew-soaked earth. Bilal, though a believer all his life, had briefly imagined the vision was a god of the Hindu pantheon, something beautiful and menacing, come to reclaim the 73

land from its Mughal lords. The eyes gave his son away, though, as soon as Bilal’s surprise had passed. Black, curving eyes. Depthless eyes. Zahara’s eyes. Ahmad had passed his father without speaking, and Bilal had lifted his head, trying to glimpse Zahara in those eyes. He had needed to lift his head, to look up so as to catch his son’s glance. But Ahmad’s eyes were focused elsewhere, on the tree tops, on the moon itself. As Ahmad stalked from the hall, the three aging amirs looked after him speculatively before crossing the bright cloth spread across the marble floor and joining Bilal on the cushioned bench. Bilal opened a tobacco box inlaid with rosettes of mother-of-pearl, passing the huqqa to Hafiz Quli, who smiled at the honor. “Are you collecting young men in addition to huqqas?” asked Hafiz Quli mildly. “I hear you have several stashed somewhere in your mansion.” “What do you plan to do with them?” broke in Himmat Yar excitedly. “It is incredible, unbelievable. Walid Shah’s son. And Jafar Shah’s son! And who else, Bilal? Who else did your guards round up? Shocking, shocking,” Himmat Yar shook his head. “In our day, we stole a neighbor’s horse from the stable for a midnight race. That was the worst of it, isn’t it so, Hafiz? We stole a neighbor’s parrot and made a gift to a sweetheart. We cut the roses in the neighbor’s house garden and made a gift to a sweetheart. We even stole the neighbor’s sweetheart on occasion, isn’t it so, Hafiz? Took her into the mountains on the back of a quick horse, another man’s horse, another man’s sweetheart, for joy in the mountains, on a wild night before the rains. Those were the days, Hafiz! Those were the days, Bilal! I have poems that I carry about those days.” He patted his coat. “I can read you these poems, poems about the nights in the mountains. Other men hunted lions, hunted tigers in the mountains, but I was content to sit with another man’s sweetheart, to feed almonds to another man’s sweetheart. Yes,” sighed Himmat Yar. “Now the young men do not know what is the right way to behave, what is a fit subject for a poem—theft and love, the mountains, beautiful women, the moon, the night—and what is pure infamy, what is very bad, too bad for a good verse. Ah, Bilal,” 74

Midnight Flame sighed Himmat Yar, “the young destroy everything, not only your cargo. They destroy the good, don’t they, Hafiz? They destroy the right and true path and they wander lost in the wilderness and the old must follow them and carry them back to the light, or what will become of mankind? Mankind will return to the wilderness, like the beasts.” Himmat Yar took the huqqa dreamily. Hafiz, rolling his eyes at Himmat Yar, whose attention was now occupied by the huqqa, took the opportunity to break in. “Have you accounted for your losses?” “Not yet,” Bilal shook his head. “But they weren't significant. They spoiled a few crates of jute. Nothing more.” “You cannot keep them locked up,” continued Hafiz Quli. “The Emperor's officials, or their own fathers….” “Look around,” said Bilal, indicating the empty hall. “The officials and the fathers do not seem terribly concerned. You three and Ghazi Khan seem to be the concerned parties in this affair.” “Because we are your friends, Bilal,” said Rawat Mal Jhal. His gentle style of speech often dwelled on the subjects of loyalty and friendship. “Clearly you cannot permit vandalism, but if you do not release these boys, the city will turn against you. Imperial officials may yet hear of it, and it may displease the governor.” Bilal exhaled a long plume of apple-flavored smoke. “Do not worry, my friends,” he said. “I will release the boys before the day is out.” He fell silent. Could even one of these graybeards, these friends, be working against him? All three were forward in their condemnation of the Emperor's strict regulations. Himmat Yar in particular, with his love of the Sufi poets, resented the censure of mystic literature and grumbled about Aurangzeb's assault on the arts. They smoked tobacco and Himmat Yar did not hesitate to mention his love for bhang, which he most enjoyed made according to his father's ancient recipe—cannabis mixed with black pepper, pumpkin seeds, and ground almonds, dissolved in milk and flavored with cloves. However, Bilal understood how the world worked. Just because a man disagreed with the Emperor's rules, just because a man did not follow the rules himself, did not mean he would fail to turn in another man for violating those rules if he thought he could spin the 75

situation in his favor. Bilal rubbed again at his eyebrow, hardly noticing when the huqqa was passed to him. “Plotting, Bilal?” asked Hafiz, who knew the expression on Bilal’s face well. Bilal’s lips curved beneath his mustache in a smile very similar to his sneer. “Me?” he said innocently. He glanced at Himmat Yar. “I am merely trying to summon some lines of Persian poetry.” Himmat Yar brightened. “Ahh,” he said. “And what poetry are you trying to summon that evades your call? Dear friends, even poetry has wandered into the wilderness. Isn’t it so, Hafiz? Even poetry….” Listening to Himmat Yar's prattle, Bilal felt overwhelmed by the desire to act. He needed to make sure his barge was properly unloaded. He needed to see about the boys in the stable. He needed to solidify his course of action with the other boy, the boy who lay even now somewhere beneath his feet. He stood abruptly and Himmat Yar looked up at him, still talking. “I need to send for my head cook,” muttered Bilal, “I forgot to tell him something.” “I will keep your huqqa burning,” said Himmat Yar solemnly. Hafiz laughed. “You are not such a fool as they say, isn’t it so Himmat Yar?” Himmat Yar ducked as Hafiz attempted to grab the huqqa. He inhaled the smoke contentedly and waved to Bilal, now walking quickly from the hall. Bilal made directly for the stables, keeping close to the edge of the path so the branches of the mango trees shaded him from the sun. Outside the stable, squatting in the dubious shade of the stable gate, was the captain of the guard, Madsud Yar. He let the cheroot fall from his lips, grinding it beneath his foot as he snapped to attention. The scar that puckered his cheek and dipped into the ravaged crater left by his missing eye had reddened with the heat. “How are my high-spirited young friends?” said Bilal. He stepped into the shade of the gate. Madsud Yar followed. “Their spirits seem to have fallen.”

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Midnight Flame The stables smelled sweet with dried grasses and the candied grain the stable head fed to expectant mares by the handful, but the heat was even more suffocating. Bilal imagined the boys sprawled on the dirt in a sweating pile. The thought pleased him. “And Suleiman?” asked Bilal. Madsud Yar shrugged. “The air was cooler down there, but the slime on the walls seemed to displease him.” “I am sure he cannot see the slime in the dark,” said Bilal. “You did not leave him with a torch?” “I left him with nothing,” said Madsud Yar. “I took away his dagger, his sash, and his turban.” “You sent his horse back to his father's haveli with my note?” Madsud Yar inclined his head by way of affirmation. Bilal looked at the ravaged face before him with something like affection. “Wait until sundown, then open up the stables and send the boys home. Not Suleiman. Leave him underground. You can bring him a little cold rice and water if you are feeling generous.” “I do not like to walk up and down stairs,” said Madsud Yar. Bilal tried to detect a humorous glimmer in his eye and failed. “Very well then. You can throw him scraps from the top of the stairs as though you were feeding a dog. Or you can leave him to his hunger. Maybe he will catch a rat. He will not die of starvation before tomorrow.” Bilal wondered if Madsud Yar was thinking of the other prisoners he'd locked in that room long ago. The impertinence of the idea irritated him and he looked away before he showed signs of this annoyance. After all, Madsud Yar himself had not given the slightest indication by word, look, or deed that he had any memory of that underground chamber and its woeful inhabitants. He was discretion itself. His ruined face always twisted in the same expression. His good eye always flat, the ball stained with the same yellow that coated his teeth. As Bilal glanced over Madsud Yar's shoulder, he caught sight of Ahmad. The young man was standing to the left of the stable gate, contemplating the purple bougainvillea, the blossoms glowing an other-worldly violet in the sunshine. Had he been listening? Why was he coming to the stables? 77

“A hot day for horsemanship,” observed Bilal, taking a few paces forward to meet his son. Ahmad slowly turned his gaze on his father. “I thought I would water my stallion at the Yamuna. Let him eat some green apples in the orchard.” His voice was deep and oddly flat. His black eyes were like the glossy flanks of a stallion. A ripple of light played on them. Bilal felt the familiar coldness enter his blood as he looked at his son. “I am not scared of you,” said Bilal, and a shadow passed across Ahmad’s face. “What was that, my father?” asked Ahmad. and Bilal chuckled, slapping Ahmad’s strong shoulder, which did not give beneath his father’s hand. “The mares are due,” said Bilal. “I said, ‘The mares are due’. They are foaling. Do not bother with the stable today. They are off limits to everyone but the stable hands.” He thought of Ahmad by the Yamuna and the pretty servant girls down the river. “Do not go to the river either,” Bilal said. “The flies are thick. I would like for you to spend the day in the library reciting poetry. The youth are the death of poetry, I hear. Walk with me to the library, and then I will send for Saif Bijapuri.” Ahmad fell into step with him silently. Bilal had the uncomfortable sense that his son was trembling with some emotion barely constrained. Or maybe it was simply the effort of matching his father’s slow pace with his long legs. Yes, I need a new strategy with the boy, thought Bilal. Perhaps the trouble with the young men was actually a blessing, a reminder to deal with his own son before it was too late. A woman, he thought. The right woman. It should be easy enough. No man was immune to the will of a beautiful woman. Not even this strange son of his, this almost frighteningly powerful young man. Would the omens that surrounded his son scare off most women? Maybe so. But the enticements of Bilal’s wealth would lure more than a few. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully as he led his son into the cool marble interior of the library.

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Chapter Four Shazia slipped out onto the street, head bowed. Soldiers, merchants, peddlers, and servants thronged the wide, dusty avenue. The dirt was reddened here and there with betel juice. A fruit vendor swatted with his hands and a swarm of flies rose from a mound of apple cores and plum pits. Shazia ducked down even farther, shielding her face from the buzzing black mass. Smells clustered thickly in the midday heat—horses, rotting fruit, fried sweets, flowers. Shazia’s head whirled. How strange that just outside the haveli gates, there was a different world! A dangerous and exciting world that bombarded her with sights and sounds and scents so rich they overwhelmed her senses, left her dizzy and nearly sickened. Part of her wanted to hover in the street, to buy a hibiscus flower from the girl sitting cross-legged in the shade of a low, blue awning and a meeta pan from the grinning man with the face full of moles. But there was no time. She needed to find her carriage quickly. Her father’s friends were always coming and going, carrying stoppered bottles of date wine and pearl boxes of hashish for an hour’s mellow entertainment. She shuddered to think what might happen were she recognized. It was unseemly, unthinkable, for a young noblewoman to throw off her purdah and go boldly into the city. Shazia smiled wryly to herself. Of course, doing the unseemly, the unthinkable, was nothing new to her. She had been chased through the gardens by her aunties and zenana attendants on countless occasions. According to them, she was always committing unseemly, unthinkable acts. Dressing up in her brother’s clothes and parading into the public audience hall. Sneaking into the stables and climbing onto the wildest colt, the very colt that had broken his trainer’s jaw with a well-aimed kick the day before. She remembered the first time she shocked and

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displeased the women of the haveli, years and years ago, shortly after she moved to Shahjahanabad. A rabid dog had found its way into the house garden, swaying on its stick-thin legs, red tongue dripping foam through yellowed fangs. Men and women alike scattered before it, leaving a plump infant, the youngest son of her father’s favorite concubine, giggling in a thicket, pounding berries into black paste with a large walnut, oblivious to the danger. Shazia, never taking her eyes from the dog, had crept towards the fat, happy child and grabbed his sticky hand just as the dog lurched against the hedge, disoriented and snarling. Shazia pushed the child behind her and snatched up a thick branch, shoving it between the dog’s jaws as it coiled its body for a lunge. The force of the impact sent her sprawling backward, and for a moment, the dog’s red eyes and dripping mouth filled the sky above her. But just as quickly the dog was driven back with blows as soldiers came running to Shazia’s aid. She did not see them dispatch the beast. By then, she had been swept up, half-dragged, half-carried from the garden by women whose voices were by turns admiring and admonishing, caressing and scolding. “Foolish, brave little angel,” one of the women was murmuring. “Abeer will be so humbled, so grateful,” sighed another. “Hah!” snorted a third. “The concubine grateful to the wife’s daughter? She would be grateful if the dog’s jaws had closed on her pretty neck.” “Your mouth is as full of poison as that creature’s,” gasped the first. “Begum Mumtaz, at least, will not be grateful to her daughter today,” chimed in the third. “Yes, what kind of daughter is this? Unnatural girl.” Shazia listened to their gossip as though in a dream. With the danger passed, her body thrilled with fear and she could almost taste the sour foam that had slid between the dog’s yellow fangs, along the mottled black gums. The wrinkled white silk of her dupatta showed the traces of it. Shazia knew she had behaved rashly. But in her boldness, she had protected the child! She should not be punished for following her instincts. But she was. Not only in

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Midnight Flame that one instance. Over and again. And still, she could not learn her lesson. Still she failed to control herself. Now in the street, she reveled in the feel of the light cloth against her skin. How she hated the scratchy brocades suited to noblewomen. She loathed the stiff weight of gem-encrusted silks. She yelped if anyone but Shakuntala oiled and braided her curls. The other maids braided so tightly they made Shazia's scalp ache. She always imagined the large sapphires in her earrings were pulling her earlobes down to her shoulders. She used to be able to talk to Suleiman about her irritation with ornate robes, her schemes to hide from her mother in the stables. It was strange, but now that Suleiman was lost to her, locked up for some unknown reason, she kept thinking about how he had already been gone. Whenever she imagined freeing him, she imagined freeing the Suleiman of days long past, the boy with the wild grin, ready to take her hand, to lead her into new worlds of imagination and adventure. But that was not the way it was. That was not who he was, not anymore. For a moment, she imagined winning Suleiman’s release from Bilal Nazeem Shah. She saw the whole scene. A heavy gate swung open and Suleiman stumbled through, kneed roughly in the back by the guards who marched behind him. She ran to where he had fallen in the dust and helped him rise to his feet, beaming at him through her tears. “My brother,” she murmured, weeping. “You have returned to us.” “Shazia?” he asked, incredulous, taking in her peasant disguise, pushing her away. “What are you doing here? In that outrageous costume? Return to the zenana at once or I’ll tell Mother to beat you.” “But I saved you!” she cried. “I am the only one who risked coming to this palace to face Bilal Nazeem Shah and beg for your pardon!” “Why do you always tell such lies?” asked Suleiman sadly. “You know you had nothing to do with my release. I am free due to my own cunning and bravery along with the help of my cunning and

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brave friend. Go back to the zenana, Shazia. I will not tell you again.” Suddenly the masked stranger—Gibran—was there, clasping hands with Suleiman who embraced him warmly in return. “See?” said Suleiman. “As I said, you had nothing to do with this. Go back to your embroidery, silly girl.” Shazia’s chest heaved, her lungs tight. She was not any good at embroidery! She was not meant to wander gracefully around in the zenana. No matter how slowly and gracefully she tried to walk, her stride was too long and too free. Her voice too loud. Her gaze too bold. She saw her failings reflected in her mother’s disapproving eyes, in her father’s pinched nostrils, in Shakuntala’s loving admonishments, and in Suleiman’s impatient scorn. It was not just what she did. It was everything about her. Her hair was a dark mass of impenetrable tangles, curling vines. “Like a grape bower,” Suleiman had once said to her, pulling roughly on a wild tendril. Her features were large and coarse. Her ankles were thick. She was hopeless! Nothing like the willowy beauties with the delicate arched eyebrows and tiny sloping noses and luminous fair skin with the loops of glossy black hair lying flat against their temples. She loved to run wildly through the garden, hair streaming, feet bare. She loved to feel the dewy clover stroking her toes. She could run tirelessly, run forever through the violets and narcissi, through the shadowy cypress groves and through the wide, sun-dazzled avenues of plane trees. She loved to feel her heart pounding in her wrists, in her throat. She could hear her blood singing through her veins. She was alive in those moments. Finally, she would collapse in the herbs by the water-chutes. The musky fragrance of myrrh and the sharp scents of the lemon grass would rise around her and she would cross her hands on her breast, letting them rise and fall. I have a body, she would marvel, a body like a deer has a body, like a cat has a body, a warm, strong, lithe body, though they make me cover it in yards of cloth and weigh it down with precious stones. They want women to be like buildings, like palaces, glittering with jewels, immobile. But we are not palaces! We are not tombs! We are not marble and gold! We are warm, quick, beautiful 82

Midnight Flame beings! Our souls are nourished by our red blood. Part angel, part animal. And she felt defiant, sacrilegious and a little frightened as she lay there with her pounding heart, her quivering breast, the salt sweat on her tumbled limbs and her hair sticking to her shoulders, strands in her mouth, her whole body shuddering and overflowing with life. It was her secret, this body. She knew it was not proper to speak of the sensations that poured through her. She felt sometimes as though the curves of her calves and thighs, the tautness of her breasts and buttocks, every contour of her body, even the muscles in her hands and throat, were filled with a force no one but her could understand. A kind of magic fire. She wondered if the masked man, Gibran, had ever felt those sensations, had ever laid his hands on his chest and felt the force of his heart, felt the heat of his heart, as though he were made simultaneously of flesh and fire. Something about the black flames in his eyes…. Shazia snapped out of her reverie, rebuking herself as she caught sight of six of her father’s horses pulling a small carriage. The coachman did not so much as blink as Shazia clambered into the carriage, although the sight must have been an odd one—a girl dressed in simple cotton garments climbing alone into a lavish carriage! Shazia immediately closed the bamboo screens so no one could see inside. Shakuntala was already nestled in a silken seat and she squeezed Shazia’s hand silently. Riding in the carriage, Shazia was struck by the tenuousness of her plan. How was she going to find Ahmad? What would she say to him? What does one say to an ill-fated prince? Maybe events had proved that she and Suleiman were also born under an unlucky star? Maybe she could appeal to Ahmad, as one unlucky soul to another? In spite of herself, she wondered what he would be like, this captive prince. Pasty and weak no doubt, from years of inactivity. Did Bilal Nazeem Shah keep him in a dungeon? She had always imagined that he did. There seemed to be no limits to the cruelty of a man who would leave his wife and infants to die. 83

Was Suleiman also in a dungeon? Worry knit a line between her brows and Shazia sat back in the carriage, peeking through the blinds as the teeming city flew past. She could see flashes of color— pedestrians, carriages, horses, stalls filled with fruits and flowers, brick shacks, and the glint of the wide canal always flowing on the left. The carriage ride was long and Shazia’s mind roiled with images. Suleiman in chains, in a dank hole. Suleiman with spiders crawling across his twitching cheek. Suleiman tied to a pillar while Bilal Nazeem Shah’s soldiers gathered around with whips. Gibran, still masked, tied to a pillar. The soldiers stripping him to the waist. Baring his broad, muscled back. The black whips coiling, slithering around and around, snapping forward, the tongues of leather bringing bright blood to the surface of his golden skin. “Stop!” Shazia yelled, leaping forward in her seat as her fantasies grew darker. The coachman pulled abruptly on the reins and the horses obediently came to a halt. Shazia could see enough through the blinds to recognize the Emperor’s palace above on the bluff. The gates to Bilal Nazeem Shah’s palace were a short distance to the south. She smoothed her dupatta, covering her embarrassment with a regal nod the coachman could not see. She didn’t glance at Shakuntala as she readied herself. A sympathetic look from those kindly eyes would make her disintegrate, lose her nerve, cling to Shakuntala’s hand. She had to remain firm. “Thank you,” she called to coachman as she stepped from the coach. “This will do nicely. Wait in the shade.” And with that, she made her way on foot to the gates of the palace. Once inside the forecourt, she looked around, hesitating. Bilal Nazeem Shah’s purah was like a small city, larger by far than that of Shazia’s father. The houses of his laborers, servants, soldiers, and craftsmen clustered to the left, along the street-facing wall. She could see that the layout of the houses was not as haphazard as she had thought at first glance. A maze of alleys connected the various households and offered the artisans shade as they worked on embroideries and metalwork outside their workshops. She was drawn to the shadowy geometry of the small buildings, but turned

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Midnight Flame away before she had walked a few paces. Ahmad would not be whiling away the afternoon with his father’s laborers and followers. She drifted through the forecourt, passing through arcade after arcade. She hesitated in front of a marble palace, its domes supported by ornately carved porticoes. A servant brushed by her carrying a covered platter on one upraised palm. His other hand skimmed across her hip and Shazia bristled, meeting the man’s impudent gaze as he turned his head to leer at her. She opened her mouth to upbraid him, then, abruptly, she remembered her disguise. So this is what it is like to walk through the world as a woman of low birth, she thought, forcing her lips into a demure smile and dropping her eyes. Without the protection of her purdah and all the signs of her rank and power, far from her servants and the high walls of the zenana, she felt vulnerable. Naked. Alone with Shakuntala in her private chambers, she imagined herself invincible, but here in Bilal Nazeem Shah’s opulent palace, exposed to the light of the day, surrounded by men who were not obligated to respect her, her breath grew shallow and her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She had to steady herself against a pillar as the servant walked on with his platter. Other servants were streaming through the arcades, along with noblemen, men with intricately tied turbans anchored with enormous jeweled pins and colorful sashes, men who eyed her with the same unabashed curiosity, although their interrogative smiles had the added quality of proprietary interest. As though they could summon her to them with a snap of the fingers. As though she were theirs to command, subject to their every whim. Shazia sagged against the pillar, her knees weak. The smooth, cool solidity of the marble was the only thing holding her up. The only stable object in the seas of menace all around her. She focused on Suleiman. He needed her to be brave. To be the courageous, incorrigible sister who infuriated him with her audacity, her mischievous daring. So what if she was unprotected by purdah? By her privilege? She had herself. and that was enough.

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Shazia set her jaw. She pulled herself away from the pillar and walked with flowing strides. She felt better immediately, her body coming to life, her legs strong and sure beneath her. A splendidly dressed man, Turkish by the cut of his clothing and his tawny skin, held out a hand to detain her, but she pretended not to see him. She had to follow the servant with the platter! He was doubtless taking treats to some pavilion in the garden where a member of the household reclined on silken balusters, taking his rest from the hot sun. Bilal Nazeem Shah? Ahmad? Shazia followed the servant through a gateway in a high stone wall. She could not believe her eyes and stopped dead in her tracks on the path of red sandstone. The garden she beheld was more beautiful than anything she could ever have dreamed possible. Pavilions were placed at regular intervals, spaced with fountains, flowerbeds, fruit trees, and sparkling canals of turquoise water. The ground sloped gently down toward the river, terraced with grape arbors, budding hedges, and yet more profusely blooming flowers. Shazia lost sight of the servant but scarcely noticed. She drifted through a lane of apricot trees. A tiny grotto stocked with gold and silver fish made her laugh with delight. Almost skipping, she ran lightly along the path, weaving through the fruit trees, discovering lotus-shaped pools and star-shaped beds of green and silver herbs. Bilal Nazeem Shah lived in this paradise? How could it be? What evil could lurk here? As Shazia glimpsed marvel after marvel, she began to feel faint. Everything was here… celestial… causing an ache to form in her chest. Her lungs could barely handle such sweet exhalations! Citrus wafted on the breeze, and the spicier scent of cypress, and the earthier scent of the fruiting nut trees, and the high, wild fragrance of yellow jasmine and hibiscus. It was too much! It tantalized. Inspired such visions…. She imagined the exhilaration she would feel if she too could create magnificent patterns of flowerbeds and fountains! She would plant green basil and red roses. She would install eighty-one fountains, water spilling into silver basins, and she would plant pomegranate trees alternating with guava trees. She would build an aviary in the center of the center garden, filled with parrots for 86

Midnight Flame Shakuntala, parrots of all sizes and hues. She would let peacocks and nightingales roam the orchards. She would edge the library with stands of black and red sugarcane so she could emerge from an afternoon of reading and nibble slices of cane until the sweet, cool juices flooded her mouth. Of course, she would plant a rose garden! Perhaps two, or three, interlocked circles of rose beds. An artificial lake with a baradari. The pursuit of beauty would be endless! Shazia felt a stirring of discomfort as she realized how easily she had slipped into avarice, into what must be Bilal Nazeem Shah’s state of mind. But she couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stop. Wandering on, she admired the harmony of the geometric forms, the interplay of flowing water with the sun’s rays. Ahead was another gate in the wall, and she passed through into yet another walled garden, then another. The gardens followed the formula fundamental for all Mughal gardens—square grounds bounded by stone walls, wells at the corners, narrow watercourses dividing the space into four with footpaths alongside the channels, a large watertank of dressed stone in the center. But the intricate marble work on the domed pavilions, the exotic blossoms, some Shazia couldn’t even identify, and the breathtaking patterning of colors, set the gardens apart. Were those pistachio trees? Shazia marveled as the wind rustled the greenery. Bilal Nazeem Shah clearly had a gift for architecture and for landscaping. Even the gardens designed by Shah Jahan’s daughter, the Princess Jahanara, with their moonlit pools, did not rival these gardens and buildings in grace and artfulness. Shazia thought of her own palace… the lotuses turning brown at the edges as the water level fell in the central pool. Why didn’t her father care about beauty, about harmony? Why didn’t he care about her? Shazia heard distant strains of music, probably from one of the pavilions down the slope, in the meadows and orchards nearer the river. The gardens along the Yamuna were larger, grander. Shahjahanabad’s elite threw parties in those gardens, parties where music and dancing lasted long into the night. There were animal fights as well. Fortunes were made… or lost… depending on the swipe of a lion’s paw, the angle of an elephant’s tusk. She had heard 87

Suleiman describing the fights to Shakuntala in detail, trying to elicit a horrified reaction. Shakuntala always squealed and buried her face in her hands, but Shazia hovered on the periphery, maintaining a nonchalant expression, eyebrow raised stubbornly, no matter how far her stomach dropped. The walled garden she had entered, where she now walked, was never opened for public spectacles. Shazia knew this instinctively. For one, it was in the center of the palace grounds and she could see the high, severe wall of the zenana. This was the house garden, the private grounds where the women of the family could wander without fear of intruders. And there was something else. Something different about this garden. The fruit trees were smaller, dwarfs varieties, all delicately pruned. Humble marigolds, yellow, red, and gold, filled octagonal beds. Instead of lofty vision, this garden embodied earthy comfort. It did not take her breath away. She felt, on the contrary, that she could breathe. That she could sit here and rest. She sank down for a moment on a curving bench. Bilal Nazeem Shah did not design this, thought Shazia. It was too simple. Modest. The flowerbeds were rich in hue but did not boast the profusion of exotic varieties she had come to expect. Marigolds. All of them. Shazia thought of the sad story of Ahmad’s birth. She thought of Bilal Nazeem Shah’s wife. She loved marigolds, thought Shazia. She felt as though a hand were clawing at her throat and she drew a shuddering breath. She had not expected to experience this sadness, but thinking about that unknown woman and her horrible fate… knowing that she loved marigolds… that she had walked these very paths, sat on this very bench, contemplating their vivid blooms…. The grief that suddenly constricted Shazia’s lungs felt personal. What had she been like, this woman? Married to a cruel man, living behind walls. That was a woman’s lot. But a woman was supposed to find joy, find love and hope, in her children. What had this woman felt when she learned that her sons were doomed? A grief too great to endure. That much of the story was known to everybody. But had there been a moment when she had thought she

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Midnight Flame could fight? When she had imagined she could bear it, that she could live? The sun was so strong that Shazia’s vision was dazzled and even her light cloth attire seemed too much. She felt like she was dissolving into the sun’s rays. But not giving up! She wanted cry aloud. Becoming the sun’s potency! Becoming this golden light! Radiant and powerful! She wanted to fight for everyone, for all the women who could not… whose bodies were not their own, whose babies were not their own. She wanted to scream! What was wrong with her that she should feel so intensely? She half-ran down the path in the opposite direction from the zenana, ducking through a gate and into a courtyard. Where she was no longer alone. A man stood with his back to her. His naked back. The golden muscles rippled as he bent to lift an arrow from the quiver propped against a pillar. For a heated, confused moment, Shazia was transported to her vision while in the carriage—the masked man tied, stripped to the waist, enclosed by enemies. The golden skin of his back ridged with heavy muscles, dark shadows limning their contours. As the man before her moved, the muscles and shadows danced up and down his spine. Two deep shadows at the base of his spine marked the rise of his muscled buttocks, his jamas riding low on his taut, slim waist. As he turned his head and pushed back his raven hair, Shazia caught a glimpse of a hawk-like nose, the thrusting promontory of his cheekbone, the curving line of a sensual mouth, and the dramatic angle of his jaw. The arm he extended was enormous, balled with muscle, golden snakes of veins winding round from wrist to the elbow. In the sun, his skin seemed to gleam. His motions were so fluid he seemed like a river of gold, but his body was so self-contained, so powerful and steady, that he seemed like an ingot, a block of unbreakable metal. Shazia’s breath strangled again in her throat, but now it was not grief that made her shudder. The man notched the arrow on his bow and drew back the bowstring. His body twisted to the side, slabs of muscle lifting along his ribcage. Shazia felt her body tighten, quivering, as he pulled harder and harder on the bowstring, his arm shaking as he held the impossible weight of the massive 89

bow to its absolute limit. Another inch and the string would snap. Shazia would snap. The tension traveled from his clenched thighs and buttocks, through his torqued waist and hips to his powerful chest and through his knotted arm, and out the elbow that pointed in Shazia’s direction, into her body, her being. When he released the arrow, she gasped. Luckily, the rush of the arrow cutting the air and the twang of the string masked her little cry. The man was bending again, drawing another arrow from his quiver. Shazia crouched, getting low so she could peer between his parted legs, trying to see the target at the other end of the courtyard. She heard him breathe out as he drew the bowstring, the curves of his thighs leaping as he clenched his body. Another arrow flew through the air. Suddenly a hand grabbed Shazia’s arm, dragging her forward so that she fell onto her knees. She shrieked in protest, twisting her body and kicking out with her foot, catching her assailant above the knee. She scrambled to her feet, pulse racing. Her knees stung and she registered dimly that Shakuntala’s jamas were dusted with gravel and spotted with her blood. The green dupatta fluttered on the brick paving-stones, as though the parrots were trying to fly away. She pressed a hand to her head, painfully aware of her exposure, the riotous locks barely restrained by their braid, a few tresses loosened from their intricate knots and spilling down her back. She felt her face flame with humiliation. She could not bear to look towards the archer, but she could not help it. Inexorably, she felt her eyes turn in his direction. He had let the bow drop beside him and stood, legs still in that wide stance, facing her full on. The planes of his face were steep and strong. His broad chest moved lightly up and down, the sign of his recent exertions. The sideways view had prepared her for these things. But nothing had prepared her for his eyes. They were enormous, welling pools, fringed with a dark forest of lashes. They seemed to reflect the sun at her, but a darker sun, a sun that did not coax the flowers to life, but rather scorched the earth. Left everything in embers. Like me, thought Shazia, dazedly, not sure anymore what she was thinking, what she was doing. Like me. Embers. Tiny flames

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Midnight Flame fanned by the wind. Ready to explode into flames should he come near… should he kneel beside her… blow with his lips…. But he did not come near. He picked up a square of white cotton and rubbed the sweat from his chest and arms, dropping the cloth casually beside his quiver. He tugged his shirt over his head with an equally casual, careless motion. She could not read the expression in his eyes. They were so black she could scarcely distinguish the pupils from the irises. Could scarcely tell if he was looking at her. He was looking at her. She knew it the way the body knows that fire is hot. Instantly. Instinctively. She knew him. The world is made of fire, of water, of air, of earth. She accepted those elements as natural. She lived amongst them. Each was necessary. Each a part of the magic of creation. This man was like another element. Natural. Necessary. How could she not have sensed that a vital component of the cosmos had been missing? But what is it? She wondered. What is he? Love. She heard the word as though it were whispered deep in the spiral recess of her ear, and she shook her head frantically as though to dislodge it. This is madness, she thought. “Illiteracy is becoming in a buxom young peasant girl,” said a silky voice at her side. “But silence is a luxury afforded only to the great, those of us who have no need to explain ourselves.” Shazia jerked her head. A tall man with an intricately knotted turban pinned with a shockingly large emerald towered over her. The sun made the emerald refract dazzling green rays. Shazia’s mouth dropped open in spite of herself. Gaping up at his jewels, she realized that she looked exactly like the foolish peasant girl he took her for and she snapped her mouth closed angrily before remembering this was the desired impression. I am hardly a master of disguise, she thought, bitterly. In the future, I should rely on cover of dark to enter places I do not belong, instead of trusting my wits and a bolt of cheap fabric. Neither wit nor cheap fabric suits me. “Perhaps I need to state what I mean more plainly,” the man continued in that purring voice. He was fingering his drooping 91

mustache with a ringed finger. No longer young, his shoulders were still square and his frame well-proportioned. Beneath the mustache his lips glistened, a touch too red, too sensual. Greedy. Clearly, though, he was a handsome man. A powerful man. He sighed. “What I mean, my peach, is”—his voice hardened— “explain yourself.” Shazia’s mind raced. She glanced again at the golden archer, who kept his distance, although she could still feel the stroking heat of his gaze. “You have entered my house garden, where the Emperor’s daughter herself would not set foot without an invitation,” continued the man, when it became clear Shazia’s voice was still trapped in her chest. “But maybe someone else has issued you… an invitation? My son, perhaps?” My house garden. My son. So this was Bilal Nazeem Shah. And that—Shazia’s gaze turned, fixed—that was Ahmad. Not a pasty captive after all. She had found the young man who represented her only chance of freeing her brother, but at the same time she had found the man who stood in her way. Only she could make such a mess of things. Only she could end up in an inner garden, bare-headed in front of her enemies! “Maybe you have a defect?” said Bilal Nazeem Shah, thoughtfully. “A cleft palate? Some invisible malformation that prevents the vocalization of words? Do not be ashamed, my peach. If you must grunt by way of affirmation, that is acceptable to me. Now answer my question. Are you here to see my son?” “I do not have to grunt,” said Shazia, her voice steady. “I am a servant in the retinue of a visiting zamindar. The grandeur of your gardens overwhelmed me and I lost my way. For the trespass, I beg your forgiveness.” A strange light appeared in Bilal Nazeem Shah’s face. He looked at Ahmad. “Of course, I should have known that my son would not consort with a speechless imbecile. He is impeccably educated, with cultivated tastes.” Bilal Nazeem Shah stepped back to rake Shazia up and down with his eyes. She flushed, aware of the way her body strained against the sheer cotton. She forced herself to straighten 92

Midnight Flame her shoulders and throw back her head, enduring his examination with a savage pride. “You are a peach indeed,” said Bilal Nazeem Shah, with an intensity that disturbed her. “A country peach. Vivid. Luscious. Nearly bursting.” He approached her again and she fought to keep herself from flinching. She stared up into his handsome face, the cruel features carved with symmetrical lines. He reached out with his ringed fingers and took a heavy strand of her hair, coiling it around his wrist. She caught her breath. She wanted to spit at him, claw at him, but she held herself in check. Did not move. Did not expel the air in her lungs. Bilal Nazeem Shah called over his shoulder. “So Ahmad. You have been making secret journeys into the country at night? To pick peaches? Do I need to set guards outside your door?” He lowered Shazia’s hair to her shoulder, his fingertips brushing her clavicle. His breath smelled smoky and sweet, almost rancid. “Do you even know what to do with your peach?” he asked, eyes holding Shazia’s. “From the way she was looking at you, I could tell you had not satisfied her.” He lowered his voice so that it became a caressing whisper, though he kept his head slightly turned so that the words would carry to his son. “You should not go to the whelp, my peach,” he said, “when you can go to the sire. I will teach you what my son is too green to teach you.” Shazia stiffened with the affront. She could not restrain herself a moment longer. She made to push the man away, but before she could act, Ahmad was there, his body insinuating itself between her and Bilal Nazeem Shah, his hard arm against her chest as he gently pushed her back until several paces separated her from both men. Could he feel her heart beating through her chest? Abruptly he pulled his arm away, and his broad shoulders blocked her view of Bilal Nazeem Shah as father and son stood head to head. Shazia thought she detected a note of fear in Bilal Nazeem Shah’s quiet remark. “I am not taking her from you, my son. You have to start somewhere. Start with this country maiden. By the looks of her, she is sweet.”

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Shazia propelled herself forward, flying at the two men, so that, startled but agile, Ahmad had to catch her fists in his massive palms. He drew them down, his grip paining her. She forgot everything about her plan, her need to ingratiate herself to him. Her fury with both men was too great. “I am no country maiden,” she choked out, shaking with rage. “I am Shazia Wali Dad. My brother is Suleiman Wali Dad, whom you have imprisoned unjustly. I am proud to be his sister. I am proud to be the sister of such a fearless man. I am here to see him and to see that he has not been mistreated. You will bring me to him and then you will release him!” Her green eyes made the emerald in Bilal Nazeem Shah’s turban seem dim. Her lips were parted. Her cheeks flushed. Hair wild. Father and son stared at her mutely. “Interesting,” said Bilal at last. He smiled humorlessly at Shazia. “I would not have seen it. The resemblance. But I hear it now, the similarity in your grating voices. What is unfortunate in your brother is unforgivable in you. You have much to learn about how to ask favors from powerful men.” “I am not asking for a favor,” declared Shazia. She jerked her arms and Ahmad released her. She tried to ignore his proximity. His heat. He smelled salty and sweet, of clean sweat and almonds. She refused to look towards him, glared at Bilal with all the energy she could muster. “I am not asking for a favor,” she repeated. “I am demanding justice.” Bilal laughed. “And you thought your demands would be most effective if you dressed up like a common servant and appealed to my son’s charity? Or were you perhaps prepared to offer him some form of payment for his intercession on Suleiman’s behalf? You speak so highly of justice, but treat your honor so lightly. Perhaps you have wrongly prioritized your virtues?” “How dare you speak to me of virtues!” shouted Shazia. “Where is Suleiman?” “Why don’t you ask my son? In private? That is what you want, isn’t it? I saw it in your face.” Bilal’s hand lifted again to his mustache. He stroked the glossy hairs, lips twisting. 94

Midnight Flame “I want my brother back,” said Shazia. She felt as though she were about to collapse. “Sacrifice is a virtue that women must learn,” said Bilal calmly. “By denying you what you want in this moment, I am helping you along your spiritual path.” He laughed, fingers buried in his mustache. Shazia remained still while she tried to process the affronts to her character. Waves of fury and shame collided in her breast and for the hundredth time in the space of an hour, she felt as though her lungs were filled with lead, the air pushed from her body. She spun around and fled. She did not want to look at Ahmad, to see his angular face and haunted eyes, and to guess what emotion played there. Contempt? Pity? Which would be worse? As she ran, even the glory of her body in motion did not soothe her. She could not outpace the sound of Bilal Nazeem Shah’s laughter, which echoed over and over in her ears.

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Chapter Five Shazia ran breathless from the palace, ducking through the gates and around the high wall where the carriage was waiting. Images of Ahmad played through her head relentlessly – his golden muscles rippling in the sunlight as he artfully pierced each one of his targets, the frightening, impossible depth of his eyes as he approached her, and then his smoldering fury as he confronted his father in her defense. Face flushed and hair tousled, Shazia threw herself into the coach and sank into the silken seat, silently catching her breath. Shakuntala fumbled with her purse, drawing forth a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbing it lightly with jasmine-scented water before pressing it to Shazia’s forehead to blot her perspiration. “What happened?” she asked Shazia finally, inviting the girl to divulge all. Shazia closed her eyes. She shuddered lightly to herself with mingled pleasure and disgust as she thought of the son and then the father. She opened her lids slowly and swept her wide emerald green eyes over Shakuntala’s face. She thought again of her assumptions about Ahmad—weak and pallid, a kind of invalid—and how thoroughly she had been disabused. It was almost embarrassing to have been so wrong. Were all her stories about the world so wrong-headed? The sight of that muscled arm drawing back the bowstring…. She did not realize her lips had curved until Shakuntala seized her arm and shook her. “Tell me!” demanded Shakuntala, laughing, “Did you find Ahmad? Did he tell you about Suleiman?” At the mention of her brother’s name, the smile vanished from Shazia’s lips, her eyes clouded over with a formidable darkness and her mouth became tense. She sat upright and looked away from Shakuntala, at the palace wall beyond, at the shadows that passed over it from the leaning neem trees. 96

Midnight Flame “When Suleiman makes his escape from these walls, the two of us will destroy that monster, that vile, contemptible beast!” The vehemence with which she spoke alarmed Shakuntala. Shazia knew it from the way the girl caught her breath, going rigid on the seat beside her. Shazia shot her a swift, apologetic glance, but she had turned away to busy herself with ordering the contents of the purse, drawing out a flask of lemon water. Shazia peered back at the palace wall, the shifting shadows. Her body felt strange, hot and prickling. She felt as though light fingers were stitching zardosi patterns onto her arms and legs and breasts, curved hooks and needles pulling silver wires through her skin. She hugged herself tightly, shaking her head, trying to banish the sensation. She heard Shakuntal murmuring, “Here, Shehzadi.” The cool rim of a cup pressed her lip and she sipped the lemon water automatically before moving her head away. Shakuntala sat quietly, holding the cup in her lap, and after a moment, Shazia reached out and took it, draining the rest of the water in a gulp. The delicate sharpness of the beverage had a reviving effect. Her mouth felt cleaner, her head clearer. She was ready to speak. “I found out nothing about Suleiman,” she admitted. “Bilal Nazeem Shah’s palace is like something out of a fairy tale. It was as if I had entered my own imagination. The garden scenes in my stories seem to have been set in his very garden! But the images I had of Bilal Nazeem Shah and of Ahmad, the so-called captive prince, they were entirely mistaken. Oh Shakuntala, Bilal Nazeem Shah is a thousand times more detestable than the character I described on those long nights when we would concoct our legends on the balcony. And Ahmad! He is strong and sun-bronzed, hardly the fettered, light-starved, craven prisoner we pictured. He is easily the most magnificent man I have ever laid eyes on. His body seemed to glow in the courtyard and his eyes were deep and black, like… like falling over the edge of the universe. He protected me from Bilal Nazeem Shah’s horrid insinuations.” Shazia spoke faster and faster, aware she was not giving adequate context for any of her statements. Shakuntala was nodding at her sympathetically, but there was no light of comprehension in her eyes. How could Shazia make her 97

understand what had passed between her and the two men? She couldn't quite bring herself to repeat Bilal Nazeem Shah's words, to describe his filthy caress. She fell silent. Shakuntala lifted the handkerchief to her brow once more, idly drawing the soft cloth over the slope of her cheekbones and smoothing back a wayward hair. “I still don’t understand how Suleiman got himself mixed up in… whatever he is mixed up in,” Shakuntala murmured. “Maybe the whole thing is nothing more than a misunderstanding. Maybe Suleiman was encouraged by that Gibran, and who knows who else, to commit some rash act, and Bilal Nazeem Shah was the accidental victim. Or maybe—” “But that strange symbol. The frequent meetings at night with other young men. It doesn't seem like a “rash act” would have necessitated so much preparation,” said Shazia. “So maybe they did plan something, some act against Bilal Nazeem Shah. In retaliation for what?” Shakuntala furrowed her brows, then brightened. “Gambling debts! Maybe Gibran is a gambler! Maybe he lost all his money wagering in Bilal’s tiger fights and then he gathered a group of friends and they decided to—” “This is all useless speculation,” interrupted Shazia. “I think for the time being I am done with story-telling. I want facts.” “Suleiman has been difficult lately,” said Shakuntala, timidly. “He has been fighting with your father. Awful rows. I have heard them when bringing your father his”—she hesitated—“coffee in the private audience hall.” “I doubt that is due to Suleiman being difficult,” replied Shazia stiffly, not noticing Shakuntala’s odd stammer. Shakuntala flushed, trying to find the right way to speak of Zuben without criticizing. “Suleiman has been raising objections to some of your father’s priorities,” she said delicately. “What are you trying to say, Shakuntala?” asked Shazia wearily. “If you know something, you must tell me. At once. I cannot put this puzzle together if you are withholding the pieces.” “There is nothing in particular to speak of,” said Shakuntala. “It is just that Suleiman has been complaining to your father about the state of the grounds. Some of the flowers are blighted, I am sure you 98

Midnight Flame have noticed. The apple trees have a rust. One of the watercourses was damaged in the monsoon. The water is low in the pool. I have heard him raise his voice, demanding to know what your father does with his time and money. He wanted your father to take him to his granary in Paharganj.” “Suleiman showing interest in business?” asked Shazia, surprised. “Still, I cannot connect any of this to Bilal Nazeem Shah.” “There might not be a direct connection,” said Shakuntala. “But who knows what Suleiman’s agitation could have driven him to? Feeling so disenchanted with your father may have led to his open embrace of strange new friends.” “I did not realize Suleiman was so unhappy with our father,” said Shazia. “It seems everything I know about my family, I learn from my servants.” She did not mean for the harsh words to hurt Shakuntala but she could see instantly that they had. Shakuntala looked away. Shazia bit her lip in frustration, but it was too late. The damage had been done. So what? She thought angrily. So what if she offended Shakuntala? She had too much to worry about already. “Let’s go to the market,” she said decisively, knowing that her request would rile Shakuntala, who immediately responded with alarm. “Shehzadi, you know you that you cannot be seen in the market. As it is, we have taken enough risk today, leaving the haveli, traveling through the city. We cannot appear in the middle of Chandni Chowk!” “No one will recognize me!” Shazia said haughtily. She had planned to fill Shakuntala in on more details of her adventure in Bilal’s palace. Now she reconsidered. It might be best to refrain from mentioning her outburst, during which she had revealed her true identity not only to the scion, but to the sire himself. She continued in the same haughty tone. “No one has even seen me without purdah unless they have been on my father’s palace grounds. And who would ever imagine I would be out in the market in these simple clothes? I want lychees to keep me strong.” Without brooking more argument, she gave the order to the coachman.

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Shazia had been longing to enter the market since she first moved to Delhi, but she had never been allowed to go. She had been so fond of accompanying her grandfather to the market in the gaon during her childhood. In Delhi, she was cut off from all of her old pleasures, pleasures she never thought to consider privileges— freedoms—until they were denied her. She would often interrogate Shakuntala as to the nature of the market. Was it as grand as she’d heard? Were there mountains of fruits and sweets of every color? Were there ropes of dried figs curling over bins of plump golden currants? Were there baskets and sandals and bangles and jute ropes and toys? Were there bins of spices and stalls devoted to her father’s grain? Were there jewels? Were there cut flowers? “There is an entire section of the market devoted to flowers!” Shakuntala would exclaim, for the hundredth or thousandth time. “There are blossoms of every variety. There are birds in bamboo cages that sing songs sweeter than the music of flutes!” “You and your birds,” Shazia would sigh, but her eyes would be glowing and she would say innocently, “But are there cups of Chinese porcelain?” “Oh Shehzadi!” Shakuntala would begin her descriptions afresh. “There are porcelain cups as thin as paper with the pale images of dragons winding up to the golden rims!” And so on into the late hours of the afternoon. Shazia loved the hustle of the marketplace and knew that Chandni Chowk was the finest marketplace in the world. The Emperor’s sister had designed it herself, designed it in homage to female whimsy. The Najafgarh pond was built to reflect the moonlight and Shazia had imagined all kinds of romantic and dangerous encounters taking place alongside the gleaming waters. She had imagined herself boldly challenging a bandit king on the brink of the pond, denying him her jewels, then leaping into the middle of the enormous moon rippling on the surface of the water, her splash causing the moon to burst into dazzling droplets. She had imagined herself as a bandit queen, her silver dagger at the throat of a dashing noble who looked fearlessly into her eyes, then knelt on one knee, pledging to join her tattered band of 100

Midnight Flame outlaws and help her repay her blood debt to the evil prince who had stolen her ancestral lands. What hadn’t she imagined? She had been driven past Chandni Chowk several times so that she could see the gardens in the north and the Jahanara sarai, but Mumtaz would never stop the carriage so she could wander at her will along the canal or through the lanes of serried stalls. She could not pass up this opportunity. It would be better if it were night. That would truly be the fulfillment of her dreams, but this would have to do. She could tell they were nearing Chandni Chowk because the carriage rolled slower and slower as sweepers and water carriers and kitchen maids overburdened with produce pressed around from every side. At last, the carriage came to a stop, either because they had reached the center of Chandni Chowk or because the crowd permitted no further motion. Either way Shazia was content to leap down into the market. Shakuntala anticipated her movement and clutched her, taking a deep breath and fitting her dupatta neatly to obscure every inch of her skin. Then she drew the chick to allow their exit. As Shazia alighted she heard Shakuntala murmuring a low prayer to the Lord Ganesh. They were immediately assaulted by the myriad scents and sounds. They passed men shouting their wares, men roasting yams, the spiced smoke billowing from open charcoal beds, women squatting over baskets of fragrant flowers, stringing garlands of jasmine and marigold. “Stay close to me,” whispered Shakuntala with a note of warning tingeing her words. “Do not wander off or we will both be in trouble.” Shazia nodded dutifully, her eyes flicking quickly behind the green muslin, absorbing the various montages, absorbing every detail of the scene. A woman with a large growth on her neck was wrapping fried cakes in banana leaves. Shazia gripped Shakuntala, wondering if she should ask her maid to buy several cakes, but they were past the woman too quickly, and Shazia surrendered to the lulling movement, the heat of the shoving bodies, and let Shakuntala pull her along. 101

Shakuntala made her way expertly to the fruit stalls and immediately began choosing the choicest fruits, the whole while demanding the prices. Shazia watched this process. entranced. Shakuntala weighed the bunches of lychees in her hands, cracking one open with a fingernail and piercing into the flesh to test its ripeness. She spoke softly but clearly from behind her veil. The vendor, a wiry man with sun-browned skin and a fresh blue kurta, responded in kind. The haggling was calm and measured, perfunctory, a simple ritual maid and vendor knew by heart. From behind the man, a monkey emerged with a deft swoop and landed on his cart. Delighted, Shazia watched as it flicked a bright mango from the pile. The vender shooed it away and it made off into the marketplace. Shazia turned to follow it with her eyes, then began to follow it into the crowd. As she floated toward it, she saw a trunk full of jewelry sitting atop a wheeled cart. A strand of gold glittering with diamonds winked at her. She paused before it and extended her hand to examine it. The boy behind the cart–small with quick darting eyes and pointy ears–waved his hand over the jewels saying, “anything you wish, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, gold! All you can dream of—the most precious jewels in the world!” A tree of bangles next caught her eye. Entwined around each bangle was a vine of golden rose buds. Shazia picked a bangle from its branch and slipped it over her wrist. The gold of the bangle highlighted the golden gleam of her skin. She smiled behind her veil, pleased, twisting her arm this way and that to catch the glimmer of the sun. Suddenly a gloved hand closed around the bangle, seizing Shazia’s hand with an incredible agility and stilling it with force. Shazia gasped and tried to yank herself free, but the stranger’s grip was firm. She whipped her head up to deliver poisonous words, still struggling to free herself, when her eyes met his and were hopelessly ensnared. Her whole body seemed to erupt inside itself. For there he stood, clad in dark robes just as he had appeared the night she first saw him, his mouth obscured by a dark scarf of coarse fabric, his black eyes glinting through lashes as thick as her own. The horseman. The stranger. Gibran. 102

Midnight Flame Memories of her heated dreams assailed her. The taste of that dark coarse cloth in her mouth. The feel of his strong hands gripping her upper arms. The weight of his broad chest pressing her against her thin mattress. The cloth stroking her neck, her shoulders, as he drew his face down her body. She shuddered and pushed away these images, held her breath to control the thudding of her heart. Gibran twirled the golden bracelet about Shazia’s wrist, drawing it toward his eyes as though to inspect it. She tightened her stomach so as not to breathe out. He drew her hand close to his obscured lips, then grazed her fingers against the cloth. His hot breath filtered through the cloth and she felt the shape of his lips against her fingertips. Unable to bear it any longer, she released her breath, and with it a small moan, barely audible even to the boy behind the trunk, but certainly heard by Gibran. He let go her bracelet and ran his hand flush with the exposed skin of her wrist. At this touch she froze, and he pulled her close to him, turning her so that she faced away from him, faced the boy, whose eyes now widened with mischief. “Shazia,” Gibran whispered in an urgent low voice, right by her ear. The brush of the cloth against her neck made her skin shiver and knees grow weak. His proximity was as powerful as a mighty waterfall in the night. She felt as though she stood on a precipice, a torrent of black water surging behind her. She shut her eyes and day turned to night. In the corners of her eyes, she saw moonlight glimmering. Where was the Najafgarh pond? She wondered dazedly. Was it near by? It had to be. “Shazia.” He repeated her name, and again she shuddered, longing for him to repeat her name over and over, to forget everything else—this market, the sun, Shakuntala, and– Oh! Shakuntala! Reality flooded Shazia once again, and with it came an image of Suleiman, his wrists manacled with iron bonds even as hers wore golden bracelets. Her eyes snapped open. “Suleiman!” she cried, trying to turn to Gibran. “Where is he?” At the sound of her voice, Gibran’s touch grew rougher. He prevented her from turning toward him by wrapping an arm as 103

strong as any manacle around her waist. He pushed closer with his body so that her hips pressed into the boy’s cart and her backside pressed against Gibran's hard thighs. He put his head again near hers, leaning over her, lifting her veil slightly. She stiffened against him. He spoke again. “Listen, Shazia. Do not speak, just listen.” He reached around her to lift a string of pearls from the cart, examining them and then moving his hand beneath her veil as though to invite her approval. His muscular thighs pressed more firmly against her soft rear. She wanted to squirm away, but at the same time she wanted to squirm into him, squirm against him, move her body to increase the delicious sensation she felt building in her belly. She prayed he could not hear the wild sound of her heart, the singing of her blood. She tried to hold completely still. Rigid. Unaffected by his body gloving hers. What had come over her? Her strength felt sapped and she wanted to collapse, to slide down his chest and thighs, feeling her body pass over every inch of his. Maybe it was the heat. The crowd. She tried to swallow, her mouth dry. The cloth tickled her cheek. “I have heard it said that you do not like to listen,” he murmured, and Shazia protested. “That is not true!” she began. “I am sure that—” “And it seems that my informant spoke the truth,” he interrupted. Shazia opened her mouth to protest again, then screwed her lips together, furiously stifling her angry exclamations. Gibran waited a long moment, and when he spoke again she heard the smile in his voice. “Very good,” he praised her in a silky tone. “At least you can be taught.” “I suppose you have heard otherwise.” Shazia could not resist a bitter comment. She wondered what Gibran had heard about her, what kinds of things Suleiman had seen fit to tell him. That she did not listen. That she could not be taught. That she was stubborn, unmanageable, proud. Who knew what else? She knew she should ask this man what he and Suleiman had done to anger Bilal Nazeem Shah, why they had done it, where 104

Midnight Flame Suleiman was being held, what was being done to free him, but instead she found another question slipping through her lips. “Why does my brother despise me?” The question surprised her as greatly as it did Gibran. The words carried such raw feeling, such desperate sadness, that Shazia flamed beneath her veil, grateful that it covered her face. Gibran selected another necklace from the boy’s trunk, still pretending to shop for the benefit of the other market-goers. Shazia began to wonder if he was ever going to answer her, if he had even heard her words. Then he said, softly, with unexpected gentleness: “Your brother does not despise you. Far from it. But he worries about you, and your future, more than you know. He has worries you cannot understand.” “I cannot understand anything if no one will tell me anything,” said Shazia angrily, then lowered her voice again as she saw the boy tilt his head in her direction. He was pretending to sort through his wares and entice more customers, but his pointed ear was pricked and she knew he was straining to overhear their conversation. Truly in the Chandni Chowk, gossip was a welcomed currency. “What a vicious circle you are locked in, my sweet,” said Gibran caressingly. “A girl who will not listen begging for information from men who will not speak. Well, I am ready to help you understand everything if you are ready to listen.” “I am ready,” whispered Shazia. “Then we trust each other?” he asked. She felt him look sharply to the right and turned her head. Several imperial officers had approached the cart. They rifled through the boy’s trinkets. “That is a fine necklace,” one of them said, indicating the necklace looped around Gibran’s gloved hand. “It is rare to find a young man who treasures his wife enough to take her shopping for jewelry in the middle of the day in the Chandni Chowk,” said another. Shazia heard the slight burr in his voice as he said “wife.” Despite Gibran’s show of casual shopping, he and Shazia made too strange a couple to escape curiosity.

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A man dressed in black. A girl dressed like a parrot. Shazia almost giggled. “It is lovely! I want it,” said Shazia boldly, and she felt the tremor of surprise pass through Gibran’s body. Hah, she thought to herself triumphantly, pleased and then abashed that she had forced his hand so audaciously. Now he had no choice but to buy her the necklace. It was the kind of prank she would have played on Suleiman, and it was terrible manners to play it on a stranger, a strange man, but did manners really count for anything in circumstances as odd as these? What would she even do with a cheap necklace from the bazaar? She could store it in a little velvet box next to his other gift, that inscrutable talisman. “You heard the lady,” Gibran said to the boy, who named his price gleefully. Gibran drew the dinars from his bag. “Good afternoon,” he said to the officers, pressing the necklace into Shazia’s hand and steering her towards stalls where confectioners toiled over stoves, dropping circles of batter into the grease. “Shall I get you a sweet to go with your necklace?” asked Gibran, and Shazia stole a glance him to see if he was angry. His black eyes were twinkling with amusement. Her own lips twitched in response. “Yes, please,” she said daintily and waited while he brought it to her, wrapped in a banana leaf. “We cannot talk here,” he said. “Meet me tonight.” “Here?” gasped Shazia, eyes flicking all around. Was he proposing that she meet him here, in the Chandni Chowk? Would they meet at the Najafgarh pond, the moonlight beaming off the dark water, off the dark flanks of his dark horse? Was he proposing that she step inside her own fantasies? “Of course not,” he said. “I will come to the garden, to the mouth of the garden labyrinth. Are you afraid? Will you come to meet me? Alone in the night?” He spoke quickly and lightly, but his eyes gleamed in ways she could not interpret. “It does not matter if I am afraid,” said Shazia, chin raised. “I will do anything to help my brother.”

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Midnight Flame Something flared in Gibran’s eyes. She felt the spark pass between them. What was it? Admiration? Affinity? Yes, but something more. Something darker, stronger. “Tonight, then,” he whispered, and he handed her the steaming sweet. “Thank you,” she said, glancing down, and when she glanced up he was gone. Without his presence she felt absolutely and terrifyingly alone. Alone in a chattering, swirling onslaught of people. Hostile faces, laughing faces, spun all around her and she began to run, not knowing which way to turn. She tripped over a basket and fell to the ground, her greasy sweet spilling from its wrapper onto the dirt and her ankle twisting slightly. She screamed at the sight of a hooded cobra slithering out of the basket toward her. She leaped to her feet, but the cobra flicked his tongue against her bared ankle and again she screamed, recoiling. An elderly man caught the cobra and stuffed it back into the basket saying, “Koi baat nahi ma, his poison has been removed.” Shazia breathed with relief, feeling doubly the fool. “Shazia!” Shakuntala’s voice cut through the gathering crowd, “Shazia!” Shakuntala struggled toward her with two sacks laden with fruits. “Shazia, come away!” said Shakuntala, shifting the sacks so that she could seize Shazia by the wrist, just as Gibran had. Shazia realized now that the golden bangle still ornamented her arm. But she did not have the spirit to return to the boy at the jewelry cart now. As she followed Shakuntala numbly to the coach, she wondered if her inadvertent theft was a bad omen. An ominous sign of things to come. The girls rode back to the haveli in silence. Shazia mulled over her thoughts of bad omens. The first person she saw upon descending the carriage and slipping through the haveli gates was Mansoor. Bad omen indeed. “Hello, princess!” he said, beaming. “And where have you returned from in such a beautiful dress?” His eyed roved approvingly over the shape of her body, still straining provocatively against the fabric. From his slightly cross-eyed gaze, and the way he 107

swayed as he stood before her, she realized that he was quite the worse for drink and wrinkled her nose. His face was sweaty and red. No one could be expected to look fresh after an afternoon spent drinking date wine in the punishing sun, but Mansoor looked slimy, like a creature you'd find beneath a rock. At least, he was drunk enough—and daft enough—not to notice the strangeness of her attire and the inappropriateness of her presence at the haveli gates. “I just came to meet Shakuntala,” said Shazia, gesturing towards Shakuntala who stood a few paces behind her. “She went to Chandni Chowk.” Shakuntala lifted her bags of fruit slightly by way of confirmation, shooting Shazia a nervous glance. “I sent her to buy lychees for Mumtaz,” continued Shazia. “Something sweet and cool, to refresh her after her trying day.” “Ah, yes,” said Mansoor thickly. “A trying day for Begum Mumtaz, and for us all.” He beckoned to Shakuntala, who approached him reluctantly, eyes cast down. “It has been a trying day for you too, Shazia,” said Mansoor, his puffy eyelids drooping in exaggerated sympathy. He thrust his plump hand into one of Shakuntala's bags and plucked out a lychee, cracking the skin by rolling it roughly and rapidly between his palms. Shazia felt her stomach lurch as she imagined the sticky juice mingling with his sweat. “A lychee, my sweet one,” he said, coming towards her, waving the pale dripping globe of fruit near her face. Shazia gasped, fury and incredulity warring within her. The man's impropriety truly knew no bounds. Did he imagine she would let him feed her fruits from his fingertips? “Eat it yourself,” she said tightly. “As my brother's dearest friend, your suffering is also great.” She feared that he would not listen, that he would lurch even closer, try to slide his hand beneath her veil, rummaging as rudely as he had rummaged in Shakuntala's bag, smearing lychee on her chin. But he was nodding in agreement before she had finished speaking. “True,” he sighed, “true,” and popped the lychee into his wide mouth, pushing it from side to side with his tongue so that his cheeks bulged alternately. Spittle gleamed at the corners of his lips. 108

Midnight Flame “I really must get back to my embroidery,” said Shazia, looking away. She felt tired and anxious, and Mansoor's revolting attentions were almost more than she could bear, particularly when she was so acutely aware of her precarious position. If she was spotted by one of her aunts, she would need to muster more than a bag of lychees to explain what she was doing, walking about the haveli grounds in such a shocking dress. She had to get back to the zenana. A few kitchen servants passed her, turning their heads to give her a double take. Did they recognize her? Or was it the clear outlines of her breasts in the too-tight too-sheer boldly colored fabric that caught their eyes? Shazia hunched her shoulders, grinding her heel in the dirt with embarrassment. This was certainly the last time she was dressing in Shakuntala's clothing! If she needed to disguise herself in the future, she would steal Suleiman's jamas. Or a sack from the kitchen. She tried to hurry past Mansoor, but he shook his head at her. “Wait,” he said. A strange look passed over his face and he grimaced, extracting the shiny lychee pit from his mouth with his wet fingers. He coughed repeatedly, then swallowed hard, his throat rippling. He let the lychee pit drop and wiped the water from his eyes. “Well,” he said. “Excuse me.” He stretched his lips at Shazia and she struggled to smile back. “Before you rush off, I want to give you a bit of news that will settle your mind and steady your fingers, so you can stitch more easily. You know, I have often admired your embroidery. Certain looks from you tell me that perhaps I am not too bold if I request a bit of cloth as a token?” Shazia stared at him. What nonsense was this? Her embroidery was a farce, the laughing-stock of the zenana. She suspected some mockery, but his glassy, bulging eyes were brimming with tenderness. Stupid sot, she thought. He is so in love with himself he has convinced himself that he is in love with me too. “Thank you for your praise,” she said, coldly. “It is kind, though undeserved. Yet, I do not think your appreciation of my embroidery 109

can be considered news, surprising as it is.” He blinked at her and she had to prompt him: “You mentioned news.” “Ah,” he said. “Yes. News.” He crooked a finger at her. “We must lower our voices.” “Must we,” said Shazia. She did not move toward him. “Yes,” Mansoor whispered, drawing closer. “What I say is for your ears only.” “My hearing is uncommonly acute,” said Shazia, but Mansoor took another step forward. Shazia's nostrils flared as she caught a whiff of his powerful odor. Her skin crawled. How strange that one man's proximity could make her skin itch as though covered with flies, and another man's proximity could make her skin burn, her breath catch in her throat, turn her knees to water. She had a sudden vision—her skin covered with tiny black gnats and Mansoor crouched beside her like an enormous frog, snapping at the gnats with his tongue. She yelped, crossing her arms across her chest protectively. Really, she needed to work on regulating her imagination. “Poor angel,” whispered Mansoor. “You are clearly beside yourself. All nerves.” He moved to stroke her shoulder, but she flinched away. “Do not worry yourself any longer,” Mansoor continued, unperturbed. “I am seeing about your brother this very night.” “What?” exclaimed Shazia, a little too harshly, too incredulously. With effort she softened her tone. “What exactly are you intending to see?” Mansoor brushed at the soft wool of his shawl with twitching fingers, gazing over the top of her head. Shazia wanted to punch him in his gullet, he looked so pleased with himself. “I am going to see Bilal Nazeem Shah,” he said. “On behalf of your father, whose confidences I am privileged to receive. Your father trusts that if he has done anything to anger Bilal Nazeem Shah, I will be able to put it to rights. I am known, I suppose, for my powers of persuasion. My golden tongue.” Again Shazia saw her vision. Mansoor as an enormous frog, this time with a golden tongue lashing in and out of his slimy mouth.

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Midnight Flame She smiled grimly. “Of course,” she agreed. “Though I cannot imagine what my father could have done to anger Bilal Nazeem Shah.” “Nor I,” said Mansoor. “Your father works very hard to keep Bilal happy. Bilal should have no reason to find fault with your father. That is what I said to Zuben. Bilal, should have no reason to find fault with you, no reason at all, I am sure it is some misunderstanding, some miscommunication. Nothing to worry about. I am off to resolve the problem right now. How fortunate that I saw you! Nothing has pained me more this day than the knowledge your heart was troubled. I vowed to ease your heart's burden. I have, haven't I? Tell me I have,” cried Mansoor rapturously. “My heart is no concern of yours,” said Shazia automatically. “Burdened or not, it beats, and for that I praise Allah.” Her heart, however, was beating strangely in her breast. She did not understand what Mansoor had just said to her. Her father working for Bilal Nazeem Shah. What did it mean? So far as she knew, her father had no business with Bilal. In fact, as far as she knew, her father had no business at all, except to travel occasionally to his granaries, and to host gatherings of men in his pleasure halls, men who did not seem to care much for business, men who stumbled red-eyed on the garden paths, chasing tinkling dancing girls through the nut trees. But things had seemed different of late. The flowers wilting in the gardens. The watercourses nearly dry. The parties more listless. The dinner fare more reliant on… peas. Shakuntala had mentioned tensions between her brother and her father. Did all of it fit together somehow? Did it have to do with business? Some bad business with Bilal Nazeem Shah? Some bad business this buffoon knew more about than she did? Because he was a man, thought Shazia bitterly, though she knew that part of her ignorance was her own fault. She had not been paying attention. Well, why should she have been paying attention? Any interest she showed in anything other than jewelry met with rebuffs. Everything was a mess.

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Suddenly she noticed Shakuntala gesturing. The slim girl was swinging her sacks with agitation, looking repeatedly over her shoulder and back at Shazia, her eyes filled with alarm. Shazia saw the cause instantly. Her Aunt Bushra was walking in their direction, barking orders at two gardeners who trotted beside her, occasionally darting to the left and the right to cut another bloom for a bouquet. There was no more time to question Mansoor. A moment ago, Shazia had wanted nothing more than to put a thousand miles between her and Mansoor. Now she was loath to leave him without finding out what exactly, if anything, his prattle referred to. Too late. She needed to escape, and escape quickly. “My heart does feel lighter,” she babbled. “Thank you Mansoor.” She rushed at him and squeezed his damp hand, startling him. He beamed and tried to grasp her but she yanked her fingers away, dropping her gaze demurely. “Please do tell me how you fare tonight,” she murmured. “I'll be waiting for you tomorrow. With a piece of embroidery!” She spoke quickly, already racing to Shakuntala, pushing her towards the zenana. Mansoor stood fidgeting with his shawl, stumbling for words as the princess darted away. His face was glowing. “I will run to you with wings on my feet, Shehzadi!” he called after her. “The trouble with Suleiman will have been resolved and we can converse about subjects more pleasant to us both.” But the girls had already veered away into the garden. “Shakuntala?” Shazia asked once the hedges screened them from both Mansoor and Bushra. “What is my father's business?” “The business of your father is the business of your father's father,” said Shakuntala wearily. “Why do you ask?” Shazia studied the heart-shaped face of the girl who walked beside her. “I know that my father took over Mumsa's granaries,” she said. “But I am less and less certain that his business is the same.” She realized she had stopped walking, and Shakuntala had stopped too. “My father is so unlike Mumsa it does not seem possible they can be father and son.” Her words hung in the air. Shakuntala did not look surprised, only sad. “It is a hard thing when there is disharmony between fathers and sons,” she said. Her 112

Midnight Flame dark eyes welled beneath her thin, black brows and her mouth trembled. Shazia thought of Bilal and the twin sons that were born to destroy him. She thought of Bilal and Ahmad, the golden prince. She had stood between the two men and felt their fury, the pain they caused each other. She thought of her father and Suleiman. What lay behind the disagreements Shakuntala had witnessed? Was it the differences in their opinions? The incompatibilities in their characters? Or perhaps, thought Shazia, there is something in the nature of every relationship between fathers and sons that produces conflict. Perhaps every son, in a certain sense, is born to destroy his father. Whether or not the stars say so. She wished fiercely that she could talk to Mumsa. He would know how to help her, how to help Suleiman, how to explain the ways of men. “Shakuntala,” said Shazia. Her face reflected in the girl's brimming eyes, twinned. Two Shazias. Two doomed girls for two doomed princes. Shazia shook her head to banish the image. “Shakuntala,” she said again. “Do you know something you are not telling me? Does my father do business with Bilal?” Shakuntala's eyes spilled over. She tried to lift a hand to wipe her cheeks, but the sacks of fruit were too heavy. She let the tears drip, staring back at Shazia. “I do not know,” she said. “I know that your father is in debt. I heard Suleiman complain of it. I know that household affairs are suffering. I know that workers are not being paid.” Even though these words only confirmed what Shazia had already begun to suspect, she still felt an icy wave course through her. “I know that things are not right here,” said Shakuntala. “And your brother was worried. But beyond that, I do not know. I wish I did.” “Me too,” whispered Shazia, walking again. She had been blind to what was happening around her for far too long. But tonight I will know more, she said to herself. She slid the golden bangle up and down her arm until the metal felt warm on her skin, like the touch of a stranger's hand. 113

Chapter Six The black sky yawned endlessly, layers of bright stars embedded in its fabric like jewels. The clarity of the air was cutting in its freshness. The city slept. Gibran rode through the night alone, as he was accustomed to doing. He rode on his black stallion through Delhi's crooked streets, avoiding the thoroughfares. He had no desire to encounter the sort of men who haunted Delhi in the darkest hours of night—gamblers, thieves, hopeless inebriates, vicious brawlers. As a youth of eighteen, when he first began slipping out into the haunted city, he had crept through the shadows, heart pounding, almost sick with excitement, eager to cross paths with strangers, not caring whether the meeting resulted in friendship or bloodshed. He wanted contact, any contact, and violence was a kind of intimacy. At least when he fought, he felt something. He would feign drunkenness, swaying on the edge of the canal, until he noticed shadows clustering, dim figures massing in the recesses between stalls in the bazaar. The robbers of Chandni Chowk, kings of Shahjahanabad's underworld. He allowed them to stalk him, stumbling into alleyways as though unaware of their pursuit, leading them through the maze, his mind calculating their positions, his pulse leaping, every muscle tensed, quivering. When they swarmed him he was ready. The men who attacked him were invariably strong, quick, ruthless. But Gibran fought like a black storm. He was everywhere at once. He was faster than thought, crueler than a panther. He reveled in his fractured glimpses of his assailants, their bunched muscles, their widened eyes, their jaws dropping with astonishment. “Look at me,” he wanted to shout. “Do you understand what I can do?” And he came at them furiously, and no matter their number, they fell back, they fell back beneath the dark rush, confused, beaten at their own game, driven from their own territory 114

Midnight Flame by a mere boy, a solitary boy. A boy that burned with something they had never experienced. A black storm. A black sun. Fighting, Gibran felt heat radiating through his body. It was as though every particle of his being had sped up, as though he could see in every direction. He knew the location of the men around him at each moment, and he knew where they would be several moments in the future. He saw himself more clearly. He saw them more clearly. He could predict the blows of the lame man who favored his left leg, could understand the ways the man compensated for his condition, why he shouted louder than the others, why he had been the one to strike first. Fighting, Gibran was connected to everything. Even to the men who wanted to rob him. Especially to the men who wanted to rob him. But then, all too soon, it was over. Footsteps fading into the night. His own ragged breathing the only sound in the dark alleyway. He would sink to the packed earth, clutching his bruised ribs, sweat running down his temple, tracing the hard line of his jaw. Alone. He would stagger to the Najafgarh pond and sit on the edge, knees drawn in to his aching chest. If the moon was high and the night clear, he could see his own face shining back at him in the black water. Sometimes he could not resist. He would lean forward and strike the image, watch his eyes and mouth shatter into silvergilded waves. But as the water smoothed, his face would reform. Slight ripples would twist the mouth or lift the brows so that his face seemed to mock him. Its features were his, but its expressions were eerily not his own. Once, before he could stop himself, he called out to the image. He called, “Who are you?” staring down into the moonlit pond, and as he plunged his fist into the face on the water, furious and embarrassed, he saw the face contort before it exploded into droplets. Laughing. Or weeping. Now, remembering that lonely boy who lashed out at his own reflection, Gibran just set his jaw. He was not a boy anymore. He did not play games with his shadow, longing for a friend. Tonight his gallop had a purpose. Every hoofbeat brought him closer, closer 115

to the midnight garden, Zuben Wali Dad's garden, deeply shadowed, the thick, still air hot, jasmine-flooded. Gibran's thoughts winged ahead of him. His thoughts winged to the girl who would meet him there, in her father's garden, the fierce, unpredictable girl. Everything about her was a revelation. An enticement. Gibran scowled. The girl was only a part of his purpose. She served his purpose, she was not the purpose itself. Why did his thoughts fly to her and no further? He should be evaluating his strategy, examining the situation from every angle, calculating risks, probabilities, contingencies, but all his evaluations concerned her. Would she still be wearing the necklace he had bought for her? Would her head be uncovered, like the first night he had seen her? Would she be there when he arrived? Waiting beneath the bower, emerald eyes glowing like the eyes of a cat, full breasts rising with every quick breath, betraying her fear. Her bravery. Or would he get there first? Would he hear her coming toward him through the maze, the faint chiming of her bangles, the soft rustle of the cypress? Would he see her running toward him, see the lithe motions of her body, her strong, supple body, that body he could not get out of his mind. It was driving him mad. He dug his heels into his horse's flanks, transmitting his urgency to the steed that galloped ever more swiftly. If she came alone, as he'd instructed her, without the tiny maid, there would be no one to stop him from touching her wrists, running his fingers up her rounded arms, grasping her, pulling her against him. He remembered the feel of her buttocks against his thighs when he stood behind her in the bazaar. He had not been able to forget the way she fit against him, quivering with anger. He had known women, beautiful women, women who had been schooled in the game of desire, women who practiced the art of pleasures exquisite and rare. But he had never met a woman who stirred him like Shazia. He could not explain it. That first night she had seemed like a half-wild creature, a being that dwelled in the garden, that came out in the moonlit to wander the garden paths, petals caught in black ringlets of hair so that he imagined her a fairy queen, crowned in flowering vines. The way 116

Midnight Flame she stared at him, unflinching, her eyes filled with green light. It was as if she were the spirit of the garden itself, and when she approached him through the shadows, he understood that she meant to challenge him, to challenge his right to be there, as though she thought she could fight him. It was ludicrous, astonishing. A young woman, who should be asleep in the zenana dreaming about wealthy suitors, blazing at him. Defiant. Gorgeous. He had wanted to leap off his horse, to cup that defiant chin in his palm and claim her lips, show her how he intended to meet her challenge. But in an instant he had realized who she was. Who she must be. Suleiman's sister. Suleiman talked of her often, but he had never mentioned her beauty. Her willfulness, her wildness, yes. Her habit of running about bare-headed, tearing her dupattas on thorns in the rosebushes. Gibran had been led to picture a grubby child, not a stunningly beautiful woman. Was Suleiman blind? Gibran had almost cursed Suleiman for failing to prepare him. But of course Suleiman could not have imagined his sister would interrupt their rendezvous. The other times they had met in the garden, under cover of night, no one had come upon them. Their meetings, their plans, everything had proceeded without incident, seamless. Maybe they should have taken Shazia's unexpected presence in the garden as a warning. A warning that not everything can be anticipated. Controlled. There is always an element of uncertainty, of chaos, even in the best-laid plans. We were cocky, thought Gibran. Arrogant. Too convinced that the rightness of the mission guaranteed its success. His lips curled and his brooding face grew even darker. He should have known by now that fate does not favor noble intentions. Fate favors malice, greed. Fate favors the ruthless. Maybe Suleiman had not yet learned the lesson, but Gibran knew it well. But he had let himself forget. He had let Suleiman's enthusiasm and belief in justice sweep him away. Suleiman had that ability. Suleiman could inspire men with his vision. He knew how to talk, how to describe the world as it was and how to describe the world as it should be. And Gibran knew

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how to fight. The two men completed one another. Suleiman needed strength. Gibran needed a purpose. He had met Suleiman in the dark heat of a crowded watering hole not far from Chandni Chowk. He had taken to visiting these seedy lairs—crawling with noblemen plagued with varying afflictions, from frustration to boredom to grief—instead of fighting in the alleyways. The company was barely better, hardly more wholesome, but he was less likely to kill someone, and for all the joy he felt in the wild center of a brawl, he had no real desire for murder. He would slide through the richly dressed crowds and sit in the corner of the room, in the shadows. His own clothing was finely made, but simple, black. Not a jewel glittered on sash or turban. He was like a shadow himself. He sipped idly from a goblet of wine or the spout of huqqa, inebriating himself on neither of these, but grateful for the ready excuse they provided. No one ever asks “why are you here?” in those kinds of places. The answer is right in front of you, in the cup of wine, in the cloud of smoke. You are free from scrutiny. One of the nameless masses seeking oblivion. Surrounded by strangers, you can hide. Gibran discovered he was not the only one with that idea. One night he heard a voice, a clear low voice that separated itself from the din. Gibran was used to the rise and fall of raucous laughter, the whining notes of disappointed lovers, the mumbling of drunks. He would tune in to the monotonous anecdotes of somnolent princes—about women, usually, or gambling debts—and just as swiftly tune them out. Nothing of interest was ever said. It was that phenomenon of men together, each talking to himself, directing the story of his woe or his triumph into his cup. Gibran had been preparing to leave when he heard that urgent voice, that voice that was somehow different. Alert. Alive. “I am not ready for death,” the voice was saying, and there was a brief storm of protests. “We are too young to talk of death,” came a joking rejoinder, and Gibran heard the banging of fists on the table, indicating the rest of the party agreed with the second man.

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Midnight Flame “I don't mean dying,” said the first voice in the quiet that followed. “I mean living the life of the dead. It starts young in Shahjahanabad. It starts young, and the condition worsens until dying itself ceases to matter. Waleed, haven't you encountered your father in the garden and looked in his swollen eyes for signs that he was alive and found none, even though he spoke to you?” “Spoke to me!” exclaimed the man who must be Waleed. “Have you heard reports that my father speaks? Let me assure you those reports have been exaggerated. Once I thought he had called out to me, but it turned out to be a bout of noisy flatulence brought on by undercooked kidney beans.” Laughter. The first voice returned. “We laugh, but it is our own lives we are laughing at.” “What would you have us do, Suleiman?” asked a new voice, a trifle breathless with drink or excitement. Gibran found that he was now listening with his whole body. He had turned in his seat, turned toward the voices. “I don't see you confronting your father.” “How does one confront the living dead?” countered the voice Gibran now recognized as Suleiman's. “It is useless. They are too weak to break free. They are held captive by a sorcery far stronger than they are.” “And the point of this riddle?” asked Waleed. Gibran could hear the smile in Suleiman's voice as he responded. “The point, Waleed, is this. We must confront the sorcerer.” Gibran could not resist. He twisted his neck to look at the men sitting behind him. They were young, dressed like men of fashion, six of them, their wine untasted before them on the table. The one in the center was Suleiman. Gibran knew it instantly. Suleiman was slight and his black eyes seemed to occupy the whole of his narrow face. “Confront the sorcerer,” Suleiman repeated. “Stop him. Then we can confront our fathers.” “There are many sorcerers, as you call them, in Delhi,” said a short youth whose mustache was just a dirty smudge. He picked up

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his cup as though to drink, then put it down. “Which one do you propose we confront? And how?” “Some things are best discussed on horseback,” said Suleiman. “When only the wind has its ear to you.” His dark eyes swept the room and Gibran felt them pass over his, then return. Lock. So this Suleiman thought he was listening, did he? Gibran swiveled in his chair so he fully faced the young men. He crossed his arms across his broad chest and returned Suleiman's gaze. Suddenly, commotion. A group of men nearby leaped to their feet and stood between Suleiman and Gibran. “Laila!” Gibran heard the men muttering. “Laila!” Laila was among the most sought-after dancing girls of the Delhi underworld. She danced as though she had no bones, bending backward with liquid grace, hips sliding from side to side. Gibran caught a glimpse of glittering red as Laila wound her way through the throng. She was moving toward the corner of the room. When she had almost reached the standing cluster of men, she stopped. Her translucent veil was drawn coquettishly to reach her lips, which parted momentarily to begin her plaintive love song. “My beloved has left me bereft of love.” The bells on her anklets sounded determinedly as she took the first steps of the dance, her skirt lifting slightly with the motion to reveal the startlingly deep maroon of the henna patterns decorating her feet. With the men in the room riveted on Laila, Gibran rose and pushed through them. No one even glanced at him. Laila’s voice lifted in pitch. She stamped her feet so that the strings of metal bells on her anklets chimed the rhythm of the dance, and the men began to murmur their approval. Gibran maneuvered deftly between the perspiring bodies, a cacophony of heavy breathing and groans lacing Laila’s increasingly aggressive song, and approached Suleiman at his seat. Unlike his companions, who had surged forward to join the crowd around Laila, Suleiman still sat, seemingly oblivious to Laila’s charms. His jet black hair fell over his forehead. Thick defined eyebrows rose toward each other as he frowned over his 120

Midnight Flame drink, thin hands toying restlessly with a cheroot. Crumbling it. Though he could not have heard Gibran's footsteps above Laila's song and the shuffling of the excited men, he looked up. Once more, Gibran was struck by the intensity of his gaze. “What is it you want?” asked Suleiman softly. Gibran shrugged. “I want to meet a man who is not afraid to confront sorcerers.” Suleiman's lips twisted and he raised an eyebrow, motioning for Gibran to sit. Gibran took the chair closest to him and the two men stared at each other. “And you?” asked Suleiman finally. “Are you afraid of confronting sorcerers?” “I am not afraid of anything,” said Gibran flatly. It did not sound like a boast, but rather a statement of fact. Suleiman tipped his head to the side, considering. “Men who are afraid of nothing are dangerous,” he said at last. Gibran shrugged, crossing his arms. “Your merry band of conspirators might benefit from a dangerous man,” he said, eyes cutting towards Suleiman's companions. The shortest, the youth who could barely sprout a mustache, was bouncing up and down on his toes, straining to see Laila above the shoulders of the men in front of him. Suleiman gave a short bark of laughter. “We are not seasoned,” he admitted. “But we have the fire of belief to goad us into action.” His face creased with bitter lines and he looked suddenly older than he was. “And filial duty,” he added, almost to himself. “What do you have?” Suleiman fixed Gibran with his penetrating stare. “What goads the man in black?” Gibran smiled without warmth and tugged the black cloth around his neck so it covered his nose and mouth. This mask was the perfect complement to his black garments and he wore it often, blotting out his features so that he was even more like a shadow. Dark. Faceless. Sinister. He stood and bowed slightly, turning to leave, but felt Suleiman's hand close around his wrist. Gibran froze, looking down at the sinewy hand with surprise. He could break Suleiman's grasp easily—he could break Suleiman's arm easily—but

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he made no move to free himself. Now Suleiman was standing too, his face close to Gibran's. “Who are you?” Suleiman whispered. “I am a lost man, like any other in this city,” said Gibran. Then, with a rare touch of bitter humor, “Maybe I am one of the living dead.” “No.” Suleiman released his wrist. “The living death I mentioned is something different, something particular.” “I do not doubt it,” said Gibran. “But there are many forms of living death.” Suleiman continued to stare at him, as though searching his eyes for something he could understand. “You speak from experience,” he said at last. He sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. “You are right. There are many forms of living death, here and now, in Shahjahanabad. I am going to change that.” His voice was firm. “I could use the help of a man like you.” Gibran stiffened. “You don't have any idea what kind of man I am,” he said softly, menacingly. Suleiman's eyes widened, but he didn't look away. “I am a good reader of men,” he said simply. “It takes more than a bit of cloth to hide who you are. I know what kind of man you are. You are alive. You are angry. When you said you were a lost man, you were not lying. I do not know why you are lost. I do not know where you come from. But I think our individual struggles make a common cause. I think we can be of service to each other. You help me fight my living death, and I will help you fight yours.” Gibran was trying to hide his fascination with this silver-tongued youth, but he could not keep his eyes from glinting. “Who is the sorcerer at the source of your trouble?” he asked. Suleiman leaned even closer. “A nobleman,” he said. “Beloved of the Emperor. Wealthy and powerful and well-protected. A dangerous foe.” “His name,” breathed Gibran. At that moment a cheer rose. Laila's undulations had reached their climax. Taking advantage of the tumult, Suleiman said the words softly but clearly so there could be no mistake. “Bilal Nazeem Shah.” 122

Midnight Flame “Ahh,” said Gibran. “The name means something to you.” “The name means something,” repeated Gibran. “Yes.” Laila's dance had ended and Gibran and Suleiman were jostled by men returning to their seats, searching for abandoned cups. Smoke curled to the rafters as huqqas were re-lit. “The name means something to all of Shahjahanabad. I do not know that you choose your foe wisely.” “It is no choice of mine,” said Suleiman. “I would it were otherwise. I am not ambitious.” When Gibran snorted disbelievingly, Suleiman raised his hand for silence. His face was deadly serious. It seemed strangely important to him that Gibran believe his words. His tone was lower, but even more filled with urgency. “I am not one of those young men embroiled in intrigues for love of money or power. City life does not suit me. My goal is not to scrabble to the top of a toppling Empire. I would rather—” He broke off, as though he had realized he was going too far. But Gibran was rapt. “You would rather what?” he prompted. Was a faint blush darkening Suleiman's cheekbones? “I would rather read books by a low light or sit by a river and study verses so I can understand how a beautiful image works on the mind,” said Suleiman. “I was raised in a village, and village ways seem good to me. But I am here now. And Bilal Nazeem Shah is the foe I have to face. I did not choose it,” he said. “For the sake of my family, for honor, I need to act. Before our garden turns to dust and my sister is left to wander the streets, dancing in dark saloons for her bread.” Something about Suleiman's thin face—his proud nose, his black wings of hair—reminded Gibran of a raven. Ravens had been known to fly above armies, leading the way to battle. Suleiman was a leader. His sincerity could not be doubted. He was driven by something greater than vanity, greater than the desire for personal gain. What had he said? Family. Honor. The words rang strangely in Gibran's head. Family. Honor. What would it be like to utter those words? To fight for the concepts they embodied? He opened his mouth to say, “I will act with you,” but 123

before he could speak, Laila interceded, bowing low before them to present her voluptuous breasts, which threatened to spill over her low-cut choli, singing, “If my prince should come I would surely treat him well.” Her belly rippled as she twisted between Gibran and Suleiman, dancing mirthfully, her voice low and seductive. Her nimble fingers, the tips colored with henna, plucked a plump grape from a nearby platter. She ran it playfully along the rim of Suleiman’s mouth, enticing him to eat, then pulled the halved globe from him and fed it to Gibran. Laughing, she spirited away, leaving the two men alone together. Gibran swallowed the last of the sweet fruit. “Laila is some man's sister,” said Suleiman, looking after the girl, now a red flash in the far end of the room. “She is sister to some man who lives a life of death and does not protect her.” He looked at Gibran. “Help me protect my sister,” he said. “Help me save my family name.” Slowly, Gibran nodded. And it began. Finally, Gibran made part of a greater whole. Instead of riding through the city alone, aimless, he rode with Suleiman, rode to the havelis of other young men—Suleiman's friends—where hushed conferences were held, courses of action debated, childish overstatements proclaimed to the sky, then just as quickly recanted. Suleiman's friends were likable young men, intelligent, thoughtful, but none of them possessed Suleiman's courage and vision, his integrity, his force of purpose. Suleiman needed to goad them, cajole them, shape them from a rabble of callow youths into an alliance of men. With Gibran at his side, dark, threatening, Suleiman’s exhortations carried extra weight. The alliance seemed bigger and more mysterious with a member who had appeared out of nowhere, a man who existed beyond the circle known to the childhood friends. Gibran was happy to provide Suleiman with credibility. To teach the young men knife skills and archery. When he rode with Suleiman through the dark streets of the city, he was glad he was the one, along with the wind, listening to Suleiman’s plan. He knew

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Midnight Flame he could help. He knew that, with him, Suleiman could succeed in reversing his family’s plunging fortunes. But everything had fallen apart. The plan had crumbled, all in an instant. Boarding Bilal Nazeem Shah's boat, hurling the crates into the river, every man had been captured but one. The fastest, the strongest. Gibran. Now it was up to him to save the others. To save Suleiman. Bilal Nazeem Shah was more dangerous than even Suleiman could understand. For all his talk of sorcerers and the living dead, Suleiman knew little of the world’s evil. Gibran knew more. Much more. He had to rescue Suleiman before evil destroyed Suleiman’s faith and passion. Maybe it was wrong to involve Suleiman’s sister. But he was not sure he had a choice. He could not force Bilal Nazeem Shah to release Suleiman, let alone renounce his ambitions, no matter whom they hurt. Something besides force was needed. Shazia seemed to have a mind of her own. She did not appear agitated by the anxieties, the frenzied rush to secure position, that seemed to occupy the energies of other women Gibran had encountered, whether of noble or of lowly birth. She seemed, like her brother, to be driven by passion. Impulsive. Intense. Interesting. Gibran could not deny that he was drawn to her. And so you draw her into danger? he asked himself. But what else could he do? Suleiman would not want his sister embroiled in the mess he had created, but with Suleiman locked up by Bilal Nazeem Shah, what worse fate awaited her? Laila is some man’s sister. For a moment, Gibran pictured Shazia dancing in tightly fitted red silk, undulating those dramatically curved hips. He imagined her halving a grape, the tiny pink bud of her tongue probing its wet crevice, before she offered it to him. He could taste the cool sweetness of the grape. The hot sweetness of her mouth pressed to his…. Enough of these imaginings. He forced himself to see and taste and feel only what was before him now, around him, in the moment. The high back wall that enclosed the grounds of Zuben’s haveli loomed before him, and his mouth was not flooded with 125

sweet juices but rather thickened with city dust. The air was hot and still, and the smell of withering things floated from the walled garden. Gibran slowed his horse to a walk and approached the arched gate. He had arrived. He dismounted silently and led the horse behind him. He wove expertly through the labyrinth of trees. He left his steed to graze by the edges of the orchard and made his way through the garden. The starlight seemed to prick his skin and he looked up. The black cypresses around him looked smoke-like, paler than the blackness of the sky above. Usually the sound of water falling in the fountains or rushing through the marble waterways accompanied his journeys through the garden. But tonight the garden was eerily quiet. When he strained his ears he could hear the dim whisper of water trickling, as though far away. At last he could smell the jasmine, see the milky petals floating overhead, larger and closer than any stars. He had reached the bower. Before his senses could confirm his conviction, he knew she wasn’t there. He sensed the emptiness around him. He was attuned to her absence. He felt her absence. It deadened everything. Even the jasmine smelled only faintly and did not sweeten the parching air. He turned a slow circle in the bower, not because he doubted his intuition and wanted to peer in all directions to see if she hid in some shadow, but because, alone in Zuben’s garden, he was struck by a sudden fancy. How many times had Suleiman stood in this same spot, picking the dead leaves from the vines, furious and ashamed? How many times had Shazia sat beneath the green arcades and wished she were far away? Gibran suspected both the brother and the sister had spent hours upon hours seeking solitude along these garden paths, their hearts bursting. Why couldn’t they have unburdened their hearts to one another? Not everyone had the opportunity to let blood sing to blood, to share sorrow and love with a kinsperson. Gibran had listened to Suleiman’s bitter denunciations of everything under the sun, but had he ever heard the young man exclaim in gratitude for the gift that he had? Suleiman wanted to protect Shazia from harm, but did he appreciate her for who she was? 126

Midnight Flame Gibran crushed a dead leaf in his palms and let the brown powder sieve between his fingers. It didn’t matter now. Maybe he would tell Suleiman, someday. Tell him that some men live their lives alone and die alone, but not all men have to. Tell him that if he had the choice, he wouldn’t live as he did, solitary as the panther. That he would choose to walk in sunlight and accept the love of family… the caresses of a woman. But he couldn’t choose. For him, the choice had been made. A distant chiming disturbed his thoughts, a chiming that he could barely distinguish from the far-off sound of falling water. A woman’s footfall. She was coming. His first instinct was to move toward the sound, but he arrested the impulse. Waited for her to reach him. His nostrils flared as her scent preceded her, a headier sweetness weaving through the jasmine, and he could no longer resist. He started forward through the bower and emerged on the other side in time to see her step out from between the cypress trees. At first, he could only see her silhouette, but it was enough to tell him that her head was thrown back in the stance he had come to recognize, proud and fearless. She tilted her head back even farther, and his throat clenched as he realized she was looking at the sky— the sickle moon, the diamond points of the stars—impelled by the same emotion that had brought his chin up as well, caused him to search the heavens. Then she shook her head, gathering herself, and blindly—for she carried no light—she came toward him. Her hips swayed from side to side as she walked. Her curves were visible through her robes – thin, translucent layers that shimmered with the pale refulgence of the night. Her hair escaped her veil, tumbling over her dress, inking out the blue fabric in sinewy lines. She walked quickly, and yet it seemed an eternity that he stared at her, spellbound. He felt himself succumb to her with each step she took. He felt compelled to kneel before her, lay down his sword and remove his turban, to place them at her feet and beg her favors. His body tightened with anticipation. This was not what he’d expected. He clenched his body to quell his rising desire for her… this girl-child, this woman. The effort it took to master himself felt like fury, and he realized his jaw was set, mouth grim. He stood at the opening of 127

the bower, in deep shadow, and she didn’t see him until only a few steps remained between them. “Oh.” She stifled a cry, breathless, confused. Beneath her translucent veil he saw the deep color spreading across her cheeks. For a moment he too felt breathless and confused, and so they stood, their bodies so close Gibran feared she could hear the pounding of his heart. He moved first, making a slight, sardonic bow that brought his face, briefly, a hairsbreadth from hers. She gasped audibly and turned her head to look back across the garden, toward the living quarters, gathering herself, trying to hide her discomposure. “Were you followed?” he asked, following her gaze, and she turned back to him, further discomfited by his calling attention to her ruse. “Of course not,” she burst out, her tumult of emotions finding expression in righteous indignation. “You told me to come alone. Do you think I’m such a fool that I either invited company or failed to elude it should it have chosen to invite itself? You’re just like Suleiman,” she muttered, half to herself, and the mention of her brother’s name had the effect of dispersing her sudden petulance. “You told me I could help him,” she said. “I came to you, alone. Now honor your promise. Tell me what you know. Tell me what I have to do.” Thick, well-shaped eyebrows drew together, as though she was pleading with him, but her voice was firm. Demanding. Gibran smiled at her bravado and was grateful that the slight crook of his mouth was hidden by dark cloth. “I admire your courage,” he said to her, thinking to soften her imperiousness with praises. “You are different from the other girls in the zenana….” “Different!” Shazia snorted, cutting him off, and Gibran heard the bitterness she injected into the word. “You wanted me to climb down the trellis in the middle of the night to meet you all by myself so you could tell me that I am different?” She laughed with disbelief. “I may be different from other women,” she continued, “but I am not as different as you would like to believe. Jumping off balconies and running blindly through mazes does not come to me so 128

Midnight Flame naturally that I will continue to answer your ridiculous summonses without a proper explanation!” She ran out of breath and had to gulp air greedily. Gibran was surprised she did not stamp her foot to punctuate the exclamation. “I am not an imbecile, no matter what my brother said to you,” said Shazia in a more controlled tone. “I will do anything I can to help you if you are prepared to do anything you can to help Suleiman. But how can I trust your intentions if you will not tell me why you and Suleiman were meeting the other night? If you will not tell me how Suleiman came to be Bilal Nazeem Shah’s prisoner….” Her voice shook. But her eyes did not waver. “And how you escaped.” The sudden fire in Gibran’s eyes terrified her, but Shazia would not stop. “I know that Suleiman was involved in some sort of organization,” she cried. “I know that this involvement made him an enemy of Bilal Nazeem Shah. I know that you are a part of it, and I know that you are here with me in this garden, unfettered, while my brother remains imprisoned.” Gibran’s voice was steady, cold. “You seem to know enough, then. I cannot imagine I could add a single brick to the edifice of your knowledge.” He turned as if to leave her. Shazia leaped forward and seized his arm. They both froze. Shazia shuddered and let her hand drop. When she spoke again, the words came slowly. It was clear the admission of her vulnerability was more difficult for her than the expression of her anger. “I feel confused,” she whispered, and her gaze was steadfast though her eyes had filled with bright tears. “Confused and frightened and foolish and completely helpless. I am piecing together half-stories from a half-dozen mismatched half-truths and all I want is for Suleiman to come back to us. Obviously my brother did not trust me enough to bring me into his confidence.” She looked away, but not before Gibran saw the tears threaten to tumble. Even though her fingers had dropped from his arm, they stood once again only a hand-span apart, and he could smell the fragrance of her hair, muskier than the jasmine, a deep, sweet smell. 129

“He did not want to endanger you,” said Gibran, and without thinking he took her wrist. At the touch of her skin a current moved through him. “There are aspects of the way things work in this city that should not concern you. That should not affect you. Suleiman wanted to protect you. He wanted to make changes so you would never have to face the ugliness.” “It is too late,” whispered Shazia. She looked down at his hand but made no effort to extract her wrist. “I knew that Shahjahanabad was an ugly place the first day we came here. The first morning I tried to leave my bed to run to the river and remembered that the river was far away. That the zenana was surrounded by high walls.” Her chin trembled, but still the bright tears in her eyes did not fall. Gibran marveled at her courage, but this time knew better than to say so. “Tell me what business my father has with Bilal Nazeem Shah.” Shazia said the words flatly, suddenly. Gibran saw that she was watching him keenly, searching his eyes for some sign. He arched an eyebrow with studied carelessness. “It is not for me to speak of your father,” he said. “That is for Suleiman to tell you. If you are, as you say, prepared to help me… to help him.” “How?” she asked, breathless. Gibran could not let her know how much it cost him to say his next words. Restraint made him harsh. “Bilal Nazeem Shah,” he said abruptly, dropping her wrist. “You must go to him. He is the one who knows where your brother is, and he is the one who can free him.” “I… I went to him already….” Shazia stammered. Unable to look at him as memories of her disgrace flooded her, she played with her bangles. The sight of the stolen bangle, bright and cheap, amidst the heavier, more precious bracelets did nothing to improve her mood. She suppressed a wince. “He gave me no cause for hope,” she said. Gibran could not help himself. He put a finger under her chin and lifted her face so that he could look full upon her. “A man will give you cause for hope only when his own hopes have cause to rise,” he said, and the caressing note came back into his voice. Her

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Midnight Flame tilted eyes were wide, uncomprehending. Her nostrils flared, but it was not his words she was responding to. It was his touch. She felt it too. The fire that danced between them. It licked their bodies equally. Gibran hated himself for what he said next, what he had to say next. I have no choice, he reminded himself. There is no other way. “Do not go to Bilal Nazeem Shah graceless and arrogant. An angry girl,” said Gibran. He knew the words would wound her, but he plunged on. He had to make her understand that her willfulness would get her nowhere. “You must go to Bilal Nazeem Shah as a woman.” As he said the word “woman,” he let his finger trace the line of her throat. Her skin was so smooth. He wanted to stroke down her shoulder and feel the impossible silk of the skin that slipped into the valley between her breasts, but he bent his fingers and hooked them on her clavicle. Like I am holding on for dear life, he thought and the image—a strong, fearless man clinging to a woman’s collarbone so that he would not drown in the flood of his own desire—amused him. What has happened to me? He asked himself. Shazia was breathing more quickly, her breasts rising and falling so that they almost skimmed his chest. Involuntarily, she was moving towards him, melting towards him. The white jasmine flowers floated in the darkness above them. A slight breeze moved through the garden and a few petals loosened, twirled down around them. “You need to succumb to him,” murmured Gibran, bending over her. “So that his pride is intact, and then he can succumb to you. That is how a woman dominates a man. By allowing him the illusion of power.” He lifted his fingers again and circled her taut, slender throat with his hand. “I could snap your neck,” he said. “But you could wither me with a word. You could cut me to ribbon with a single facet of your emerald eye….” Shazia’s eyes closed, and the kohl on her eyelids swept down like wings. Gibran put a finger on her lips. Felt their lushness through the gossamer veil. The dampness between them. The heat.

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“Your power is greater than you know,” he whispered. In another moment, he would have tugged aside his mask and plundered her mouth, her throat. Devouring her. But she stiffened. Her eyes fluttered open and the fog of passion was pierced by the awful light of comprehension. She almost staggered backward as she tried to extricate herself from the spell of his voice, his eyes, his body. Powerful! She did not feel powerful. She felt like the cobra in the market, poison sacs removed, innocuous, a pet to be played with, a pet to perform tricks when the reed pipe played. And Gibran was the snake-charmer. It was as though he could control her body with the low tone of his voice, the barest touch of a finger…. The smell of jasmine filtered down around her, the sweetness thicker and thicker, and the shining jet of his eyes seemed suddenly to fill her entire field of vision. She was extending through her torso, undulating. She felt her body swaying but could not think how it moved. Surely she was not the one telling her limbs to reach toward him. Many times she had imagined lovers meeting in a garden. Many times she had told stories of passionate encounters. The whole world ended when they touched, she would croon, Shakuntala breathless, nodding. The stars burst in the sky, leaving only the blackest radiance. A black radiance that hid them from the eyes of their pursuers but revealed them to each other… the pure flame of their love burning darkly, higher and higher, consuming them, until they spiraled into the sky and mingled with the cinders of stars. The black radiance of his eyes—it was just as she had described it. She was falling into that radiance, into him. She had no volition. She waited for his command, thrilled for his command, lived for it. She was enraptured. She would heed any suggestion. But what was he suggesting? It could not be…? Her mind could barely process the words that had passed between them. She waited for her thoughts to work again. As soon as she could understand what he had said, as soon as she could understand what profession of love he had made, she would be ready to dissolve, to explode in his arms. She waited for the words to make sense. 132

Midnight Flame You need to succumb… She drew a shuddering breath… to Bilal Nazeem Shah… and exhaled. It was as though she expelled the very life force from her body. There could be no mistaking Gibran’s meaning. Wrath wiped her mind clean of any other emotion. “Are you telling me to seduce Bilal Nazeem Shah?” She nearly spat it out, aghast, incredulous. She flung herself away from him, clung to the pungent, prickling vines of the bower as though she would tear it to pieces, then released her grip and faced him again, head flung back, hands curled into fists. “That vile, despicable old man! How could you claim to be a friend of my brother’s and—” “A woman can promise many things,” interrupted Gibran. “And if she promises sweetly, a man will sign over his soul before he realizes that she has sugared the air and left him with nothing.” “So I should be wanton and treacherous,” said Shazia, face hot with rage and shame. Gibran did not move towards her. He stood completely still, arms folded, black eyes burning like pits above the matte blackness of the shawl. “You should use your wits,” said Gibran. “Seduction is subtle. Bilal Nazeem Shah is a cruel man. He will yield only to indirection. Flatter him. Appeal to his vanity.” Shazia could not speak. She spun and fled from the bower, running through the cypresses, her jeweled robes trailing behind like the foam of river over stones. When she ran for pleasure, she felt the blood coursing through her veins, felt her chest opening, felt the air move beneath her as though lifting her in flight. She felt free. Now she felt like a hunted creature, her whole body vibrating with horror. She darted through the garden, seeking the deepest shadows. This region of the garden was mostly grove and hedge and orchard, small, low bushes and thin-limbed twisting trees that bore delicate fruits and offered little protection. The ground thudded past under her feet and she ran on, ducking behind a mango tree and leaning back against the cool dry bark, panting, gripping her sides. It couldn’t be, she thought wildly. It wasn’t fair. She was either a child, useless, worse than useless, or she was a woman of compromised virtue, trading her honor for Bilal Nazeem Shah’s 133

indulgence. Not for Bilal Nazeem Shah, came a voice in her head, for Suleiman. You said you would do anything to save him. Not this. Shazia half-sobbed, holding herself even more tightly. Men get to sacrifice their lives. They get to die fighting, the honest steel cold through their breasts. Women must sacrifice in secret, sacrifice their pride, their self-respect, and go on living, shamed in their own eyes, in the eyes of anyone who might ever have loved them, who might ever love them. In the stories she told, the endings were sometimes dark and hopeless, but even so they were pure. Bloody but noble. She would rather kill her hero and heroine than have them agree to any little betrayal of their love, any act that debased them, that humbled them and made a mockery of their ideals. Maybe her stories really were painfully ignorant, ridiculously unrealistic. Maybe nobody’s motives or actions were ever completely pure. Maybe no person was pure, and so no love could be pure. At least not here. Not in Shahjahanabad. What if her love for Suleiman brought her to behave so loathsomely? What would it mean? He would hate her if he found out. He would hate Gibran. But what if Suleiman died in a rank cell because she refused Gibran’s urging and chose the high path, chose to protect her integrity. What kind of integrity is purchased at the price of a brother’s death? Shazia’s head shot up as she heard a creaking sound. From the branch of the mango tree hung an ornate silver jhula. Gibran was standing beside it, one arm twisted in a silver chain. His black garb seemed of a piece with the shadows and she could barely make out where his broad shoulders ended and the night began. Shazia straightened herself, hands stealing under her veil to dash the bitter tears from her cheeks. She expected him to rebuke her, or worse, to cajole her, to take her wrist again in his hands and humiliate her with another demonstration of what he could do to her… what his proximity made her feel. Love would be simple if you were in the village, the voice continued speaking in her head. There would be no danger, no dishonesty. You would find yourself one day by the banks of the river, and kneeling to dip your hands, you would see dark eyes on the other bank, dark eyes gazing at you, and the man who possessed 134

Midnight Flame those eyes would not hide his face from the world with a black cloth. His head would be uncovered and he would smile at you and that would be enough, an open glance across the river, a smile passed back and forth like a wedge of mango. There were no mangoes on the mango tree in Zuben’s garden. The leaves on the tree were curling with thirst. Shazia came toward Gibran. She grasped the other chain of the swing and their eyes met. He didn’t speak. When Shazia opened her mouth, the words surprised even her. “Why do you cover your face with that shawl?” she asked, and above the black cloth his eyes widened. The silence stretched so long that she didn’t think he would ever answer. She heard the distant whisper of the trickling fountains and the whinnies of restless horses in the distant stables. “I have no face,” came the reply at last, so low she almost doubted what he said. “I’m as much a shadow as I am a man.” She couldn’t understand him, but she sensed the terrible truth in his words, nearly flinched from the raw honesty of his voice. “How will you become a man?” she whispered and felt heat rising from the center of her body, waves of heat that made her skin tingle, her head swim. The silver seat of the swing hung between them and the silver chains they gripped were like bars. What dungeon is this? Shazia thought wildly. Gibran eyes glittered. “It’s a dark path,” he said. “First I must become fully a shadow, a weapon of the night.” “But why?” gasped Shazia. “Where are you from? Who are your people? What happened to you?” Gibran released the silver chain and turned his back to her. “You must have had a mother,” Shazia cried. “You weren’t born from shadows.” When Gibran turned again to her it was as though all the darkness of the night had concentrated itself in his being. “Yes, I was,” he said, and his voice was flat and black and terrifying. “I emerged from darkness into darkness. And now, Shazia….” At the sound of her name uttered in that black voice, she started. “Will you risk the darkness for your brother?”

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Shazia drew a deep breath and released it, quivering. “Yes,” she whispered, and only her grip on the chain kept her upright. Gibran’s eyes glowed brighter. He’s a demon, thought Shazia. He’s a panther. If I pulled away the cloth I would touch the black velvet fur, the rows of brutal teeth…. “Beneath Bilal’s palace there is an underground chamber,” said Gibran, and Shazia’s entire body jerked as though lightning had struck the top of her head. The underground chamber…. Where Bilal Nazeem Shah tried to imprison his destiny…. where he locked his wife and infant sons to die…. “Suleiman is locked in there,” continued Gibran, and Shazia interrupted. “How do you know?” Gibran’s voice was scarcely audible. “In this life each man is given a sin to repeat,” he whispered, and Shazia imagined Bilal Nazeem Shah pacing back and forth before the silver door that opened onto the descending stair, the silver door that to her was part of a legend, the door of destiny, of death. “Also,” Gibran said, louder, the irony back in his voice. “We have an informant. A man on the inside. It doesn’t matter who he is,” he said, lifting a silencing finger when Shazia opened her mouth. “He told me where Suleiman is.” He moved closer to Shazia, voice silky. “Bilal Nazeem Shah wears the key to the chamber around his neck.” Shazia breathed and wrapped her jeweled fingers around the chain of the swing to prevent herself from clawing at his mask. Gibran seemed to sense her thought and came closer still. “It is impossible to get the key by force. So you must go to Bilal and convince him to take you to the chamber himself. Convince him to let you visit your brother. Convince him you are soft, weak, foolish. Weep. Lay your head on his shoulder. Go tomorrow.” Waves of revulsion came now, chilling her. How could she have felt such rippling warmth only moments ago? “What good will my visiting Suleiman do him?” Shazia asked. Gibran produced a thin curve of dark metal from his robes. “Come here,” he said softly, and when Shazia approached he reached out. For a moment, Shazia thought he would embrace her, 136

Midnight Flame but instead he clasped a thin chain around her neck. Shazia felt a slight tug as he drew back, and the weight of the metal settled against her breast. She traced the curve of the amulet. “A serpent,” she guessed. It seemed to her Gibran was smiling. “It should be gold, Shehzadi,” he said. “But alas, it is iron. However, iron is more to the purpose.” Shazia looked at him without comprehending. “Suleiman knows the meaning of this serpent?” asked Shazia. “What does it mean? Tell me, Gibran.” She hated that she was again the begging child, but she was desperate to understand. “Bring Suleiman the serpent,” said Gibran steadily. “When you return from Bilal Nazeem Shah’s, hang a blue scarf over the stone wall, over there, near the garden gate, if you succeeded. If you failed….” He took his hand from her mouth and she continued to stare at him, flame in her eyes. “Red,” he said, “A red scarf. But you will not fail.” “The serpent,” repeated Shazia. “What does it mean?” Gibran stood for a moment, helpless. She was impetuous, demanding, impossible. If he stayed there a moment longer he would seize her, rip away her veil, cover her mouth with his own plundering mouth, kindle that flame in her eyes until the fire consumed them both. “I have heard you are a storyteller,” he said, wryly. “Make believe, my dear child. It can mean whatever you want.” He began to walk away. She lunged. Her bells gave her away. He whipped around with lightning speed and spun her body against his, pinning her back to his chest and reaching for his dagger before either of them had taken a breath. Her pulse thundered against his, her breath rose raggedly from her breasts, her belly was moist against his open hand, which held her firmly in place against him. She struggled against him, but his hold did not weaken. The heat of his body seared her and his smell flooded her. He smelled nothing like other men, who stank of stale sweat and booze and sickly sweet tobaccos. He smelled like sandalwood, pepper, anise, fresh air, horses, and something else, 137

something she couldn’t identify. It wasn’t a smell like any other smell. It was Gibran’s own smell, something dark and vibratory, like the tension in the air before a storm, something that raised every hair on her body, that made her feel half-mad, skin tickling so that she longed to rub herself against him, cling to him violently, beg him to crush her even more tightly to his chest. She didn’t realize she was shaking her head until Gibran’s hand cupped the back of her skull. “You can’t defeat a man with force,” he whispered, holding her head still and drawing his dagger. Slowly, he pulled the blade along the fabric of her veil and carving a thin line through it, the blade hovering centimeters above her skin. “What will it take to convince you that your strengths lie elsewhere?” He pulled his fingers through the slit so that the lower half of the fabric slipped down, exposing her smooth skin, the curve of her proud nose, the lush line of her mouth. His fingertips grazed her lips and they parted. He turned her around to face him. “You’ve cut my veil,” said Shazia steadily, eyes boring into his. “Now remove your shawl if you’re a man.” She raised her chin higher, brought her face closer to his, her breasts brushing against him as she drew a quick breath. Challenging him with her naked beauty. Her face without the barriers of gauze was bright and clear, even in the darkness,; the green seemed to pour from her eyes. She was beautiful, ferocious, vulnerable, clearly shocked by her own daring. Gibran could read every emotion that played across those bold, expressive features. It was almost too much for him. He longed to meet her challenge, to exceed it. His face dropped towards her and the rough black fabric of the shawl grazed her lips. Her gasp was audible and she swayed backward inadvertently, but her gaze did not falter. She lifted her arm and he let her, watching the jeweled fingers approach his face, the bangles slide down the strong brown arm. Her fingertips traced the strong ridge of his brow and for the briefest of instants he let his lids drop. Shazia watched the wings of his black lashes sweep down over his magnificent eyes then veer up again, revealing those glowing black pools in which so much darkness, so much heat, 138

Midnight Flame seemed concentrated. Indeed, all the darkness, all the heat of the night was there. It hit her like a blow and convulsively she hooked her fingers in his shawl, ready to pull it from his face. But he gripped her wrist and threw her arm back against her breast. Her bangles chimed. They stared at each other. Then Shazia spoke. “Go back to your precious shadows,” she said. She stumbled away from him, reaching for the chain of the swing. He stepped forward and suddenly knelt before her. “I apologize for my arrogance, Shehzadi,” he murmured, hands behind his back as though offering himself to a knife blow. “Accept my life. Know that I would exchange it willingly for Suleiman’s.” A strange thrill raced through her as she saw him—this powerful, threatening figure—drop to his knees. She had no knife. She could not deal him a killing blow. But the gesture moved her strangely. She lowered herself to sit upon the swing. Her robes rustled and glittered as she settled on the silver seat. Gibran still knelt beside her. He had never knelt before anyone. Now he could not move. He remained, mesmerized by the play of her fingers along the links of the chain. She looked over. Her eyes sparkled. “One more question.” He nodded. Anything, anything to prolong these moments at her side before his own senses called him back to action. “Why do you concern yourself with my brother,” she asked. “Why would you give your life for his? Tell me, Gibran. What is Suleiman to you?” He gazed at her clear, open face, struck by her innocence and her intensity. “Without him, I am lost.” He closed his hand around hers, “But it is in your hands to free him.” He rose to leave. “Wait!” whispered Shazia. He waited, his back to her. Finally he turned. She looked at him, then said, “Do you have a sister?” He paused, and though she couldn’t see his face, Shazia could imagine his cold smile. “Do shadows have sisters?” he said in an odd brittle tone. “I have nothing.” And then he was gone. Shazia watched him disappear into the shadows, watched the night claim him. She lay back on the jhula and let the breeze rock 139

her slightly. The breeze seemed to carry the scent of him. She shut her eyes and breathed a deep, shuddering breath. Go to Bilal Nazeem Shah as a woman. That I will not do, she thought. I cannot. Suleiman lay in the underground chamber, the nightmare chamber, behind the silver door. Bilal Nazeem Shah possessed the key. I will not beg favors from a beast, she thought. Gibran is not the only one who can ride at night, masking his face and lurking in shadows. She would raise the stakes of the game, and rescue her brother on her own terms.

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Chapter Seven It was the dead of night, but Ahmad was already awake when the shouting began. He stood motionless in his dark chamber. One candle guttered in a wall niche, sending overblown shadows up and down the intricately carved pilasters. A few moments earlier he had rolled fitfully to the side of his bed, swung his legs over the edge, and hurtled to his feet. For Ahmad, it seemed like every night brought fewer hours of rest. He had raked a hand through his mussed hair and shaken his arms and legs so that the blood rushed to the fatigued muscles before pulling on a pair of simple cotton jamas and a lightweight cotton shirt. He would walk to the Yamuna, he’d decided. He would walk to the boat launch and climb between the ropes and moorings, picking out the strange shapes of the marvelous ships. Pleasure barges fitted with fins, scales, and tails of wicker so that they resembled fishes, swans, and mythical beasts. Small ships with masts moving back and forth as the ships rocked in the currents, like metronomes. Ticking away the long moments of the sleepless evening. Ahmad liked to lean on the moorings and look out at the dim chaos of angles and curves, eyes tracking the jutting prows to their bold limits, or falling on humble skiffs, almost invisible, bobbing darkly on the calmer waters nearest the banks. How many times had he considered clambering along a rough wet length of rope, dragging himself up the steep sides of a sailing ship, and hauling anchor, hoisting sail, letting the wind push him away from Shahjahanabad? As a boy he would escape his chamber, climb down the wisteria vines and creep through the gardens. His instinct was to destroy. He would shake guavas from the trees and bat them furiously at his father’s library with a dead banyan branch. He liked the sound of the soft fruits popping on the marble, the wet mess of seeds and flesh sliding and sticking, leaving unsightly deposits. He trampled 141

roses so that their full, red heads snapped off their slender stems. The thorns caught the threads of his pants, put little holes in the fabric, dug into his skin. Afterwards, blood would run down his calves from the myriad scratches. The stinging pain he felt was part of the pleasure. Only when his thirst for destruction had been slaked would he slink away from the library and the mosque and his father’s domed mansions and audience halls. He would enter the courtyard of the zenana. As soon as he passed through the arched gate, a different kind of pressure would build in his chest. Not fury. Something nameless. It was worse than fury, because he didn’t know what to do to make it go away, to extinguish it. It was a feeling that couldn’t be cured with aggression. If he swarmed up one of the zenana's walls, ruined the floral motifs of the jali screens with a few well-aimed blows from a rock, it wouldn’t do any good. It wouldn’t release that pressure, that strange, strangulating emotion that rested on his heart and rose up his throat. Ahmad would sit on his mother’s bench. He would kick his feet in the dirt, trying to disguise his confusion with angry movements. He would get on his knees and lean over the beds of marigolds, feeling the damp, almost furry heads with his palms. He didn’t crush them. His touch was caressing, gentle. Each bed glowed like a small patch of daylight in the lonely night. Finally, Ahmad would abandon the zenana. He would wind through the outer gardens and take the path the servants trod morning after morning as they brought the linens to the river. As his wanderings brought him farther and farther from the mansions and buildings that housed his father and his household staff, he would become aware of the man who trailed him, the man whose job it was to ensure he didn’t stray too far. Most often it was Saif Bijapuri, Ahmad’s tutor, who shuffled noisily through the hedges that lined the paths, trying to stay just out of sight. What did his father think he was going to do? Ahmad would wonder. Did he think that Ahmad would vault the western wall and run on foot into the city? Did he think Ahmad would forge across the wide Yamuna and flee into the wilderness? What kind of life would that be, living like a beast in the forest, clothing tattered, hair long and uncombed, eating berries and whatever small game he 142

Midnight Flame could kill with a hand-fashioned spear. But then again, Ahmad would think, standing on the banks of that lazy river, straining to see across, to glimpse the potential future that beckoned on the other side. Then again, what kind of life was this? Really, though, he had no chance of freedom. If he had ever tried to dive into the river, maybe swim to a ship, steer towards the south, he would scarcely have broken the surface of the water before he was dragged back to shore. Thrown on the banks. Beaten. Guarded even more closely. He was quicker and more limber than his tutor, even as a child, but the man carried a long reed pipe and in a moment could emit a high, thin whistle to summon the haveli’s entire regiment. Some of the soldiers even bunked in clumsy shacks along the Yamuna, a stone’s throw away. Ahmad would look at the water, at the ships, at the dim horizon, and then he would ascend the path and return to his dark, stale chamber. The only consolation for the odd, thwarted feeling that lingered after his evening escapades was Saif Bijapuri's pallid face the morning after, the way his puffy eyelids drooped as he summed rows of figures in Ahmad’s study books. It was gratifying enough to make Ahmad forget his own weariness. Yet, as the years went on, the limited scope of his wanderings frustrated him more acutely. He couldn’t find satisfaction in hacking hibiscus with his hunting knife or polluting his father’s largest fountain with a handful of dirt. Down among the ships at the river bank, looking up at the city—the Emperor’s palace fortress high on the bluff, his father’s palace buildings screened by cypress trees, only the glowing lamps in the upper stories of his father’s mansions visible, and the sparkling minaret of the mosque—he felt the whole weight of Shahjahanabad, all that marble and sandstone, crushing him. Driving him down into the silt. He felt like he was the mooring for the whole city. His immobility, his suffering, kept the palaces, with their gem-encrusted walls and gold-leaf domes, from floating away. Wasn’t that the nature of the prophecy? Didn’t the astrologer say as much to his father? Your fortunes will scatter like dust to the winds if these boys reach manhood.

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His father never spoke to him of prophecies, of astrologers, of the past or the future. But in the stables, combing his sweat-flecked stallion, Ahmad had heard careless soldiers and stable-hands joking, their frank speculations drifting over the stalls. And he still remembered what his father had said to him that long-ago morning when the guards dragged him back from the bazaar. It wasn’t escape but adventure that had been on his mind when he woke before the cock’s crow to smuggle himself through the haveli gates in the back of a wagon, nestled beneath broken horse tack from the stables, taking little gulps of foul air. Over the rattle of the wagon, he could hear the shrill voices of haggling women, the cries of hawkers, the squawks of chickens, the bleats of goats. He could barely wait until the wagon had rolled to a stop before bursting from his hiding place and racing through the maze of stalls. When the guards finally found him, it was midday. Hot. The air closer and more fetid in Chandni Chowk than in his father’s gardens, which opened onto the Yamuna and were freshened by riverine breezes. He was dangling his feet into the canal that ran through the center of the bazaar, stuffing his mouth with sesame candies and doling out yet more candies to the other young boys, peddlers’ sons and beggars, who crouched beside him, suspicious and pleased by the presence of such a finely dressed noble, so generous with his sweets. Ahmad himself was so delighted by the camaraderie that he’d almost forgotten his lonely existence back in the opulent palace, almost forgotten his elegant but severe father, almost forgotten Saif Bijapuri and the soldiers who monitored his activities. His new world was this hot, crowded, noisy bazaar. He was part of a new tribe, a tribe of boys, dirty and devious. Who cared if he’d bought their favor? Soon he would earn it with his daring deeds, his ability to scale great heights, his speed, his accuracy throwing stones. Soon the boys would be his friends. Friends. The idea was intoxicating. Ahmad grinned, the taste of sesame in his mouth, the sun on his face. At that moment, the soldiers burst through the throngs of shoppers. Soldiers in green jackets that bore his father’s gold insignia.

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Midnight Flame Before Ahmad could register what was happening, the soldiers swarmed the canal. They kneed the shouting mass of skinny, raggedly dressed boys roughly into the dark water. Ahmad tried to jump in after them but was caught around the wrist by a guard. Ahmad kicked, dragging the soldiers who held him toward the edge of the canal. His eyes were locked on the dark, churning limbs in the channel below him, and he stared into the face of one openmouthed boy as he surfaced in the water. The boy’s head looked small and round with the hair slicked flat, and his dark face held a shame and fury that Ahmad recognized. It was the mirror of his own. Then he was jerked away from the canal and back to the haveli. In the private audience hall, Bilal Nazeem Shah was sitting on a green silk cushion, facing his favorite wall hanging. He shifted slowly as the soldiers dragged Ahmad to the dais, but he did not rise. He expelled a stream of white smoke from his mouth, the white smoke drifting up, cleaving his black mustache so that it suddenly resembled two black horns. Two black, downward-sloping horns, like the horns of an animal that has lowered it head to charge. Bilal Nazeem Shah smiled. “So you have seen Shahjahanabad,” he said. “And what do you think?” “It’s dusty,” said Ahmad after a pause. His father was still smiling, so he continued: “It’s dusty and loud. It’s hot. I like the other boys. I met a boy named Hussein whose father is a great butcher. He owns many butcher shops and Hussein says that even we have eaten goats butchered in his father’s shops. He said he would show me his father’s knives.” Ahmad could not hold his excitement in check and the words spilled forth, faster and faster. “I met another Ahmad!” he cried. “He is nothing like me, though. He has a scar on his cheek like a spider-web because he was in the village and a crazy man hit him with a fence-post and all the splinters went into his cheek and festered. He said his village, I forget what it’s called, has a waterfall and you jump from the rocks into a deep pool. He said there’s one ledge, very high up, that none of the boys has ever jumped from and I told him I would jump from it and he didn’t believe me, but I would! I would jump from the 145

ledge! He said I should come to his village and show him, because it is easy to talk of things big and small, and another thing to stand on a wet rock with pounding water all around you. Taariq, I think it was Taariq, said—” “I am sure Taariq had many things to say,” interrupted Bilal, his face still unperturbed, the faint smile playing on his lips. “Many things are said in Chandni Chowk.” Ahmad couldn’t look away from his father’s lips, the curving red line with the black horns on either side. “Chandni Chowk is no place for you. There are dangers there. Dangers are hidden even in the piles of sesame candies.” Ahmad started. How did his father know about the sesame candies? A cold feeling crept up his spine. Bilal Nazeem Shah stood and came toward Ahmad. Ahmad’s nostrils quivered as he caught the thick sweet scent of apple tobacco. He had to tip back his head to look into his father’s face. That red lip. Those black horns. “My son,” said Bilal Nazeem Shah, one hand on Ahmad’s shoulder, the other stroking the tip of the left horn, the left mustache. “Shahjahanabad is not safe. You must stay within our walls, where I can be sure of you.” Seeing the puzzled expression in Ahmad’s eyes, Bilal Nazeem Shah paused. He said carefully, “That is to say, where you will be secure.” Ahmad nodded mutely. Where I can be sure of you. The words rang strangely in his head, then, and forever after. Where I can be sure of you. For how could his father ever be sure of him? What could Ahmad do to discredit the stars? A man can do nothing to change his fate. The only way to fight fate is to cease to be a man. Ahmad could turn to stone. He could sink into the earth. He could disappear. He could die. “But I am not stone,” Ahmad had thought in his dark bedroom, lifting his broad forearms and holding them in front of his face. He inspected the golden skin, dusky with shadow. Thick veins snaked from his wrists across the backs of his forearms and across the more vulnerable skin of his inner arms. Blood ran in the veins. Hot blood. No, he was not stone. And he would not bury himself so that his father could use him as a mooring, an anchor, a cornerstone. He would not die. 146

Midnight Flame His rage made his blood run faster, hotter. It felt good. He started for the door. That was when he heard the shouting. The cry of his father’s night guard, old Saun Singh. Saun Singh had been as old as the Yamuna even when Ahmad was a child. Ahmad almost laughed at the creaky sound of the man’s voice. Poor Saun Singh, he thought. A man half-blind with age shouldn’t be posted outside a door and ordered to keep his eyes open. It served no one. Then he heard his father’s deep voice joined to Saun Singh’s thin rasp. “Thief,” his father bellowed. “Thief!” Now that Bilal Nazeem Shah had raised a cry, reverberations were spreading through the mansion. Servants began to stir. Footsteps sounded in the halls. Outside, soldiers began to rouse themselves in their barracks. Ahmad heard the dogs begin to howl and the soldiers cursing as they collided with one another in the darkness. He thought of running towards his father’s chamber but disregarded the impulse in less than an instant. Everyone would be running through the halls. However, unless the thief was a fool, he would not be running the halls. Ahmad had climbed out the windows and balconies of the palace too many times not to anticipate what a thief’s route would be when fleeing pursuers in the night. Over the balcony. Down the wisteria. Out through the garden. Ahmad raced to his balcony, leaped to the balustrade with an easy stride, and swung his body over the thick marble, lowering himself swiftly, every muscle in his back and stomach clenched. He got a foot on one of the wisteria vines and released one hand’s grip on the balustrade to grab another vine. Hand over hand, he descended, dropping the final ten feet to the ground. He was running before he’d fully risen, launching himself forward from a crouch. He circled the palace, moving not toward the porticoes of the front entranceway where the soldiers were gathering, but toward his father’s back balcony, the wide balcony that faced the Yamuna. He could see a shadow moving, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness. It was only the flutter of cloth, the slight disturbance in the air, the sense of dark momentum

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disrupting the stillness of the night that gave the shadow away. The shadow. The thief. Ahmad sprinted towards the departing form. He plunged through a line of cypress trees, the springy, sharply scented branches tearing at his shirt and hair, and burst out again, glimpsing the motion of the thief as he ran ahead down the slope and into the orchard. Ahmad ran even faster, breath exploding in his ears, legs burning. The thief was putting more distance between them, darting like a dark wind through the gnarled apple trees and the delicate plums. Ahmad forced himself to run faster. His strides were long and fluid, his trained muscles contracting and extending, catapulting him forward, but still the thief ran ahead, moving so lightly over the grass, leaping so deftly over the roots, that Ahmad began to wonder if he was chasing a djinn. Could any man run so fast? Then Ahmad saw the thief veer to the left, into the oldest and thickest part of the orchard, presumably in an attempt to hide somewhere amid the wild tangles of trees and vines and roots. Ahmad smiled to himself grimly. He knew this part of the orchard intimately. It was his favorite retreat, a rugged idyll where even the sun could not penetrate, leaving him in peace with his thoughts. His father allowed this part of the orchard to retain its quaint chaos, its wilderness of competing thorns and vine-wrapped branches. Ahmad wasn’t sure why. It didn’t seem likely his father would appreciate and preserve the gorgeous savageries of the untouched trees, but it seemed impossible that any section of the grounds—no matter how remote from the haveli—would escape his notice. Ahmad could only assume his father had decided to surrender control in this one corner of the garden, giving the land over to Allah, an inviolable acre, untouched, like the first garden, that garden that grew abundantly without man’s design or labors. The reasons for the crowded patch of fruit trees and thickets did not preoccupy Ahmad overmuch. He loved it. That was enough. And the thief would soon find himself slowed, confused, trapped in the briers and branches. Ahmad forced his body to move faster and with a final burst of speed he closed the distance between himself and the fleeing

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Midnight Flame shadow, just as they reached the central clearing of the wild orchard. Ahmad threw himself squarely into the retreating back, knocking the thief to the ground. The impact of an elbow in his side took his breath away as he landed in the leaves, the thief partially beneath him. Ahmad winced and rolled to the side, giving the thief the opportunity to roll over. Ahmad recovered quickly and tackled the thief around the middle, knocking him back into the leaves. Fists hammered his shoulders and Ahmad caught the surprisingly narrow wrists in one hand and pinned them to the earth. The thief was now fully pinned, though fighting wildly. For a moment, the thief went limp. Then Ahmad felt the quivering muscles, felt the thief’s body tighten, and so he was prepared when the thief bucked against him, trying to lift a knee into his groin. Ahmad gripped the wrists tighter. “Give up,” he chided. “I’m by far stronger than you, though I must say, you may be faster! But I suppose speed is more valuable than strength in your profession.” In response to these mocking words, the thief squirmed and thrashed with renewed vigor. Ahmad laughed low in his throat at the frantic, useless efforts to dislodge him. Did he have a young boy in his clutches? Ahmad wondered. The thief was quick and bold, spirited in his resistance, but his attacks were woefully untutored. “You’re not a brawler or a murderer, that much is obvious,” said Ahmad. “I won’t let them say that about you, though I imagine you’ll be accused of many things before the night is out.” He spoke in a hushed voice, conscious that the impenetrable dark of the orchard muffled sound, as though silence were a property of the darkness. He felt strangely hesitant to shatter the quiet, and his words sounded harsh in his ears. Perhaps he needed to catch his breath after the long run. Ahmad stilled himself, letting his bodyweight settle, crushing the slender figure into the ground. He felt the thief’s heart beating through the thin cotton of their shirts, felt the length of the legs beneath him, one leg nestled between his own, the other lying along the outside of his left thigh. He realized, not without amusement, 149

that the thief was trying to kick him with his free leg, impotent blows with the heel, without the leverage needed to create any significant impact. “The persistence is admirable,” said Ahmad dryly. “But you should save your energy for explanations. What were you doing in my father’s chamber?” The thief shook his head, indicating his refusal to speak. Ahmad put a hand on the thief’s neck, lowering his own head threateningly. “It will go better for you if you answer me,” he said, the humor banished from his voice. As the thief shook his head more frantically, Ahmad caught the sweet scent of roses mixed with muskier tones of amber. Almost against his will, he moved his hand from the thief’s neck, feeling in the dark until he touched the cloth that wrapped the thief’s head. Ahmad pulled gently on the cloth. The thief arched his back, trying to pin the cloth between the back of his head and the ground. As he arched, his torso pressed against Ahmad’s and Ahmad drew a quick breath as he felt an unmistakable fullness brush against him. The fullness of two ripe, curving breasts. Ahmad gave the cloth a final tug and he heard the coils of thick hair tumble free, slapping the leaves, releasing their perfume into the night. A moan strangling in his throat, Ahmad dropped his head, trying to penetrate the darkness, to make out the features of the girl he’d chased to this forgotten glade. He became aware, suddenly, of the sultry night air, the thick heat that pressed from all sides. By day, the interlocking tree limbs of the orchard created a canopy that plunged the understory into a damp, cool shade. But at night, the dampness failed to produce the same cooling effect. Ahmad realized his body was dripping with sweat. He shifted his weight, trying to put a few inches of air between his body and his captive’s, but he only succeeded in creating a feathery zone of erratic, stroking contacts, infinitely more intimate than the solid pressure of his initial assault. How could he have mistaken this luscious figure for a boy’s? Now every nerve in his body seemed to fire at once, alerting him to every dip and rise of her flesh. He moved his hand down the side of her face, letting it slip over the 150

Midnight Flame bold contours of her cheek, the silken skin of the high cheekbone, the long, firm line of the jaw. His finger brushed the moist fullness of her lips. He felt them part as she sucked in her breath and he knew she was wondering whether or not to bite. “What are you?” he whispered into the darkness. “A thief?” She bared her teeth and tried to snap at his fingers, but he pulled his hand away too quickly. “So you are a tigress?” he whispered. “Is that what you’re telling me? Yours is a language of tooth and claw? Have you no words? You could purr for me, my little cat. That would become you better….” He could make out the gleam of her eyes and the gleam of her teeth, still bared. He let his hand slide down the side of her body, feeling the curve of her ribs, the gentle dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. “Will you speak?” he asked. “Or do I need to find what you took from my father?” He knew his lips were near her ear because he felt the silky strands of hair against his cheek. She turned her head to the side so that her face was almost buried in her shoulder, and he felt his own breath warm against her throat. Her whole body was trembling? With fear? Finally she spoke, and her voice was unafraid: “You have no right to touch me,” she snarled, her tone husky and low. Ahmad lifted himself up, propping on an elbow, his legs still firmly holding hers to the ground. It was driving him mad, the relentless darkness of the orchard, the veil of shadow obscuring her features as surely as a mask. He wanted to see the lines of her face, to see the proud cheekbone, the hollowed cheek, the deep red of the lips he’d felt with his thumb. Without sight, his other senses were too inflamed. The sound of her rapid breathing. The feel of her heart beating. Her smooth, hot skin. The fullness of her breasts. The firmness of her thighs. The musky-sweet scent of her hair. The light, citrus scent of her sweat. The dampness he felt with his lips when he pressed them near her ear. It was too much. He couldn’t endure another moment. She had been caught stealing from his father’s chamber. He had chased her through the garden, chased her to ground, seized her, won her. She was his. A thief. A prisoner. Why 151

did he feel as though he were the prisoner? He was sure his weight was crushing her, bruising that silken skin, but his own agony was greater. The thin cotton between their bare skins tormented him. He wanted to tear it off, feel her skin growing slippery beneath his touch, hear her breathing become more ragged, hear her moan. He realized that he knew her face already, had always known it, the gorgeous, furious girl from the courtyard. Shazia Wali Dad. He knew that her eyes were green. Dark green. Green even in the darkness. Like emeralds in the depths of fire. He hadn’t been able to forget that shade of green. Green wine. Green star on the fringe of the sky. He had been with women before, never here, in the orchard, but down by the Yamuna. He’d met them under cover of darkness, dark nights like this one, and pulled them down into the soft grasses. They were playful, accommodating lovers, some of them years older than him and wise in the ways of women and men—dancing girls, concubines, lady’s maids. Not one of them had made his body burn and quake like an exploding star. Suddenly the girl jerked her head, snapping again with her teeth. In his reverie, in his torment, he had let his face drift too close to hers. What was it about her? Her snarling mouth. The way she ran like a jungle cat. Her body was so supple, so strong. “You have no right to touch me,” she said again, voice shaking. He smiled at her in the dark, an arrogant smile, knowing she would hear the smile in his voice. “My dear thief,” he said. “I have every right in the world.” And with that, he claimed her lips with his. As soon as his mouth covered hers, Shazia’s mind went blank with fear. For the first time in that long night, she felt powerless against it, emptied out, unable to fight or scream or even think. She was suffocating beneath his body, the massive bulk of him covering her, his hard thigh between her legs, his hipbone pressing into the “V” where her legs met, causing a strange fullness to grow in her belly, an aching heat. She wanted to squirm away, but every motion only increased the sweet ache. She tried to groan her frustration, but his hot lips were everywhere, nipping her lips, her chin, her 152

Midnight Flame throat. His tongue was sliding between her teeth and she was too dizzied to bite. She thought dimly that she might battle him with her tongue, but as soon as she thrust her tongue forward he met it with his own in a gentle, insinuating motion. It made her body burn, made her slide her tongue all around his, made her want more, made her give over even more completely to his demanding kiss. She was drowning, drowning and burning at once. It wasn’t fair, this double destruction. It wasn’t possible. How could salt waves consume her even an incandescent flames burst from inside her belly, inside the cavity of her chest? She wondered—insanely, she knew—if her body were lit up from within. Could he see light pouring from within her? Could he look through her skin and see her dark red heart fluttering, illuminated, the blood sparkling in its miniature waterways, the whole inside of her body strung with the tiniest lamps? How was he doing this to her, this golden archer from the garden? This relentless pursuer? She felt the same fierce elation surging through her that she always felt when she’d been running, when she’d merged her being and her body, unified in the ecstasy of her movement, her vitality. She felt the same elation, but it was also different. Alien. No longer hers to control. It was as though she had reached the limit of her body and found that beyond the limit there was more. There was another body, a golden body as vital, as luminous as her own. How could she contain it all? She would break. She would shatter into points of light. His lips moved down her throat. His teeth grazed her nipples through the thin cotton shirt. She thrashed her head against the leaves. Little stones nestled against her spine and she tried to focus on the discomfort, tried not to melt into the liquid heat of his mouth, his hands. Shazia could never have predicted that her adventure would bring her to this orchard. That she would be confronted with this insatiable foe. She had known that she was being impetuous, maybe foolish, disregarding Gibran’s command. He had wanted her to approach Bilal openly, dressed in bold colors, provocatively arrayed in jewels. He had wanted her to flatter him, to cajole him, to sway and bend and let him appreciate her young body. No, she had screamed deep inside her very soul, no, no, no, a thousand times no! 153

She couldn’t parade herself before her enemy, endure his greasy eyes and foul smile and horrid, indecent leers. How could Gibran think that she could? He was a man and though, like all men, he spoke of woman’s honor, he didn’t understand that what he asked was impossible. He asked her to sacrifice her dignity, her selfrespect, her soul. All the next day after their encounter in the garden, she had wandered gloomily around the zenana, thinking, railing against him, trying to forget his scent, the feel of his hard muscles against her, the blacker than black gleam of his eyes above the shawl. She would sacrifice her soul for her brother, she would, she said to herself. But only if it was the only option. And it was not. Gibran had not been able to convince her that it was. The day had seemed to stretch on endlessly and at last she had gone to bed, refusing Shakuntala's request that she tell a story. One of the stories about the princess and the handsome thief in the bazaar, begged Shakuntala, but Shazia could not summon any words. She blew out her candle in silence and Shakuntala settled down on her mat, disappointed but sympathetic to her mistress's dark mood. Shazia had waited three long hours after the night watch sounded the midnight bell. Then she ran lightly to the stables, where she slipped the bridle around her gray mare. She rode swiftly and surely through the dark city, along the wide, main road, the curve of the archer’s bow, until she could ride down to the river, weaving her horse through the fronds along the water’s edge. When she saw the Emperor’s palace fortress before her on the bluff, she knew that Bilal Nazeem Shah’s palace was up the hill, behind the cypress and poplars. She ground-tied her mare and loped up the long slope. The night was obscenely dark, but she felt alert, alive, almost giddy with excitement. She couldn’t be sure which balcony of the main palace building led to Bilal’s chamber, but she guessed it was the largest one, and she climbed easily up the thick lattice of vines, her muscles protesting as she hauled herself over the balustrade, but supporting her weight regardless. Even at that moment, standing on the balcony of Bilal Nazeem Shah in the middle of the night, she did not feel daunted. She felt emboldened. The chambers were dark, smelling of huqqa smoke 154

Midnight Flame and sandalwood incense and a medley of attars. Her feet fell lightly on the cotton floor-coverings. She knocked over a huqqa but it landed on a cushion, which muffled the sound and kept the delicate glass from shattering. Where would Bilal Nazeem Shah put the key to her brother’s cell? A gentle snore reached her ears and she realized she stood in Bilal’s bedroom, that the dark form on the low bed was Bilal himself, deep in sleep. Her eyes struggled to identify other shapes in the low light of the burning tapers. The key could be in any one of those parquet boxes. She started forward, but her foot hit a carafe and it toppled with a small crash. Bilal inhaled his next snore and with a choking sound, sat up. Shazia dropped to the ground, trying to hide, to evade his befuddled gaze, but she could not drop before he had sensed the presence of an intruder. And not before she caught the glint around his bare throat. A heavy chain from which dangled a single key. She was running before he could shout, but the shouts followed quick at her heels. As she flung herself over the balcony she thought for an instant that she would fall, that her sweating palms couldn’t grip the vines, that her arms had gone limp, but before she knew it, she was on the ground. She was running, running, running toward her horse. This was what she was born to do. She ran and her fear became speed. She ran faster than she’d ever done before, and though she glanced over her shoulder and saw the silhouette of a man, she did not imagine for a moment that he would catch her. That anyone could catch her. When she felt the impact knock the wind from her, she was more surprised than terrified. It was with disbelief that she fought her impossibly muscular aggressor. He subdued her in a moment. She lay incredulously beneath him, smelling the spicy scent of his skin, like cardamom and pepper and something even warmer, cayenne and cinnamon. She couldn’t see the golden tone of his skin, the black magic of his long, thickly lashed eyes, but there was no mistaking the powerful muscles, the length and girth of Bilal’s son. Ahmad. Now Ahmad was kissing her, stroking her, humiliating her with her own reactions to his touch. “Stop,” she begged, not meaning to debase herself with pleading, but unable to help herself. His lips moving down between her 155

breasts seemed to be turning golden keys in the locks that held her body together. She would fly apart. “Stop,” she whispered, but it was a moan. Meaningless. Why hadn’t she listened to Gibran? Gibran, dark as this very night, who wanted to help her, to help her brother. Dark Gibran, to whom she was drawn in the same way that wild hearts are drawn to the abyss. She had wanted to leap into him, without knowing what or who he was, a leap of faith…. And now she was writhing in the arms of another! An enemy! The son of Bilal Nazeem Shah! For all she knew, he had played a role in her brother’s capture. Resistance surged back through her passion-drugged limbs and she swung her arm, dealing a glancing blow to his hard cheekbone. “Stop,” she grated, and surprisingly, he stopped. He sat back on his heels and she scrambled away, hair wild, clothing disarranged, breath coming in short gasps. For a moment she didn’t move. She could sense him regarding, her but the darkness made it impossible to find his eyes. She felt them as if the night itself were now her captor, the dark rays of the night stroking her face, her bare arms. She wanted to speak, to scream at him, to fly at him and strike him, to fly back into his arms…. In her anguished confusion, she merely cried out once, fierce and inarticulate, a battle cry, before bounding through the clearing and running once more, running, running, out of the orchard and down to the river where her horse still waited, grazing. She had failed, failed herself, failed Gibran, failed her brother. She had made much of her virtue, only to moan in the arms of a man in Bilal's dark garden. For that matter, the night before, when she'd met Gibran in the raat ki rani, had been as almost as dangerous and twice as unseemly, for she'd knowingly gone to a rendezvous with a man. Gone alone to meet a man and let him touch her. At least tonight it had been her foolhardiness that put her in proximity to a man's touch. Her lips felt bruised and her breasts ached. The fabric that grazed her nipples was an agony. She wasn't meant for the games men and women played in Shahjahanabad. She felt sickened. 156

Midnight Flame What if she went to Bilal in the morning and begged for Suleiman's release on her knees? Humbled herself and promised Bilal that she and her brother would leave Shahjahanabad, would never set foot in the city again? She and Suleiman would ride through the Ajmiri gates, ride until they saw Mumsa's crooked old silhouette rising from the riverbank. That would be the end of all these tribulations. But what about mother, about father, thought Shazia. What about Shakuntala. What about Gibran and whatever it was he and Suleiman were fighting for? Escape would not be so easy. Shazia rode so swiftly back to her father's haveli that the tears dried on her cheeks before they could fall.

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Chapter Eight The next day dawned cruelly. Every muscle in Shazia's body screamed as she shifted in bed, forcing her eyelids open, because the sounds around her, and the hot light streaming against her face, told her it was well past the hour for waking. Immediately she saw Shakuntala's worried face hovering over her. “Are you ill, Shehzadi?” came the soft, concerned voice and Shazia smothered a groan, shutting her eyes again. She couldn't have slept more than a few hours. By the time she returned to the haveli, stealthily stabled her horse, stole through the garden and back to the zenana, the night was past its darkest hours. The sun was threatening to rise as she crept into her bed and she didn't know how long she'd lain awake, her body trembling, her mind a jumble of shame, fear, and rage. What would she tell Gibran? How could she excuse her defiance, defiance that had proved so woefully misguided, so futile? Just as she had been about to drift off, a new thought made her sit bolt upright. Had Ahmad recognized her? She frantically reviewed his speech, blushing as she recalled his words, his tone. He hadn't indicated that he knew her, that he connected her with the parrot girl who had appeared so boldly, and so ridiculously, in the courtyard. But their faces had been so… close. Shazia bit her lip, remembering. She'd never put her face so close to another person's. His tongue had gone inside her mouth, deep inside. She would have thought that kind of action would be slimy, disgusting, froglike—the sort of vile thing initiated by a monster like Mansoor—but instead, the feel of his tongue in her mouth had been hot and slippery and impossibly good, so good she'd wanted to draw his tongue deeper inside her, so good she'd felt the heat of their joined mouths sending licks of flames through her whole body. Maybe their faces had been too close for Ahmad to see her. He would know her again if he felt her lips beneath his. 158

Midnight Flame But he won't! thought Shazia. How would something like that ever happen again? It wouldn't. It couldn't. The son of Bilal Nazeem Shah fondling her on the bare earth. It was shocking. She had to forget all about it, every second of the encounter, every unspeakable sensation. She had to put the whole night out of her head forever. Not until she told Gibran. She wouldn't tell him about Ahmad— she couldn’t, for even alone in the dark her face burned—but she would have to tell him about her colossal mistake, her flight from the palace in the night. He would ask if anyone had seen her, could possibly have recognized her. And she would say no. Ahmad hadn't recognized her. Or had he? And if he had, would he tell? The captive prince. He held her fate captive, as surely as he'd held her body captive only a few hours ago. Shazia bit off a cry of pain as Shakuntala touched her shoulder. The tendons in her neck felt like they'd been wound to the snapping point. “Shehzadi, what's wrong?” Shakuntala was speaking louder, her alarmed voice hitting a shrill, carrying note. “Nothing,” Shazia gasped, fearful lest Shakuntala's words be overheard by the other ladies and maids of the zenana. “I'm only stiff. A chill in the night….” She trailed off, aware of the absurdity of her words. The night had been hot. A stifling, sultry heat. She was a wonderful storyteller, but a terrible liar. How could that be? She wondered. Why did the words flow like water from a fountain when she was telling tales… pure, cascading… and thud like stones in the dust when she was trying to deceive? Was it because she believed her own stories? Hadn't everything that happened been teaching her that her stories were lies? She covered her face with her arms and caught the scent of her skin, the musky scent of dead leaves and horse lather, another reminder of the previous evening. She threw back her arms. She knew she should be thinking of Suleiman, always Suleiman, locked up or worse, but she couldn't help wondering what this ordeal would do to her. How would this harsh encounter with the uncloaked world of Shahjahanabad affect her? Would she become a better liar? Or would her stories dry up?

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Would she find her mouth filled with dust, like the basins of her father's languishing fountains? She set her lips in a firm line, looked up into Shakuntala's worried face. “I'm fine,” she said, “but I do feel unwell. The night did not agree with me.” Shakuntala's eyes widened and she darted a glance around her, leaning closer over her mistress. “There's no one about,” she breathed. “Ralsa, Dilbar, Arooj, and Sayeeda are all playing cards with your mother, to distract her, and the lady's maids are at their washing. You can tell me anything,” she continued. “Tell me about the night. Was it dreams that troubled you? Or was it something else? Oh, tell me. I don't want to know if it's something dreadful, but I do want to know. Did you do something dangerous? But I was right here, sleeping beside you, what could it have been? Don't tell me. Oh tell me.” Shazia almost laughed at Shakuntala's earnest, dizzied pleading. “I can't tell you about last night,” she said and felt the slight girl's body droop with mingled relief and disappointment. Shazia sat up and took Shakuntala by the shoulders, pulling her onto the bed so the two girls sat crosslegged, facing each other. “I'll tell you a story,” Shazia said. “A story about a different night. A different night in a different city. A small city surrounded by rivers and forests with a great palace on a high hill and the mansions of the noblemen spread out on the slopes of the hill, each mansion vying with all the others for magnificence. Every night a dark horseman rode through the city and every night an archer with golden skin stood on the palace walls and tried to shoot him with an arrow. Every night the horseman rode the same straight avenue that passed by the palace, passed within arrow's flight of the waiting archer, and every night the archer's arrow flew past the horseman, sometimes grazing his turban or the withers of his black stallion. A poor young woman of the city who could not sleep at night because her father was sick and coughed and moaned in the shack until dawn had taken to wandering the same road the horseman traveled. For several nights she observed the ritual—the horseman riding at the same pace, at the same time, and the archer firing the same shot, each time just the smallest bit off the mark. She couldn't 160

Midnight Flame understand it. Why did they do this night after night? Why couldn't the archer hit his mark?” asked Shazia. “Why couldn't the horseman pick a different path?” Shakuntala drew her knees into her chest and shook her head gravely, brow puckered with confusion. “Because then it would be over,” said Shazia. “The nightly ritual. The risk. The game between men. And if the young woman had tried to intervene, had run out into the road to prevent what she imagined was inevitable bloodshed, it's a toss up whether she would have been pierced with an arrow or trampled under the horse's hooves.” Shakuntala grabbed Shazia's hand impulsively. The palm was rough, chapped. “Politics, war, religion,” said Shazia. “It's all games, games played between men. The ones who want the game to continue are the winners because the game never stops. It's the ones who think that it can end, that there will be a victor when the game is over, who are the fools. It's the playing that makes men men. There's nothing else. I didn't understand. I still don't understand.” Shakuntala was stroking her hand. Now she raised the hand to Shazia's lips and pressed them closed with the curled fingers. “You need rest, Shehzadi,” she said. “You need to be bathed and soothed. You'll be able to understand more than you think once your body is relaxed.” Shazia stood, swayed, her inner thighs screaming from the furious gallop. “No,” she said, amused at her own shakiness, and at her own stubbornness, before the look in Shakuntala's eyes and the sensation in her own aching limbs melted her wayward resistance. Shakuntala was probably right. “Yes,” she consented. “I mean, yes,” and Shakuntala almost ran from her in her eagerness to prepare the masseuses for Shazia's arrival. **** Shazia entered the chamber in loose robes. The room was dimly lit by lanterns, a shaft high in the wall spilling sunlight onto a gleaming wooden platform. Tiny bells sounded to signal the 161

approach of her masseuse, a woman, also robed. Frankincense and herbs burned in metal bowls at the corners of the room. The woman presented Shazia with a translucent fabric and motioned for her to remove her heavier garments. Two other women stepped forth to assist her. Shazia stared about the room in a daze, the scents and the smokes overwhelming her. The women drew her clothing off her body, folding it neatly upon a chair, and tied the fabric about her waist, bringing it between her legs to cover her loins. Last year, last month, last week, this procedure had seemed simple, impersonal. Now the practised hands moving between her legs recalled the pressure of Ahmad's thigh, the roving stroke of his hard palm. She shuddered and the masseuse took her hand, led her to the wooden platform, and sat her so that she faced a grand mirror overcast by shadows. The filtering light played a pale blue haze over segments of her skin. Shazia could see the masseuse reflected also, the oval of the woman's face through the opening in her cowl. Her face was smooth, unlined, with heavy-lidded eyes and a generous mouth, and it held no expression. Shazia had no idea how old she was. Did this woman—now dipping her fingers in a small brass bowl filled with perfumed oil, dripping the oil onto Shazia's scalp, combing her fingers through Shazia's hair—know the peculiar excruciation of a man's weight, his chest, his thighs pressing her down? Did her gentle movements—smoothing her fingers over Shazia’s forehead, the ridges of her nose, her upper lip and chin, her cheekbones—mimic the rougher movements of the man who ran his clumsier, stronger hands over her body in the throes of love? When women touch each other, wondered Shazia, do we feel a sweeter form of what we feel in a man's embrace? She had always thought a woman could feel passion only with her husband, that one man alone was given the right and the power to claim her body and her spirit. But her body had responded first to Gibran, and then to Ahmad. And even now, as the masseuse made her way around the platform and massaged the oil into her back, drawing her fingers in firm movements over the tense muscles, Shazia felt her newly awakened body stirring. She looked at herself in the mirror— her shoulders curving into her chest to protect her bared breasts, 162

Midnight Flame her dark nipples puckering with the exposure, her arms folded across her wide hips, forearms resting on her full thighs. Her legs dangled over the platform. Her anklets tinkled as she flexed her feet. Who could she ask about these stirrings? These feelings? Not Shakuntala. Not her mother. She thought of the shy stablehand, the one who met a woman in the garden at night. Did that woman's body ignite at his caress? The masseuse motioned for Shazia to lie back on the cool surface, straightening her legs depositing a cushion to rest her head. She began to draw circles over Shazia’s chest and stomach with strong, sure hands. Shazia used to laugh when the masseuse's fingers tickled her ribs. She was not laughing now. Up and down in vigorous circles, the masseuse's hands drew the energy through her. Shazia felt the twin sides of her body channeling heat, the light, mirror-imaged, shimmering toward and away from her. She imagined Gibran, then Ahmad, then both, working at her limbs, her torso, her fingertips, her breasts, the rhythm hypnotic, her spirit rising to meet them both—light and dark—prince and rebel—illumination and mystery. She struggled between them both, attracted, uncertain, consumed. Out of her belly rose a whirlpool of cosmic energy, a giddy cone that swallowed the world. That crushed the hemispheres together, the poles flipping over, the world involuting, the world pulled through her— her eyes flew open. She found her hands were clutching the sides of the platform. She sat up. “Stop,” she said. Her voice felt clotted in her throat and she had to cough before she could continue speaking. The world swayed. Held steady. The masseuse hovered. “If Shehzadi is displeased with me,” the masseuse began as Shazia slid down from the platform, feet slapping the cool tile. “No,” Shazia said. “No, your touch is most… pleasing. It's just….” She looked down in embarrassment. It's just that my body is confused. She wanted to speak aloud but couldn't. I have been touched too often in the past two days. I can't handle any more touch, no matter how sore my muscles may be. I 163

don't know what I want. I don't know what I feel. The masseuse reached out slowly, thumbs following the line of her shoulders, rubbing the pooled oil down over her clavicles, skimming the tops of her breasts. Shazia didn't move. She didn't make a sound. Didn't look up. “There, Shehzadi,” said the masseuse. “You should bathe and dress now if you wish.” Her voice was low and warm and Shazia raised her eyes. The woman's full lips held a neutral line, but her eyes seemed brighter. Shazia tore her gaze away and walked towards the bathing room. A tub full of steaming water clouded the mirrors. There's still enough water for bathing, anyway, thought Shazia, wryly. We're not completely destitute. She sat on a mosaic platform, allowing the attendants to smear the paste of green graham flour and sandalwood onto her hair and body. Finally, they drew the water from the tub, pouring it over her in a hot, scented stream. Body still sluicing water and oils, Shazia reached out and took a towel from an attendant. She could see the attendants more clearly now. The steam in the room rose to the ceiling and the air lower down, around them, seemed to sparkle with clarity, purified. She wondered if they were sisters, so alike were their long faces, right down to the little dents in their strong chins. Shazia dried herself with the towel. So now she was clean, scented, muscles soothed, but nothing had changed. Nothing was fixed. Tonight she would meet Gibran by the garden labyrinth and look into his shocked, disappointed, furious eyes, explain that she had defied him, that Suleiman was no closer to rescue. And tomorrow? Tomorrow she would go to Bilal Nazeem Shah as Gibran had told her. She would go to him in a cloud of fragrance, cajoling, flattering, offering up her pride, her selfrespect. Women must learn to sacrifice. Who had said that to her? She allowed the attendants to dress her in her robes and hurried out of the building into the drier, dustier air of the gardens. The sun was red and high. The air seemed to buzz with lazy insects. She didn't want to return yet to the zenana and wandered the garden paths, trying to ignore the withered flowers. She soon found she could not. The thirsty garden seemed to scream at her. Finally she 164

Midnight Flame crouched by a bed of marigolds, brushing the crisping petals with her fingertips. A deep velvet voice sounded above her. “Do you like marigolds?” Shazia did not look up. Between her fingertips the petals were crumbling. “They're dead,” she said at last. “Yes,” the voice agreed. “They are dead.” Shazia summoned her courage, dragged her eyes away from the scorched, homely heads of the flowers, and rose to face the speaker. Before her stood Bilal Nazeem Shah. She wanted to gaze at him resolutely but couldn't keep her gaze from flittering wildly around the garden to see who else was about. Surely, he hadn't just appeared on the path, like the diabolical djinn she'd often compared him to. Where were his attendants? Where were her father's attendants? Her gaze settled nowhere, on no one. This corner of the garden was empty, save for the heat-drugged insects and blasted vegetation. Bilal Nazeem Shah sensed the direction of her thoughts. He smiled. “All alone?” he asked, stroking his mustache. “Where are your lady's maids? It does seem you spend a great deal of time without proper supervision.” “There is nothing improper about walking in my father's gardens,” said Shazia woodenly. Within her a war raged—curse him, kick at him, or cajole him, seduce him—and she felt suddenly detached from the conflict, unable to act on either side. “Your father's gardens,” murmured Bilal Nazeem Shah. A shriveled willow leaf had settled on the cream brocade of his shirtsleeve and he flicked it away. “They are frightful, aren't they? I suppose I wonder less why you came to mine. Even without my son's considerable enticements, the blush of tender buds in wellwatered arbors would tempt any country maiden. A country maiden with a fondness for marigolds,” continued Bilal Nazeem Shah, and the odd note in his voice almost quelled Shazia's rage. His rich brown skin was offset to perfection by all that cream brocade, the cream silk of his turban glowing warmly against the jet and silver threading through his brows. A handsome man. A strong man. A

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vain man. A man who could be appealed to by a woman. But Shazia's tongue was still made of wood. “I went to your palace because I fear for my brother Suleiman,” she said. “You have locked him away, you have forbidden him to return to us.” Her voice rose and she struggled to control its pitch. A few days ago she would rather have died than shown vulnerability, but now she spoke softly, pleadingly. “I don't know what I will do without him,” she whispered. “I am surrounded by death in my father's gardens. I don't know how to breathe life back into my family.” She realized she clutched a dead marigold in her hand and let it fall. “But Suleiman does,” she said. “Whatever wrong my brother has done you, we need him here. We need him to repair the damage.” A damage I don't fully understand, she added mentally, and to which you may be contributing. “Breathe life into death,” said Bilal Nazeem Shah. For a moment she thought sorrow darkened his face, but his lips were curving with amusement. “My naive girl, whatever spell of brother-worship entrances you, know this. It cannot be done. Death is final.” He stepped forward and placed the toe of his slipper on the head of the marigold. Ground it slowly, delicately, against the brick path. “The ugliness of your home displeases me,” he said, shaking his slipper. “As a lover of beauty, I understand your brother's disgust with his situation. Why he feels the need to make me the target of his rage, I have no idea. Yet he is an intelligent young man. Rather remarkable in his way. He must regret very much being son to Zuben Wali Dad.” Bilal Nazeem Shah's voice was rich and bland, almost buttery. And what about your son? How much you have given your own son to regret! Shazia wanted to scream, and she knew Bilal Nazeem Shah could read the turmoil in her face. “Do you regret it?” he asked, stepping towards her. “Do you regret being the daughter of Zuben Wali Dad?” “I do not regret who I am,” said Shazia, shakily. It was difficult to speak the words, but once uttered, they hung in the thick air and seemed to take up the space between them, growing larger, so that Bilal Nazeem Shah took a half step back. 166

Midnight Flame It's true, thought Shazia, relieved, and so she said it again. “I don't regret who I am.” And now it was she who moved closer to him. “Do you?” she asked. “Do you regret who you are?” Bilal Nazeem Shah was staring down into her face. His own face twisted, his mustaches like tusks in a suddenly bestial countenance. Then he smiled widely. “Zuben Wali Dad!” he called, and Shazia turned to look behind her. Her father was approaching along the path, supported on either side by a servant. “Your daughter has been singing your praises,” he called. “She sings like a turtledove, this girl.” He bowed at Shazia slightly as he walked past her to intercept Zuben near the fountain. “With just a hint of parrot,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder. Shazia stood by helplessly, aghast, as Bilal Nazeem Shah loomed above her father, whose rumpled aspect evinced confusion, belligerence, and a species of worshipful half-mad eagerness so intense it shook Shazia to the core to see it. She was shamed by the expression in his eyes. I don't regret being your daughter, she thought, forcing herself to look at his swollen face, his puffy, slitted eyes, and twitching lips. I won't regret it. I won't. Bilal Nazeem Shah had smoothly interposed himself between her father and a servant and now walked beside him, allowing her father's thick arm to drape across his thick shoulder. With the two men side-by-side, Bilal Nazeem Shah's elegance and vitality became even more marked by contrast. Her father was blinking rapidly, dazed. “You were announced,” muttered Zuben, craning his neck to look up and over at Bilal Nazeem Shah, “but then your servants could not produce you.” “I thought to take a turn in your lovely gardens,” beamed Bilal Nazeem Shah, his rich, false voice booming. “And I was rewarded with the apparition of your lovely daughter.” Zuben focused on Shazia as though seeing her for the first time.

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“Lovely, yes,” he said, still groping, trying to come out of his fog. He glanced about him, noticed the leafless young fruit trees that edged the path. “Ah, Bilal,” he said in a wheedling tone, “Do you see the hard times? You see these trees? I have no money left for water. I eat curry without spice. Look, I am wilted, I can barely stand.” Shazia's gaze fixed on her father's hand, now slung over Bilal Nazeem Shah's shoulder. His hand was so close to the man's neck, to the necklace he wore, to the key that must hang from the chain, hidden beneath the cream shirt. Her father could yank the necklace. Could seize the upper hand. She turned her face away, even as Bilal spoke. “I feel how you are wilted, Zuben Wali Dad,” he said, grunting and shifting Zuben's arm. “We will talk of this and many things. But first we must keep your fairest flower from wilting. I fear she has been too long in the sun. See how her cheek flames.” “That is no good,” said Zuben, without looking toward his daughter. His head had dropped. “Shazia, you must take care. Leave us, dear girl.” “Yes.” Bilal Nazeem Shah smiled. “After we men parch ourselves with conversation we will come inside to refresh ourselves with your company.” Shazia kept her chin raised proudly. The men, arms locked, three abreast, blocked the brick path back to the zenana. She walked forward. She saw Bilal Nazeem Shah's eyes widen slightly in surprise, but she did not alter her step. He shrugged her father's arm from his shoulder and stepped to the side to let her pass. She heard his laughter floating after her. She had barely entered the zenana courtyard when Shakuntala pouncedupon her. “Bilal Nazeem Shah is here, he is here!” she cried. “But he has come without Suleiman and Begum Mumtaz even now awaits him in the main hall, but he has left his retinue to walk alone in the gardens, and Begum Mumtaz sent Yusef to rouse your father, and— ” “I know,” said Shazia.

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Midnight Flame “And we cannot imagine what mischief he has come to work,” continued Shakuntala, breathless, unable to heed Shazia's words. She took Shazia's elbow and steered her through the courtyard. “But you must go to Begum Mumtaz at once.” Mumtaz was standing in the main hall when Shazia entered, directing servants with a firm, low voice, arranging food and entertainment. Slender girls in peacock silk were filing in from between the velvet curtains, and the musicians had already assembled between the pillars at the foot of the room. A few richly attired men who had doubtless arrived with Bilal Nazeem Shah were lounging on bolsters, passing a silver huqqa back and forth. Attendants in Bilal Nazeem Shah's colors stood along the wall behind them. Shazia went to her mother immediately. “You called for me, mother?” She curtsied. Mumtaz glanced at her sharply. “Your skin,” she said in dismay. “You've been in the sun. Who would believe you live in Shahjahanabad? You're as dark as any village girl.” Shazia raised her hand to her cheek. “I'm flushed,” she said. “I just came from the garden. I saw Bilal Nazeem Shah and—” “Bilal Nazeem Shah is in the garden?” interrupted Mumtaz. “Yes, he's with father,” said Shazia, “and—” “Shakuntala,” said Mumtaz, “We are waiting on mint tea from the kitchen. And fruits. What is keeping them? Are the kitchen girls asleep on beds of chickpea flour?” Maybe, thought Shazia, remembering the plump girl from the garden. A wild giggle rose in her throat. “I'll go at once,” said Shakuntala and slipped away. “Mother, Bilal Nazeem Shah has no intention of releasing Suleiman,” said Shazia quietly, and her mother's eyebrows drew together, her beautiful skin, so much fairer than Shazia's, creasing and her wide mouth turning down. “It is not your place to speak of such things,” her mother said, just as quietly and with a deadly flatness. “We must speak of it,” said Shazia. “We never speak of anything, you and I, and now we must. Suleiman's life depends on it. Mother, look at me,” Shazia begged, but Mumtaz was still scanning the hall. 169

“They will arrive any moment,” she whispered, half to herself. “Shazia, sit down.” Finally she looked at her daughter. Her expression gentled. “We don't know yet what has happened to Suleiman. It will do no good to discuss it. We must wait.” “It's more than Suleiman,” Shazia said, half-choking. “It's what has happened to this family. Mother, what's happened to us? We're poisoned. Cursed. Father is like a sleepwalker. You…” she saw the warning in her mother's eyes but kept going. “You are like marble. Hard like marble.” “And you are an impulsive, spoiled child,” hissed Mumtaz. “Maybe I am like marble. How else could I hold up this household? Are pillars made of milk and rose petals? How much weight can a feather bear? Shall I be soft for you, Shazia? And let the roof come crashing down on your ungrateful head?” She held up her hand, silencing Shazia before she could speak. For a moment, it seemed that Mumtaz's composure would crack, but then her face was a mask again. Smooth, cold. “Sit,” she said. “And wait.” Trembling Shazia stumbled to an empty cushion. Four silk-clad dancers were walking the perimeter of the hall, clanging their anklets in a beat as they walked, assuming positions about the floor, maintaining the rhythm with their bangles. They began to hum, a coy, lifting call. The lead dancer strode to the center of the floor. She wore a deep blue lengha, the short blouse heavily embroidered, the skirt hugging her hips and thighs and flaring around her feet. She hid her face behind a fan of peacock feathers. The dance began. The girl lowered the fan, displaying strikingly outlined eyes and lips, a thin silver chain extending from her nose to her ear. She fluttered the fan, whirling around the room, and the other dancers followed suit. Shazia's eyes filled with tears at the girl's plaintive song. “Nothing could prevent this ode from being sung,” sang the girl with the fan, “if my payaal broke I would weld it with the fire of passion.” She approached Shazia, lifting up the shimmering, translucent silver cloth that draped across her neck and fell over her

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Midnight Flame bared stomach. She held it in front of her, as though presenting it, singing, “if my chunri tore I would sew it with the thread of love!” Shazia blushed deeply. The chunri! Gibran had cut hers in the moonlight! She had worn her chunri that night as a veil, letting the light fabric fall across her hair and face to protect her modesty, and he had slit it, his blade, impossibly sharp, whispering across the silken threads. The memory made her reel, the heat of his presence burning inside her as though he were behind her now, holding her body in place as he parted the veil, exposing her. She didn't want to live as though asleep, like her father, and she didn't want to live as though made of stone, like her mother. But what about Gibran's life, thought Shazia. Could she live like him, like a shadow? What is my path? She wasn't sure who she was asking. Someone, she thought, show me my path. Show me the way. In her mind she was running in the village, running along the path to the river. Suleiman was just behind her, and Mumsa was ahead, waiting for them both at the river bank. Instead of music, she heard the moving water, the rhythm of her own feet, her own heart. With a start, she realized the dance had ended. Bilal Nazeem Shah and her father were crossing the hall, coming toward her. Her father was walking unsupported now. He was smiling at Shazia, smiling as widely as Bilal Nazeem Shah had smiled in the garden. “You have been honored today,” he said, holding out his hand. Shazia rose, lifted her own hand, and her father crushed it in his damp grip. He did not seem to want to meet her eyes, but continued smiling, looking fixedly at her forehead. “You are to be married, my dear one,” he continued. “Married to Ahmad Nazeem Shah.” Shazia started, uncomprehending. She ripped her hand away. “A little parrot told me you would suit my son,” said Bilal Nazeem Shah. “I used to consult the stars for advice in such matters, but now I trust in worldlier omens. You know, “ he continued, conversationally, to Zuben. “It is common, when scrying with birds, to cut them open and read the portent by the arrangement of their innards, but in this case, I have bucked 171

tradition. That darling, oracular parrot was too precious, and so I left it intact. For now. “ Zuben looked ill at ease. “Indeed this union is meant to be,” he said. “I am convinced we will see “Shazia and Ahmad” spelled out in the grounds of our coffee. Where is the coffee? Ah!” He snapped his fingers at a servant. “Coffee?” he said to Bilal Nazeem Shah. “Tea? Wine? Brandy? Bring everything you have, “ he commanded the servant, then to Bilal, fondly, “We have much to celebrate. A great alliance for our households and a great happiness for our beloved children.” “And what about my brother?” burst out Shazia. “He loves my palace,” said Bilal Nazeem Shah, indulgently. “And you will too. But I think I can persuade him to return to your parents. When he knows they will no longer have the pleasure of their daughter's company, he will rush back to be their comfort and support.” “A good boy,” murmured Zuben. “Always a very good boy.” Shazia jerked her head back and forth, looking at each man in disbelief. Were they really pretending that Suleiman was choosing to stay at Bilal Nazeem Shah's haveli? That he was a guest, straining his welcome, a guest who could be induced to quit his host's opulent chambers only through appeals to filial obligation? “Suleiman found that my palace has provided him with ample opportunity for both revelry and reverie,” continued Bilal Nazeem Shah, “but he can leave with a full heart, knowing our families are now joined. He and I have grown close, and now we are even closer. We have a common interest. Not that you are the least bit common,” he bowed slightly to Shazia and his smile grew sardonic. “Your queenly bearing is unmistakable. In any guise.” Shazia flinched at his barbs but was unable to defend herself without giving too much away. She could not tell if her father was bewildered by or simply inattentive to Zuben's smooth speech. Shazia, however, understood every word. As Bilal Nazeem Shah's daughter-in-law, she would be put under lock and key, like Ahmad. And with Shazia as Bilal Nazeem Shah's prisoner, Bilal Nazeem Shah would control Suleiman as surely as if he'd been kept in chains below ground. 172

Midnight Flame So that was the bargain. Shazia would exchange her liberty for her brother's. She felt the bitterness well within her. Bride of Ahmad Nazeem Shah. Captive princess. Finally, she had found her role. Virgin sacrifice in a story not of her making.

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Chapter Nine The constellations were turning, slowly turning, in the sky. The silver sliver of the moon was whittled to nothing by the knife of the night. The night grew darker. Darker. In the black breeze, the cups of the tulips spilled their dew. The jasmine flowers opened. A man came riding on a dark horse. The hooves were shod in black iron and sparked on the paving stones. It was as though horse and rider were a dark storm. They brought the wind and the lightning. They brought the night. They came faster and the black currents of air came also, hot and thick with the fragrance of the jasmine. “Meet me by the raat ki rani, the bower by the step-well, the bower of raat ki rani.” It was the wind that seemed to speak. Sparks rose around the dark horse, around the dark man on the horse. They came surrounded by lightning, by flashes of fire that did not illuminate, that flamed like shadows, black flames. They came riding into the midnight garden. They rode towards the raat ki rani, and Shazia was there, waiting. She was standing in the bower. She saw the horse and rider fly towards her, engulfed in the dark fire, and she caught her breath. She had time only to catch her breath. And then they were upon her, and she was engulfed. She burned with the same fire, and all around her the jasmine flowers burst into flame and the sweet, black smoke was in her lungs, in her mouth, and she knew that she would never breathe again, that she was lost in the flames and the spinning smoke and the darkness filled her until she split apart into petals, became flames herself. Shazia bolted up in bed. “Gibran!” cried Mithoo. “Gibran!” Shazia swung her legs to the side of the bed, touched the balls of her feet to the marble floor. The marble was reassuringly solid. Cool. She stood, peered towards the parrot that sat on his perch in the dim, hot corner of the zenana. In the vaguely silvered dark, she could make out the flash of gold at his throat and the pink of his wings. As if he knew that she was 174

Midnight Flame observing him, the parrot flapped his wings, lifting up as high as the chain around his left leg would allow him. The metal chain groaned against the iron ring, and the parrot wheeled noisily in a small, jerking circle, before settling back on his perch. He began to pluck his own feathers with his beak with a series of rapid, uneven motions. The small hairs rose on Shazia's arms. The bird’s pronouncement had chilled her. That afternoon Bilal Nazeem Shah had joked about cutting birds open, reading the future in their offal. Poor Mithoo, she thought, I won't let him hurt you. Even if I am locked in a dungeon at Bilal Nazeem Shah's haveli. I'll set you free and watch you fly over the Yamuna. You won't share my fate. She had little power, but power enough to free a parrot. That much she could promise. She slipped out of her robe, the white cotton drifting to the marble floor like a ghost. She fumbled beneath her sheets, where she had hidden a midnight blue lengha. After Bilal Nazeem Shah left, the rest of the day had passed like a bad dream. Even her mother cradling her in her arms, stroking her head at the news of the engagement, could not stir her. She had craved her mother's caresses for years, but now they did not reach her. She felt as though she were underwater, or swaddled in yards and yards of thick cotton. She had retired early to the zenana. She had not left the signal for Gibran—the red or blue scarf—hanging over the garden's back wall. She could only hope that, having received no message, he would enter the garden and look for a messenger. She needed to see him. “Gibran!” cried Mithoo again. “Gibran!” “Is that a prophecy, parrot?” murmured Shazia. The silliness of Mithoo's cry and her own response did not cancel out the eerie quality. She was simultaneously amused and unsettled. How could Mithoo know she was sneaking out of the zenana to meet Gibran? It was absurd. Impossible. Shakuntala was always chattering about his intelligence, fondly stroking the patch of gold at his throat and whispering into the side of his head. “His ears!” Shakuntala would say indignantly. “He has 175

ears too, Shazia! Just because they don’t hang off his head like old eggplant, you think he doesn’t have ears!” She listened to his clicks and laughs and flat, harsh syllables like the two of them were engaged in the most enthralling conversations. Shazia never gossiped with Mithoo like Shakuntala did, but she had to admit Mithoo had a special kind of intelligence. With his bight colors and gleaming eyes and the inhuman way he voiced human words, he was an odd, mysterious being. But odd enough and mysterious enough to know she was about to slip out into the night and meet a masked man in the garden? To answer her thoughts Mithoo spoke again: “Gibran!” His voice seemed to shred the quiet night. Shazia winced. The unholy creature would wake Shakuntala with his shrieking. She wanted to rush at him and clamp her hands around his beak, but she knew what a fit of flapping and squawking that would produce. She had to leave quickly. Her hair was unbraided, but there was nothing to be done about that. She raked the twisted locks behind her shoulders and draped a pale blue chunri over her head, pulling it forward over both shoulders so that her face was exposed but her hair—well, most of it—was covered. She tiptoed to the balcony. Leaning on the balustrade, she scanned the garden, the pale paths, the dim trees, the pools of shadow. Was he there? Or had he already ridden by, ridden away? Breathing deeply, she swung her leg over the marble ledge. Soon she had thudded to the ground. Out in the courtyard, surrounded by the high, blank walls, Shazia was stunned by the darkness and silence of the night. The square of sky above her betrayed only the thinnest paring of moon. She longed for Shakuntala’s breathing, the slumberous rustlings of the women in the zenana. Would she miss those sounds when she was Ahmad's bride? She'd longed to escape the comfortable confinement of the zenana ever since she'd come here, but what kind of escape would this marriage be? Even if she loved Ahmad—which she couldn't, not him, her brother's enemy— how could she endure being the woman of a slave? For that's what Ahmad is, she thought with pity and contempt. His father's creature. Which would make her worse than a slave herself. 176

Midnight Flame She had to find Gibran. She moved through the garden. Around her there was no life, no motion. She knelt on the marble rim of the fountain by the bed of marigolds where she'd encountered Bilal Nazeem Shah in the sunlight, it seemed a thousand years ago. Then the water had flowed in a trickle. Now she ran her hand down the smooth, dry lip until her fingertips touched the roughened bottom of the basin. She caught a curled leaf between her fingers and crushed it in her palm. The delicate structure of the leaf collapsed with a thin, grating sound and turned to powder. Here was the reason for the deathly quiet in the courtyard. She had known it would come to pass, that it was bound to happen, if not this moment, then the next. Still she felt strangled. The fountains had run completely dry. There was no water, no quickening element, to give life to the stony enclosure. Shazia sat up swiftly. A garden without water is a tomb. But Bilal Nazeem Shah's gardens harmonized with the universe, and they too meant death. She could trust no symbols. There was nothing to trust. Except, perhaps… Gibran. She darted through the arched gateway and her feet found the path through the garden towards the step-well and the bower of raat ki rani. It was terrifying to run without being able to see what lay before her, without being able to see the ground, the tiny hummocks and creeping vines that might cause her ankle to twist suddenly. But her gait was so practiced, so light and sure that she seemed to skim the path, gliding over all its small treacheries. At first she kept her eyes open, hands stretched out to make sure that nothing struck her face, but soon she let her hands drop. She gave herself over to the darkness. She ran with her eyes shut, relishing the rush of air, the pounding of her blood. She almost laughed with the pleasure of it, tilting her head back and opening her mouth to drink in the night. She didn’t need to see! She really was a different kind of woman than the big-eyed, fineboned young brides of Shahjahanabad, whose tastes were so airy, reliant on the subtle organs of the eyes and the ears. They were tuned to recognize the gradations of shading in miniature portraits 177

and to pick out the offending notes in less than perfectly played melodies. But Shazia could not separate the world with her tidy, proficient senses! Not when she was truly herself, not when she ran along the garden paths, the whole of her united seamlessly, one surging, feeling thing. She couldn’t be Bilal Nazeem Shah’s captive, Ahmad’s captive! She would resist! How could they contain her? She pulsed with the rhythm of the universe. There was no other way to describe it. The world moved through her and she moved through the world. The night was hot and dark and so was she, wildly hot, wildly dark, spilling forward, her running an extension of the night’s trajectory, the night’s movement. She could sense it. The night was moving toward the bower, toward the raat ki rani, towards Gibran. Everything was coalescing there. Everything was drawn there. She rode the tide of the night and she didn’t need to look, to know. It was inevitable. The night was drawn to him, sprang from him, and she was the night. She ran toward him, toward hope. And then, she was there. And he was not. She scanned the shadows. The flowers of the raat ki rani starred the darkness. The white petals seemed to emit a soft incandescence and the air was nearly dripping with their fragrance. The raat ki rani, at least, was not dying. There’s safety in living by night, thought Shazia. The part of her still crying out for a path, for a way to walk through the world, cried now. What if she did live like the raat ki rani? Like Gibran? What if she too dwelled in shadows, waited for darkness, saw the world only by the light of the stars and the moon and whatever dim effulgence pours from flowers at midnight? What if she ran away instead of marrying Ahmad and gave herself over to the night? It was a mad idea. But catching her breath beneath the jasmine, the darkness sweet and thick as syrup all around, she felt that anything could happen. Our fates are read in the stars, thought Shazia, wishing she could throw the words in Bilal Nazeem Shah's face. Our fates are not to be found in the bloody pieces of butchered birds. They are spelled out

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Midnight Flame in the asterisms overhead. And the stars come out only at night. Maybe night is the only time we are alive. Could her fate truly link her with Ahmad? She thought of the hushed black orchard on the Yamuna. Her body bursting with liquid fire. Ahmad’s breath on her neck. Her body pressed to his in the darkest region of the garden, in the darkest part of the night. Alive. “Who’s chasing you?” asked a deep voice. The tone was low, menacing. Shazia spun around. The voice had come from close behind her, but she could barely see the outline of the man who spoke. His tall figure was swathed in black. Black pants, black shirt, black cloth across his face. Gibran. She hadn’t heard him approach, but then, she never did. She felt a warm eddy of air, then the touch of his hand on her shoulder. “Shazia,” he said, and the word sounded harsh on his tongue. “It’s me. It’s Gibran. Who is chasing you?” All at once she realized his anger was not directed at her. She sensed the tension in his body and knew he was poised to fight. She could see the glint of metal. His knife was drawn. He moved in the direction from which she’d come, heading toward whoever had followed her. “No one!” she cried. “No one is chasing me.” He turned and she knew he was looking at her, trying to read her face through the thickness of the night. “You’re out of breath,” he said, and she flushed, glad he couldn’t see the heightened color in her cheeks. “I was running,” she said, inanely. “Just… running. No one was chasing me. I felt like running. I didn’t know if you'd be here. If you'd come, if you'd stay. I needed to see you. I needed….” She trailed off, trying to steady her breathing. Why was she always so tongue-tied around him? She sounded like a daft little girl. “I need your help,” she said in a firmer voice. “I didn’t get the message to Suleiman. I failed. I—” “You crept into Bilal’s chamber in the middle of the night like a common thief!” said Gibran, the menace reentering his voice, and this time she could be certain she was its object. “The whole city is talking about it, about the thief in Bilal’s chamber! If you’d been 179

caught, you would be beyond help right now. You’d have been used worse than you can possibly imagine.” “I can imagine it,” she said bitterly. “Then I understand even less why you assumed that risk!” With a growl, Gibran seized her wrist and Shazia released a small cry despite herself. He ignored her protestation. The painful pressure of his fingers did not diminish. “Your foolishness hasn’t cost you your honor… yet.” He spat the word. “But it did cost Suleiman his one chance at freedom.” “Let go of me.” Shazia jerked her arm, but he held her wrist fast. “Let go of me!” mocked Gibran. “Do you imagine that would have stopped the man who caught you red-handed in Bilal’s chamber? Do you think you could have pleaded? That you could have explained yourself?” “It doesn’t matter!” Shazia gasped, twisting her arm again and by some miracle freeing her wrist from his grasp. “It doesn’t matter,” she said again, flexing her hand to make sure nothing had broken. “I wasn’t caught.” She plunged ahead to cover up the lie. “But now I am lost anyway, through no fault of my own. I’m to marry into Bilal’s accursed family! I haven’t any choice. They’ve decided. I’m to marry Bilal’s horrible son, the unlucky, miserable Prince Ahmad.” She felt rather than saw Gibran flinch. “You’ve made me a liar,” said Gibran, his voice so low and dark it was like an exhalation of the night. “I promised your brother I would protect you, but you’ve made that impossible. Because of your idiotic pride, you unwillingness to act your part, you’ve brought dishonor to me as well as to yourself!” “You wanted me to flutter my eyelashes at Bilal like a courtesan! Worse than a courtesan! At least a courtesan has the courage to carry through on her end of the bargain. You wanted me to extract favors from Bilal by displaying my charms and then dangling them out of reach should he stretch out his hand to touch.” Shazia knew she was speaking recklessly, but she couldn’t contain her anger and disgust. “Where is the honor in that?” she demanded. Gibran took her by the shoulders, his hands brutalizing her tender flesh. “Let us not talk of honor,” he grated. “It ill-becomes both of us to speak of things we don’t understand. I will speak the 180

Midnight Flame language that is native to those such as us, the language of expedience. What works and what does not work. You let your temper guide you, and you failed. The matter is simple as that. If you had listened to me, Suleiman would be free right now.” “And of what of me? Even if Suleiman had escaped, Bilal Nazeem Shah would have demanded me for his son. Bilal Nazeem Shah knows that Suleiman will not challenge him, not when I can be punished for his deeds. Suleiman has too much honor to allow it. I was always to be my brother's ransom. I see it now.” She paused, ashamed of the bitterness in her voice. “I want to give myself willingly for him, my brother. But it is hard, harder than I'd imagined. The only way we could both be free is if Suleiman was willing to leave Shahjahanabad and take me with him. But that was never the plan. I'm sure of it.” The bitterness welled again. “If I had succeeded in delivering the talisman to Suleiman, if he had escaped the chamber, the two of you would have stayed in Shahjahanabad. You would have refused to flee, even if it meant I would have to give myself to Ahmad Nazeem Shah. To share his cage. Can you promise me that if I try again, if I help Suleiman escape, you will ride with him away from this city-tomb, you will ride with him and with me, and we will be free and fully alive?” She didn't know how her voice changed, how the passion vibrating through her charged her words so that Gibran's body thrilled. She only felt that the darkness between their bodies changed shape. What is darkness? she thought dazedly. It’s nothing. It’s less than nothing. We are both pressed against the night, only the night can fit between us…. She took a breath and stepped forward until his warmth was a hairsbreadth away. Her breasts grazed his shirtfront. When he spoke, there was no arrogance in his voice. Only raw urgency. “It's too late,” he said. “You can't try again. The time has run out. You think Bilal Nazeem Shah wants you under his control so he can blackmail your brother. You poor fool. Why do you think Bilal Nazeem Shah will release your brother?” “B-because,” Shazia stuttered, horror-stricken. “Because—” “Because he told you?” said Gibran, without mockery.

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“He did tell me,” she said. “He said it in front of my father. He said….” She swallowed. “Suleiman would never speak out against him, act against him, not if it meant any risk to me. Once I am at his palace, Bilal Nazeem Shah can release Suleiman without worry.” “He can also not release him without worry.” said Gibran. “Your parents will not speak out, not when they realize the danger in which they have placed their daughter.” “Then I am the ransom for my brother's death, not his life,” she whispered, the enormity of it hitting her so hard that she nearly fell. “It can't be too late,” she said after a time, gathering her wits. “I will go to Bilal Nazeem Shah first thing tomorrow. I will beg him to let me see my brother, to allow me to tell him my happy news. I will use every appeal. I will surrender every shred of dignity.” She became aware again of Gibran's closeness, of the light contact of their bodies whenever their lungs filled. They were breathing in unison. She had never been so aware of another person’s breath. She wondered if Gibran was aware of it too, as aware as she was. He had to be. “I failed,” she continued, half in earnest, half practicing for tomorrow's abasement. “I should have listened to you. I was wrong.” Gibran body had shifted almost imperceptibly away from hers. Did he disbelieve her words? Did her closeness perturb him? Or was he entirely unaware of the delicate brush of fabrics, the movement of her breasts beneath the dark cotton, the movement of her breasts against his chest? “I’m sorry,” Shazia added for good measure. “But I refuse to believe it's too late, that Bilal Nazeem Shah would act so quickly. I need to hope. I’ll bring the talisman to my brother. And once Suleiman is free—” “You’ll what?” Gibran’s laugh was harsh. Shazia flushed with humiliation. Gibran was watching her. Waiting. She had the uncomfortable feeling he saw much better in the dark than she did. That he saw a disturbing amount. That he could see the color staining her cheeks. That he could see her childishly trembling lower lip. Her tear-filled eyes. Why was he making everything so difficult? The tremble spread from her lips 182

Midnight Flame through her entire body. She quivered from head to toe with rage and confusion. She was humbling herself, begging for help, and now he mocked her! She tried to speak, but she choked on her words. “What will you do, Shazia?” Gibran asked, his tone ironical. “What will you do if Suleiman refuses to run away with you? Will you swim across the Yamuna? Run into the countryside alone? Disguise yourself as a Hindu nun and live your life in a country temple? Of course, it is entirely possible you would succeed in such an endeavor,” he added cruelly. “You are a master of disguise.” It was too much. Shazia swung at him wildly, but he caught her flailing fist and spun her around, locking an iron-hard arm beneath her breasts, her back tight to his chest. “That’s my Shazia,” he whispered, torso curving as he lowered his head, hot breath moving the strands of hair across her ear. “You were off to a good start, you were soft and sweet enough, but your act lacked stamina. You gave up your meekness at my slightest provocation.” Slightest provocation? Shazia pushed once against his arm. Once was enough. She might as well try to move the Emperor’s palace fortress a tower at a time. She let her body relax. Steadied her breathing, forced herself to smile so he would hear it in her voice. “Forgive me,” she purred, twisting gently against his arm. He loosened his pressure just enough to let her half-turn, so that she found herself pressed to his chest, her breasts flattening painfully against his hard chest, her inhalations drawing the cotton of his shirt against her lips. He smelled like smoke and spice, like pepper and cardamom. The little hairs along her arms were rising. Her nipples ached, tightening, and the now familiar fullness was returning to her lower belly, where the slight protuberance of her pubic bone rubbed against his thigh. She drew a quick, sharp breath. Her short-lived feeling of mastery, of control, vanished. She was no longer sure if she was playing a part, or if he was. Was this too a game? Whenever she thought she knew the rules of engagement, everything changed. She had thought she was cajoling him, enticing him, showing him how she could take command through submitting. But with their bodies pressed together, she was no longer in command of herself, of her 183

sensations. Flatter, flirt. Gain sympathy, gain favor. Isn’t that what women did? Isn’t that what he had wanted her to learn? “I must have slipped,” she murmured into his chest. “I’m so clumsy. How good of you to catch me.” The hard slabs of his chest and abdomen muscles moved against her as he laughed. “You’re the least clumsy woman I’ve ever met in my life,” said Gibran. He was laughing at her, but his voice was suddenly caressing. “It’s just my luck you weren’t taught the finer points of hand-to-hand combat. If you had been, I don’t know what would become of me.” Despite his teasing, his tone was warmer, more suggestive than before. Shazia’s confusion deepened. She wasn’t accustomed to this kind of banter from Gibran, wasn’t prepared for his easy, almost intimate tone. Her whole body thundered with the motions of her blood. She couldn’t match his casual, careless air. Her wild pulse and rapid breathing gave away her fear. Her desire. She wasn’t made to play these kinds of games or to use these kinds of wiles. “Gibran,” she said and stopped, uncertain what to say next. She tipped back her head, looked up at him just as a wan crescent of moon scythed its way from behind the clouds. The thin pale light illuminated the golden skin around his eyes, the long, black luster of the irises, the thick fringe of curling lashes. Enormous, tilted, depthless eyes. Beautiful eyes. Unmistakable eyes. Quick as thought, Shazia hooked her fingers around the muslin that covered his face and dragged it down across the proud, sharp nose, across the full, sardonic mouth, the firm, wicked jaw. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. The face revealed to her was semi-obscured by shadows, but those severe planes, the strong angles were inescapably familiar. It was inescapably Ahmad’s face. Shazia sagged, but he held her up. Held her against him. She found her legs again and stood stiffly in his arms. Finally, he let her go. “Who are you?” asked Shazia dully. The words were almost inaudible, but the man before her didn’t need to hear what she said to guess her question. White teeth flashed in the night as he smiled and bowed, a scant, ironic bow. 184

Midnight Flame “I am Gibran,” he said. “I am Ahmad’s twin brother.” Shazia didn’t realize she was slipping to the earth until she felt his arms around her, felt him drawing her across his body, cradling her as she dropped. He lowered her down gently, until they were sitting beneath the raat ki rani. Though lost in a mist, Shazia could still be shocked at her own behavior. Now I’m fainting? she thought incredulously. How ladylike. I must remember to tell my mother. She’ll be thrilled. Gibran was holding her. She was nestled against his thighs and chest. His lips were in her hair, on her throat, his arms were wrapping her. She pressed her cheek against his shirt, listened for his heart. It was loud and fast. He was speaking, but at first she could only hear his heart, could only follow that steady rhythm. “…fight at the well,” he was saying. “It wasn't only my mother struggling with Bilal Nazeem Shah in the garden. The wetnurse had followed too, and her lady's maids, and the women swarmed him, hissing and biting. The wetnurse flung a rock into the well, so in the confusion, when he heard the splash, my father thought I had fallen to my death. The wetnurse hid me in her robes, smuggled me to Agra, to my uncle there. You’ve heard stories of Ahmad the captive prince. Everyone in Shajahanabad has heard the stories. But imagine Gibran, the one thought to be drowned, raised alone and in secret in a dusty palace in a declining city. Imagine him hearing those stories. Hearing about his ill-starred birth, his supposed death! Imagine being a child and hearing the story of your death.” He laughed without humor. “I grew into manhood with the names “Ahmad” and “Bilal” on my tongue. Can you imagine how bitter those names tasted to a boy robbed of everything? Mother. Father. Brother. Title. Everything.” “So you came to Shahjahanabad,” said Shazia as his rough palms stroked down her arms, as he thrust a hand in her hair, as he moved his lips against the lobe of her ear. She knew she had to stop him, had to push his hands away, drag herself off his lap, but she felt too weak. Suleiman’s capture. The tumult of her visits to Bilal’s palace. Ahmad, bare-chested and golden in the courtyard. Ahmad, forcing 185

her to the humid ground in the orchard in the night. Gibran seizing her in the market. Gibran on a black horse in the garden. Gibran holding her, invading her with his heat, his darkness. Ahmad searing her with his golden light, obliterating her with his brutal weight, his force. The threat of her marriage, the threat of Gibran’s lips. Ahmad’s lips. Gibran’s lips. She couldn’t resist, couldn’t form the right words, right action. She felt utterly lost, at sea with her wildly changing emotions, with her senses flooded, pounded, fired. She tried to cling to a phrase, to a line of thought. She tried to ignore the gooseflesh his callused fingers raised on her arms. She said, “You came to Shahjahanabad….” and trailed off, trying to follow Gibran’s story. “I came to Shajahanabad,” repeated Gibran. “Yes,” he said. “I came to Shajahanabad.” There was a pause during which she surrendered again to the thudding rhythm of his heart. Then he said, slowly, “I came to destroy Bilal Nazeem Shah.” And before she could say another word his lips had found hers. The dark heat of the night entered her mouth with his tongue. She tasted the sweetness, the burning sweetness, and he let his head drop to plant burning kisses down her neck, across her clavicles. He pulled her across his chest, lying back in the dry herbs, the deep pungent scent of the crushed leaves mingling with his own spicy scent, with the sweetness of the jasmine. He ran his hands down her sides, cupped her buttocks, pressed them tightly against his body. She felt the shocking length of his manhood, the hard curve that insinuated itself between her legs, inciting a pressure in her belly that made her writhe against him. She tried to locate some shred of self, some particle of resistance. She arched her back, pressing her palms against his shoulders, trying to lift herself away from him, but the movement brought her breasts towards his face and he nuzzled them, flicked his tongue against her tightly budded nipples so that the cotton grew damp, tantalizing her when his breath blew across the fabric. Hot and cold flickers moved through her thighs, through the soles of her feet. She wanted to moan, to force her breasts against his mouth, to beat her hips against his curving length. It was indecent. It was madness itself. She rolled off him, rolled onto her back in the herbs. She felt 186

Midnight Flame his bulk heating her left side and his arm traveled across her body, his hand resting on her hip, stroking, fanning the flames. She tried to focus. “Tell me more,” she said, raggedly. “Does Suleiman know who you are?” A thought burst in her brain. “Does Ahmad know? Does he know you’re alive?” “No one knows,” said Gibran. From the hollowness and distance of his voice, she could tell he was looking away from her, or at the sky. But then his voice grew close, loud, warm. He had turned his head toward her. “You know.” “Doesn’t Ahmad deserve to know?” she insisted. “He’s your brother, your twin.” “The horrible, miserable prince? What did you call him?” Gibran laughed unpleasantly. “He’s my father’s puppet, not my brother. He has no need to know anything that Bilal doesn’t tell him.” “But—” Shazia began and Gibran was suddenly on top of her, pressing her into the prickling ground. The air went from her lungs and the spiced darkness filled her instead. The intensity of Gibran’s tone, his lips so close to hers, shook her to the core. “Why do you want to talk about my brother?” His lips brushed hers. Her own lips parted. She could see the endless black of his eyes. She was falling into the abyss. His rage, his longing. He lowered his face again and she felt his lashes move against her cheek. His lips moved along her jawline. “I don’t want to talk,” he whispered. Her hands, clenched in fists, released at the raw note in his voice. The pain. She let her palms graze his shoulder blades. The muscles in his back were so tight, tight with his rage, but also tight because of the effort it cost him to hold his body rigid, to prevent himself from resting his full weight on her body. The unexpected thoughtfulness of this gesture moved her strangely. Ahmad had no such compunctions. Of course, the situations had been completely different…. Ahmad. Her future husband. Was it his fault that he was forced into the role that he played? Was he Bilal’s puppet? Fate’s puppet? I don’t care! I don’t want to marry a puppet, thought Shazia furiously. We’re all forced into our roles by our families and by fate. 187

But a real man is more than the role he must play. Even if we can’t choose our destinies, we choose how we meet our destinies. Even if he is bound to his father, Ahmad doesn’t have to help him do what he knows is wrong! Even if I must marry Ahmad, I don’t have to love him. I don’t have to give my inner self to him. That I can save for myself. That I can give to the man of my choosing….” The heat of Gibran’s body in the hot night was beginning to overwhelm her, to cause the sweat to rise on her skin. He brushed her lips with his and she tasted the salt of her own skin. A wind blew through the garden with a hissing noise, a rattling noise, the hiss of dust and dead leaves sweeping the tiled courtyards, the rattle of dried stalks and thirsty branches sawing restlessly back and forth. It’s like there’s a snake in the garden, thought Shazia. No, worse. It’s like the garden has become the snake, dry, sliding around us, filled with poison. Suddenly, she felt the dryness in her throat, as if her heart had become dust and with each thud it was driving dust up into her mouth. “Shazia…” began Gibran, huskily, his lips hovering above hers. “Please,” she whispered. “Water.” He rose swiftly. Without his weight, his heat, and the perils of his nearness, she could breathe again. She sat up, legs pulled in to her chest, chin on her knees. Her eyes were adjusting to the night and the stars were higher in the sky. The sky was a paler dark than the dark of the objects that crowded against it, and she could pick out the domes of her father’s mansion, the spire of the mosque, and closer, the dark masses of trees and statues. She heard a soft whinny and Gibran’s reassuring rumble as he took a water bottle from his saddlebags. Then he was beside her again, lifting the bottle to her lips, and the sweet cold water coursed into her mouth, dripping down her chin. She felt the cool water moving through her, her body taking it in, and with the cool flow came a kind of clarity. As if she had taken starlight into her throat, into her belly. “Shazia,” said Gibran in a husky, hesitant tone. He seemed to want her to understand. “I am dead to my family. They are dead to me. I have no family. The only brother I have is… is Suleiman. I’ll help you in any way I can.” 188

Midnight Flame “Even though I make it next to impossible?” asked Shazia, bitterly. “Truly, you must feel deeply bonded to Suleiman to assume such a burden.” Gibran groaned, and when he spoke his voice was hurried, urgent. “It’s not only for Suleiman that I pledge to help you,” he said. “Can it be that you feel stirrings of brotherly responsibility on my behalf as well?” said Shazia, the bitterness now edged with irony. “You should have talked with Suleiman about the pitfalls of being my brother. I don’t think you’ll find the frustrations of your duties noticeably reduced by claiming any kind of kinship. You should continue on as a dubious protector, coming and going as you please, denying assistance if the terms don’t suit you, combining each promise with a threat—” Gibran had her on the ground in an instant, covering her throat with kisses. “You are impossible,” he said with a growl. “You’re the most impossible creature I’ve ever encountered. Infuriating. Obstinate. Proud. Foolishly brave. Unutterably beautiful.” Shazia surrendered beneath his onslaught. Beautiful? she thought. Me? But she could hear the ring of truth in his voice. Feel the wild need in his lips, in the ragged strokes of his hands through her hair. “When I first saw you in the garden,” he whispered, “when I saw you I was almost afraid. I thought to myself, That girl could destroy you with a glance. With a beam of emerald fire from those eyes. And you would let her. You would give her your soul if she asked. If she held out her hand. Shazia, it’s not as your brother that I offer my protection. It’s not as Suleiman’s friend. It’s as a man who has surrendered. A man whose life is already yours.” Shazia opened to his lips, let the burning tip of his tongue caress her tongue, the insides of her lips, her teeth, tasting her. Her fingers raked through his hair, held his head to her breast as he pushed down the fabric and lifted her breasts free, exposing them to the night air, to the liquid fire of his laving tongue. She moaned, arching, lifting the brown curve of her belly, the shallow dip of her bellybutton offered to his explorations, the gliding fingertips that grazed her hipbones. Plunged down beneath the silk band of her 189

skirt into the dark tuft of her womanhood. He tugged the curls gently and she nearly wept with the intensity of the pleasure. His fingers moved lower, dipped into her folds, the callus on his thumb lightly scraping the damp, tender skin, now pooling, it felt, as though she were filled with syrup. She moaned, her legs rubbing together as she tossed her head, hands dragging through the herbs, intensifying the spicy undertone of the jasmine-drenched air. He was pulling her skirt down, exposing all of her. She felt the stroke of his hair on her thighs, the pressure of his hands pushing them apart, and then his wet tongue was sliding between, was flicking the center of her pleasure, hot, strong movements, so that the waves pounded through her belly, through her legs, pounded in her breasts, making her breath explode in cries she was barely aware of uttering. She felt as if all her body, mind, and soul began between her thighs, in that molten core, and exploded out from there. That everything in the universe began there, between her thighs, fire and water, earth and air, the sun and the moon and the stars, and she thought, wonderingly, that everything alive comes through these surging elements, comes through this exploding center, that all life begins in molten ecstasy, and she asked herself, before asking slipped away, if this was every woman’s secret, or if men knew too, and she lifted her hips shamelessly to Gibran’s mouth, unable to control her motions, surrendering deliciously to a deeper kind of power. Then the liquid heat was bursting through her, running over her, spilling across her breasts. She understood, at the edge of her consciousness, that Gibran had tipped the water bottle over her body, that cold, sweet water was rushing over her fevered skin, causing her to shudder and quake even as the droplets cascaded down her thighs, the icy water mingling with his burning tongue, with her own dripping nectar, and she cried out madly, unknowingly. “My Shazia,” whispered Gibran. “My Shazia.” Rising above her, his darkness like a coalescence of the sky, only a few shades lighter, he seemed to be asking her a question. Without understanding, she knew the answer was yes, would always be yes, and he was kneeling between her legs, supporting 190

Midnight Flame himself with one hand, and with the other hand, he guided himself into her. Now the liquid pressure came from within, and Shazia lay motionless for a moment, savoring the strange new sensation, the coiling heat now rising from the deepest part of her being, and Gibran moved against her. He drove himself into her with sure, slow strokes, and she placed her damp palms on his hips, urging him onward, moving her hips against him with fluid motions, the slippery friction of their bodies showering her nerves with liquid sparks, and Gibran leaned over her, chest sliding on her breasts, teeth on her neck, and she clawed the length of his spine, knees pressing his muscled sides as she felt him begin to surge, to buck against her, groaning deep in his throat, and as she moaned with him, she couldn’t tell anymore whose sensation she was feeling, if the ripples in her body began with him or with her, and she abandoned her last shred of resistance and let herself become the wave, become the pleasure itself, her body and his body flowing together, overflowing them both, so that they spilled out into the night, into the wide, dark night, a gleaming torrent and the jasmine petals raining down. When they awoke, the sky was pale with dawn light. Shazia looked at the man who lay beside her, his proud face sweeter in sleep. He turned his head and opened his eyes. She saw the regret there and put her finger to his lips. “I'm not sorry,” she said fiercely and remembered Bilal Nazeem Shah's question—Do you regret who you are? She could not feel shame for loving Gibran, for allowing herself to be loved. Even though it meant her ruin. She could not wed Ahmad now. So be it, thought Shazia. She sat up. The morning air felt delicious on her skin. She hadn't been naked in the open air since she was a little girl. She wiggled her toes, delight bubbling up within her. Before she allowed herself to think, to fall back into the dark webs, she would enjoy this moment. The young pale sun. The cool breeze. Her body. The body of the man who lay beside her. Gibran opened his mouth and she shot him a warning look. He rose to his knees, pressing her to him. “I'm not sorry either,” he said to the crown of her head. 191

“I will go to Bilal Nazeem Shah,” said Shazia. “I will convince him to let me see Suleiman. I will give my brother your talisman. Though I still don't know what it means?” Gibran chuckled at her sudden slyness. He pulled her earlobe, shaking his head until the expectant gleam in her eyes faded to unsurprised resignation. “There is nothing to know,” he said. “Sometimes there is no secret, Shazia.” “And that's as odd and mysterious as anything else,” Shazia said, resting her cheek on his shoulder before straightening again. “Fine. I will deliver the talisman—the talisman about which there is nothing to know but which will somehow speed Suleiman to his freedom—and I will return to the zenana. I will pack my things. You will come for me. Here.” Her quick gaze took in the crushed herbs, the tangled boughs. Our bower, she said to herself, a smile tugging at her lips. Gibran did not understand the smile but could not prevent his lips from curving as he watched her face. “You will come for me, “ Shazia said. “Here. Tonight. You'll meet me here in this bower. We will go far away, together, far from Shahjahanabad. You will meet me.” She repeated herself, trying to convince them both. “I'll leave a message with Shakuntala for Suleiman. A message telling him that we are safe, that he should join us, that we will send word soon letting him know where we are….” And where would they be? And how would Suleiman react, learning that his sister had run away with a man, his best friend? Shazia squelched the misgivings that rose in her breast. “You will meet me,” she said again, staring up into those depthless dark eyes. Once she was assured of that, everything else would follow. Gibran nodded. “I will meet you,” he said, slowly. “Here. Tonight. At dusk. I am bound by—” “Don't say honor,” snorted Shazia, heart a cold knot. “I wouldn't have dreamed of it,” said Gibran. “I was going to say love.” And he kissed her.

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Midnight Flame It was Shazia who broke the kiss, breathless and grinning. She scrambled to her feet, shaking the leaves and petals from her clothes, dressing herself hastily, while Gibran watched, heat flickering in his eyes. Then he shrugged, drew on his black jamas. Holding his hand, Shazia dragged him a few paces from the sheltering trees so the morning light fell on both of them. Gibran's shoulders stiffened. He turned his face down as though unwilling to expose himself. “You didn't disappear,” said Shazia, playfully. She wanted to crow like a rooster as she felt the day freshen all around her. She swung Gibran's arms like a child and tipped her head up to drink in the pale, luminous blue sky. “You're not a shadow after all,” she said. There was triumph in her tone, and joy. Gibran withdrew his hands from hers, wrapped his arms around her, drew her close. Shazia gave herself up to the tight embrace. “I am a shadow,” Gibran said, lips against her hair. “A ghost. I don't have a name.” “You had a mother who birthed you,” murmured Shazia. Her lips were close to his chest and she imagined she was speaking directly to his heart. “You had a mother who loved you, whose final moments in the darkness were brightened by knowing you had escaped, that you had been carried away from the nightmare. She must have crooned to you. Even if you can't remember what she crooned, what she called you, it's your name. It came from your mother's lips. It's real. You're real. Love named you in the dark. I called you Gibran last night,” she added, suddenly shy, pressing her face more firmly against his chest. “I cried your name.” “Then, you named me,” said Gibran with a smile, relaxing his arms so that their bodies parted. “You spoke ‘Gibran’ with love and named me.” He kissed her hand. “I thank you. Shazia,” he said, and she flowered as he said it. Shazia. In that withered garden she imagined she was bursting into bloom. “I must go now,” she gasped, aware that she was about to sway again into his arms. “I'll come for you tonight,” he said.

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Shazia looked at him, the doubt she had suppressed rising afresh. “If you leave with me, if you come away from Shahjahanabad, you are giving up your chance to take revenge on Bilal Nazeem Shah,” she said. She was half-afraid to remind him, but she needed to be sure of him. She had to be able to trust him to walk away freely. “Love can be my revenge,” Gibran said.

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Chapter Ten Shazia slipped through the labyrinth and cut through the orchard towards the zenana. The sun was still low and the pale light gave the dried leaves on the trees the luster of new growth. Shazia doubted she would encounter anyone on the path, but, just in case, she began to thread her way through the fruit trees. She gasped, froze. Ahead rose a figure, its contours fuzzed by shadows. Suddenly the figure twisted, and Shazia recognized the motions of a woman combing her hair into a braid. She drew closer and saw the woman fastening her sari, heard her humming in a rich, clear voice. She was young, lithe, full-figured. The kitchen girl! Shazia started as the girl's features came into focus. The lovely kitchen girl she'd seen struggling to lift the round, lazy one. What had she been doing in the garden? The heat rose to Shazia's face as her mind flooded with images of what she herself had done last night, had had done to her. This girl had done the same thing. Shazia almost shouted. She wanted to speak to her, to clasp her hands, look into her eyes and try to see if the girl had felt what she had felt. Shouldn't I want to hide from her? wondered Shazia. Aren't we both disgraced? She realized she was beaming. The girl turned her head slightly. Her body stiffened and Shazia knew she'd been seen. The girl released her braid but kept her arms raised as though preparing to run. Shazia sensed the tension in the air. The girl's eyes flitted toward the east, toward the cypress trees, and Shazia knew that her lover must have passed through those trees moments before, sneaking back to the kitchen or the stables or the workshop before he was missed at his post. Your secret is safe with me, Shazia almost murmured, but she could tell by the emotions playing across the girl's face—first alarm,

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then incredulity, then astonishment, then relief, and finally warmth and complicity—that she didn't need to say anything. Understanding flowed between them. Finally, after confronting countless infuriating male conspiracies, she and this kitchen girl had an unspoken conspiracy of their own. Shazia walked forward, couldn't resist touching the girl's hand as she passed by. The girl's fingers curled reflexively and for a moment their clasped hands seemed to link them, one pulse thundering in both girls' ears. Their eyes met and both gazes seemed lit up from within with female wisdom. Then Shazia was off again, racing along the path to the zenana courtyard. The courtyard was empty. She paused, considering. She couldn't climb back up to the balcony. The servants were surely awake, moving through the halls and quarters, and someone would see her. Instead, she decided to sit on the rim of the fountain. That way she could pretend to have woken earlier than the maids, to have slipped outside to watch the day dawn and ponder her betrothal. No one would suspect she had recently come to the fountain from the dark recesses of the garden rather than the stuffy sleeping chamber. She sank down on the cool marble. Above the pounding of her heart, she heard servants stirring inside the zenana. The rhythmic, familiar sounds soothed her. Her sleepless night—all the new feelings, the new experiences—began to tell on her and her limbs grew heavy. She stretched out on the marble and fell asleep, her face on her arm. **** A hand was stroking her head. The gentle pressure first seemed a part of her dream, then tugged her back into her body. She bolted up, disoriented, unsure how long she'd rested. Not long, she realized. The morning was still pale and fresh. Mumtaz sat beside her. Her hand—swiftly withdrawn when Shazia rose—lay in her lap. “What woman would choose to sleep under the open sky when she has a palace? Only my daughter,” murmured Mumtaz. Shazia listened for the customary note of admonishment in Mumtaz's voice. But for once her mother sounded indulgent. 196

Midnight Flame “You have a soft bed and fine sheets, my sweet one,” said Mumtaz. “It cannot be comfort you're seeking in the courtyard.” Shazia sat up, acutely self-conscious. Her mouth was dry and her lips felt fuller, bruised, from her night of passion. Her eyes held secrets. Could her mother tell that she had changed? That everything was different? She searched Mumtaz's face, beautiful and cold and proud, even though her words were mild. With a sinking heart, Shazia realized that she could not risk exposing herself to her mother. She could not hope to make her mother one of love's confederates. She could not talk with her about the truth she had found with Gibran, the intensity and passion. She bit off the confidence that had risen to her lips. “I was restless,” she said instead, curtly. “Last night I slept little and I came here at first light.” Mumtaz nodded slowly. “It isn't easy,” she said, and her voice was still tender. Her hand stole back and brushed Shazia's hair, almost shyly. “I was afraid when I found out that I was to marry your father,” continued Mumtaz. “I was young, younger than you, and the very thought of marriage frightened me. But you've always been a bold child. I don't worry that you will let yourself be ruled by your fears, or that you will submit to too much in your marriage. You're strong.” In the past, Mumtaz had berated her for her boldness and strength, but this morning Mumtaz seemed to think these qualities virtues. Shazia kept perfectly still, allowing Mumtaz's hand to move through the wild strands of her hair. “And this match, Shazia,” said Mumtaz, “with Ahmad Nazeem Shah, it is brilliant. It is a wealthy family, with good connections—” This was too much. Shazia shot up and away from her mother’s hand. “Wealth and connections! Evil prophecies and dubious dealings!” “You know nothing about the world.” Mumtaz's voice was once again hard as rock. “You care only for superstition and rumor. For fantasy!” “Where is Suleiman, mother?” asked Shazia, letting her eyes sweep about dramatically. “Is his disappearance a fantasy?”

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At the mention of her son, Mumtaz's lips compressed. “Suleiman destroyed some of Bilal Nazeem Shah's property,” said Mumtaz. “Your father has explained it to me. Suleiman will return to us soon. He acted wrongly and Bilal Nazeem Shah is disciplining him, as he would a son.” “A son!” Shazia cried. “You know the story of Bilal Nazeem Shah's sons!” The fight seemed to leave Mumtaz's body and she drooped a little. Gone was the regal posture, the spine like a slender column. She let her gaze fall, curved her neck, turned to look into the dry basin of the fountain. “Things will be better when Suleiman returns,” she said, softly. “Your father has not been well. It's time for him to let Suleiman assume some of his responsibilities.” “Mother,” Shazia said urgently, sitting again on the fountain and taking Mumtaz's hands in her own. “Look at me. Tell me about father. Tell me why the garden is drying up. Tell me why you wear the same sun-faded veil when you used to dress in cloth of gold. I was blind to what was happening around me, I admit it. I was selfabsorbed. I thought only about my own misery, about how I am cut off from Mumsa and the village, trapped in this horrible place….” She heard Mumtaz suck in her breath, and though she had never spoken so frankly to her mother before and feared she had over stepped a boundary, she pressed on. “I understand now, a little, how you've suffered, and why Sulieman left the house at night to ride through the city and assault Bilal Nazeem Shah.” Mumtaz rose, Shazia still clinging to her hands, and it seemed mother and daughter would struggle until Shazia allowed her mother's hands to slide free. “Then you understand why you must marry Ahmad,” said Mumtaz, stiffly. “Your father is in no position to deny Bilal Nazeem Shah's requests.” I can't marry him, Shazia thought. Everything is false here, and that would be the falsest thing of all. She loved Gibran. Another lie won't save my father, she wanted to say. Following truth is the only way I know to preserve honor.

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Midnight Flame Her mother would not agree. Shazia's thoughts winged ahead. Her mother would never forgive her for running away from her marriage with Ahmad. Her mother would never see that she adhered to something higher, a noble path that she followed body and soul. She would only see that Shazia had failed as a daughter, that she had dishonored the family. “Zuben goes to Bilal Nazeem Shah this evening to discuss the wedding plans,” said Mumtaz tonelessly. Her eyes shone and Shazia could tell that behind the shell, Mumtaz was dissolving. “I'm sorry it's come to this,” she said, “for Suleiman, and for you. Things will be better,” she said again, and the doubt in her voice made Shazia want to embrace her, reassure her. But it was too late for that. The sun was getting higher and she needed to dress and order a carriage. She needed to reach Bilal Nazeem Shah before her father could make a further mess, making concessions or promises, causing irreparable damage. “Things will be better,” she said to her mother, and she felt keenly the treachery of words, which mean different things to everyone who hears them. **** Shazia went swiftly to her bed and felt beneath the bed mat where she'd hidden the serpent pendent, Gibran's secret message for her brother. What did it mean? How would it enable Suleiman to escape the underground room? She couldn't worry about that now. She clasped the pendent around her neck, the long, thin curve of iron lying cold against her chest. She had thought the quarters empty, but a flash of movement caught her eye. Shakuntala was standing beside Mithoo's cage, dropping little pieces of flat bread through the wires. Shazia was about to retreat, to sneak away before Shakuntala could turn from Mithoo's cage and see her, when she heard Shakuntala say to the parrot, “Once upon a time there was a princess whose brother was being held captive by a terrible djinn. The princess wanted to save him so badly that she put herself in terrible danger and because she was too stubborn to tell anyone what she was doing, no one could help her.”

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Shazia sighed and walked over to her. Morning light was filtering through the marble latices, dappling the floor, glinting on the golden cage. “Shakuntala,” Shazia began, speaking softly. “Even though there was a person who wanted to help the princess very, very much,” Shakuntala said, refusing to look over at Shazia, her fingers hooked over the wires of the cage, her eyes fixed on Mithoo's erratic motions as he ate his bread. “The princess would not confide in this person. This person knew it was presumptuous to ask the princess where she went at night, but she was so afraid for the princess and her brother she could not stop herself.” “I was in the garden,” said Shazia, speaking more softly still. “I met Gibran.” “Alone,” squeaked Shakuntala, fingers tightening on the cage. Shazia looked at the whitening knuckles. She touched Shakuntala's fingers. “He loves my brother,” she said. “He and I will do anything to save him.” “You are going to marry the captive prince,” said Shakuntala, swinging around. Her eyes were wide, searching. “Everyone is speaking of it. You're going to leave us. You're going to be shut away in Bilal Nazeem Shah's palace. What if I'm not allowed to go with you? What if I never see you again?” Shakuntala's voice rose to a hysterical pitch. Shazia looked into the dear heart-shaped face, the girl who had seen her through so much. She felt suddenly as though her veins had turned to wires. Her heart beat through iron bands. How could she run away with Gibran and leave Shakuntala? Mumtaz needs Shakuntala to run the household, she told herself. Shakuntala likes running the household. She likes the markets, the hum of the city. She'll be fine here. She'll find some earnest, kind man to marry. She isn't meant to live a renegade life. For that's what it will be, thought Shazia, the fears she had kept at bay now flooding her. She could not leave Shahjahanabad and live quietly with Gibran in the village with Mumsa. That was a dream. It could never be. She would be found immediately, dragged home, disowned, shut away for the rest of her days, maybe even 200

Midnight Flame killed. No, she would have to travel far away where no one knew her, or knew of her, take on a new name, make a new life. Gibran had already done so once before. I am asking him to do it again, she realized. To don yet another mask. It isn't fair. None of it is fair. “I am tired of hearing about horsemen and archers, princes and princesses,” said Shakuntala. “Why isn't the story ever about two girls who sit and braid each other's hair? Nothing ever happens to them. They eat fruits. They teach songs to their parrot. They're happy. The end.” “I don't know,” said Shazia. “Maybe someday we will tell that story.” I will tell that story, she added silently. When I am far away from here and remembering the good things about my youth within these walls and telling my children about a girl I once knew, a girl with a delicate face and a loyal heart, a girl who loved stories and parrots and wrestled impossible locks of hair into smooth braids like a little mongoose subduing a king cobra. “But for now,” she said aloud. “I need your help. I need you to go to the stable and tell the grooms to ready a carriage. I am not going to marry Ahmad.” She was surprised to hear the words escape her lips, but felt that she owed Shakuntala that much. This girl with whom she had shared so many stories deserved to know as much of this tale as it was safe to tell. “Suleiman will come home, I'll see to that.” “You're going to Bilal's haveli again,” said Shakuntala, dragging her eyes from the cage and looking at her at last. “You have some foolhardy plan. I know you, Shehzadi. But what do you mean you're not marrying Ahmad? Shazia, what can that mean?” “I can't say,” said Shazia, staring down into Shakuntala's lovely face, the brows drawn together in bewilderment and apprehension. Later, perhaps, after she had returned from delivering the pendent, when she put the letter for Suleiman into Shakuntala's hand, she would confide in the girl. She would tell her everything, every delicious detail of her meeting with Gibran. She would describe the mystery of a man's touch, the dark flame it kindles in your heart, in your belly. She would tell her those things before she gathered a few 201

items of clothing, a few treasures and trinkets, and climbed for the last time over the balcony and down into the courtyard. “Will you arrange for the carriage?” she said, still searching Shakuntala's face. “Quickly, Shakuntala, and quietly. I'll be waiting by the front gates. Will you go to the stable for me?” “Yes, Shehzadi,” whispered Shakuntala, ducked her head, and hurried past her, though not before Shazia saw the glint of tears in her eyes. At least Mithoo's eyes were dry. Shazia looked at the one he turned toward her, hard, black, unmoved. “I said I would free you too,” she reminded the bird, fingers lingering on the cage door. But Mithoo shook his head and made a short harsh sound, disturbingly like a laugh. **** By the time Shazia reached the gates of Bilal Nazeem Shah's haveli, the sun was directly overhead. She'd arrived later than she'd intended, but she knew it would be hours before her father arrived. There was no way he would manage to rouse himself and travel across the city before taking in a copious lunch and varied entertainments. If she could find Bilal Nazeem Shah quickly, cajole him, simper until he indulged her, led her down to Suleiman, she could be back home before her father had climbed into his carriage. And maybe Suleiman himself would be halfway to freedom. She realized she had lifted one hand to where the pendent hung between her breasts, beneath the blue drapery of veil and gown, and she dropped the hand hastily. She had to be on guard against that kind of nervous gesture, innocent enough, but Bilal Nazeem Shah was capable of who knew what kind of terrible inferences. She couldn't risk drawing his attention to what lay hidden beneath her purdah. Bilal was a sly, suspicious, untrustworthy man, and he might ask her to produce the necklace. Surely he would sense that the iron serpent— large, flat, and crudely wrought—had some mysterious function. After all, it was an odd charm for a girl to wear about her neck. Well, I'm an odd girl, thought Shazia. My oddity might weigh in my favor if the serpent is noticed. She smiled wryly. No one has ever thought highly of my taste. 202

Midnight Flame She walked the wide, well-tended path through the small workshops and outbuildings and found her way to the massive audience hall. She stood outside the portico, waiting, but it seemed that the hall was empty. Neither servants nor imperial messengers moved in or out. Bilal held no audience today. Should she visit his apartments? The memory of her failed midnight raid on those apartments made her wince. Mind racing, she drifted away from the hall. She wandered deeper into the gardens, the lush odors of the riotous flowers and fruit-laden trees enticing her. She smelled cedar, wood of aloe, camphor, almond, and walked dreamily catching a scent and following its trail until another delightful scent caught her and she changed directions. She felt carefree for a moment, like a spoiled bee drugging herself on different varieties of flowers, indulging her caprices. A few gardeners milled about, gathering quinces. If they were surprised to see a woman dressed in simple but elegant purdah wandering in small circles through the trees, they did not show it. Suddenly Shazia realized she was no longer following the wafting odors, sharp citrus and warm, sweet nut and giddy hibiscus—her feet were leading her along a path she'd walked before. Almost before she knew what was happening, she had passed through the narrow gate and entered the courtyard of the zenana, where the marigolds unfurled their blazing petals. She stared at the beds of orange, red, and gold. The voices of the gardeners and the low din from the workshops faded away now that she was surrounded by high walls. It was peaceful, still. The marigolds had a subtle, earthy smell, without the high and low notes of the fruits and flowers in the larger garden. Slowly, Shazia walked the tiny paths in the courtyard garden, walked around and around the marigolds, listening to her footfalls, her breath. She shut her eyes, opened them again, gazed at the rich colors, the warmth and softness of those homely blossoms. In addition to the serpent pendent around her neck, she had brought the talisman—Gibran's talisman—threaded on a silken cord she'd tied around her ankle. Now she knelt and freed it from among the bangles. She had not known that she had come to the zenana

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courtyard to make an offering, but now she moved as though every gesture was preordained, part of a larger pattern. “This is your son's,” she whispered, holding it up. It was odd and ugly—no precious jewel—but it was a token. An emblem. “He is alive,” she whispered, feeling as though the stillness in the courtyard had grown suddenly receptive. Listening. “Both your sons are alive,” she continued. “They are like the darkness and the sunlight. They are very beautiful. I love your son,” she said, shyly. “I thought you should be told. I wish to be a good daughter-in-law to you. I brought you this bauble that your son has touched. It's precious to me because he touched it. Maybe you can feel his touch through it and be comforted.” Kneeling again beside a flowerbed, she spread the marigolds and dropped the crudely worked metal onto the dirt between their thick stems. Then she turned her head. Ahmad was standing on the path, so close she couldn't imagine how he had walked up without her noticing. But she remembered how silently Gibran was able to stalk through the midnight garden and how he appeared and dissolved in Chandni Chowk. They are brothers, twins, she reminded herself and braced herself as she looked up into his face. Those dark, tilted, fathomless eyes burning beneath the golden brow winged by black hair. His white cotton shirt was loose but she knew how the ridges of muscles contoured the body beneath. Dazedly, she noticed that he held, not a bow or arrow, but a marigold in his hand. Had he followed her into the courtyard? she wondered. Or had he come here as she had come here… to pay respects to the woman who haunted these walks, whose life had been cut short but bloomed anew each year in the flowers she so loved? “Today you are neither peasant nor thief,” said Ahmad, his deep voice velvety, like the purr of a jungle cat, and just as threatening. “Today you are disguised as a respectable woman. I almost took you for our neighbor's wife, a very proper matron.” His mouth curved slightly. Shazia stood hastily, arranging her veil, smoothing the folds of her gown. “But those green eyes disabused me.”

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Midnight Flame Ahmad moved even closer and Shazia stiffened her spine so that she would not step back. She could not let him get the upper hand. The sun was behind her and the light fell across the planes of his face, burnished the black hair and blacker eyes. His golden throat gleamed above the white cotton. His shoulders were so broad, so strong. Shazia fought the images rising before her eyes—Ahmad's body trapping her, pressing her down in the orchard, Gibran's naked breadth—and caught her lower lip between her teeth. He must have heard her indrawn breath, guessed at her emotions, for his curved lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “I liked the thief best,” he continued. “That act lent itself to certain… positions….” The intimacy of that shared memory was too much for Shazia. She did take a step back, heedless of her pride. “But I can already imagine how you will look”—that deadly voice, oddly gentle, was rich with insinuation—“as a bride.” Then his voice changed, became somehow smaller, boyish, as he looked around the courtyard at the marigold beds, the fountains, the high latticed windows of the women's quarters where his mother had dreamed of the children she would bear. “These will be your quarters,” he said. “This will be your garden. You are so warm.” His hand shot out and gripped her wrist. He rubbed his thumb on the soft inner skin, felt her pulse thrumming. “So real. The kind of woman who can banish ghosts.” The smile played again around his lips. “You tried to rob my father,” he said, frank curiosity in his voice. “I said nothing to him about your identity. But when he came to tell me we were to be married, you might say I was surprised. My father's judgment is usually questionable, but it is always in his best interest. Nursing a viper to his bosom, that is not like him.” “I did not try to rob your father.” Shazia found her tongue at last. “I was trying to find a way to free my brother.” “You love him very much, this brother,” said Ahmad. His fingers tightened on her wrist, but he was no longer looking at her, his gaze focused at a point above her head. “Have you met him?” asked Shazia, taking advantage of the opportunity to study his face. Gibran's face, freed from its covering, 205

had been revealed only by moonlight, the tones of his skin silvered. Ahmad was fierce, golden, and something in her thrilled to see him in the full glory of his masculinity, towering in the sun, bare-headed and unafraid. Radiant. Exposed. Nothing about this man appeared shadowy, hidden, or fearful. Gibran isn't afraid, she chastised herself. He has been condemned to shadow by his desire for vengeance. It is Ahmad who is afraid. But Ahmad did not look afraid. He looked indomitable. Like a god. Her eyes were drawn to his lips, full and brutal, but well-shaped. She knew those lips. Ahmad's lips. Gibran's lips. She realized his fingers no longer gripped her wrist, that her hand had crept into his palm without her knowledge, that their hands were entwined, her fingers curled on his broad, hard palm. His body drew her. Sweat dampened her hands, gathered beneath her arms, as she fought the impulse to remove her hand. This was an opportunity to practice wiles, she reminded herself. To act like a woman and not a stubborn child in a fit of temper. “No,” said Ahmad briefly, and Shazia started, almost forgetting what she had asked. “It must be good,” continued Ahmad, eyes still fixed on a distant point, “to have a brother.” Shazia tore her hand free, wracked by the pain in his voice. She wanted to scream. She wanted to scream at him, “you have a brother! You have a brother and I love him.” Ahmad glanced down at the hand that had held hers, now empty, and rubbed the palm absently with his other hand. He half turned away from her, walked a few paces, and flung himself down on a marble bench, his body sprawling casually. His lithe limbs looked relaxed, but Shazia knew from experience how quickly those muscles could spring into action. She approached cautiously. Ahmad let his head hang for a moment before tilting it sideways, choosing his words carefully but with an air of flippant disregard. “My mother is dead,” he said, “my brother is dead. You know the story. All of Shahjahanabad knows it. I am the unlucky prince. 206

Midnight Flame Prince of doom. The father killer. Most women wouldn't want to marry such an ill-fated man. But I suppose peasants and thieves can't be choosy.” He was sneering at her, but she could see right through him, right through the bravado that made him jeer at her and at the next moment, throw back his head and stare up into the sun. “The sun is a star,” he said, still looking up, eyes unblinking. “It's a lucky star to be born under. I was born at night.” Shazia almost threw herself on him, the desire to block his eyes with her arm was so strong. For an impossible minute, he continued to stare into that fiery orb. Then, after what seemed an eternity, he slowly turned his head and looked in her direction. Shazia was sure he couldn't see her. His eyes must have been seared, dancing with light. She was surprised to see that his cheeks were dry. Her own eyes would have streamed tears if she'd gazed into the sun so long. She wondered if he’d practiced, as a boy perhaps, burning the image of the sun onto his eyes until it hurt, until the tears did run down his cheeks. “I was born at night right here,” he continued, gesturing. “Right here in the zenana courtyard, under dimmer stars, stars too far away to give life. Cold stars. Cursed stars.” “Is that why you allow your father to make you his puppet?” Shazia asked, and Ahmad's brows lowered, mouth making an ugly shape, though from his unfocused gaze she guessed he was blinded still. “You decided you were cursed and gave up on having a life of your own, that's it, isn't it? You let him control your movements, your company. I can see why he's afraid of you,” she said, “But why are you afraid of yourself?” His eyes bored into hers and she knew that the sunspots had cleared, that he could see her. She approached the bench, dropped down beside him. She was grateful, for once, for the heavier fabric of her purdah. It made a barrier between them. She could not feel the heat of his thigh. She didn't look at him, but straight ahead, at the line of slim trees that edged the far path. Between their dark curving branches, the high blind wall of the zenana rose stern and white.

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“I grew up hearing the story, telling the story,” she said. “It was so powerful, so sad. The terrible scene at the well, the tragedy in the underground room. I felt strange knowing it had all happened close by, on the other side of Shahjahanabad, and I would stand on the balcony looking in this direction, imagining this palace, the gardens, this very courtyard. I liked to imagine the captive prince. I wondered what had happened to him afterward, what he thought, what he did with his days, what would happen if I met him one day. That was always the best part of the story for me. The part that was still to come, that could go in a thousand possible directions. Even if fate is real, and the stars are right, and the end is the same, so many different things can happen along the way. Many roads can lead to one place. I do not suggest you can escape your destiny, but you can choose your route. Now your father is choosing for you.” She was afraid to look at him, afraid he was quivering with anger, afraid that, like her mother, like Gibran, like Suleiman, like everyone, he would tell her she did not understand. That she knew nothing about life, about him. How dare she speak? But she felt him taking her hand, felt the warmth firmly enclose her fingers. “My father chose you,” he said. “He chose you for my bride. If I do chart my own course to my doom, I would not reject all my father's decisions.” Shazia drew a quick breath. What was he saying? She knew it would be dangerous to look at him, to turn her face towards his, but she could not help herself. He was leaning close to her on the bench. When she turned, lifted her chin, she gasped. His eyes, his lips, were coming even closer. His fingers tightened on her hand, and with the thumb of his other hand he traced her brow. His breath blew hot against her forehead. He was beautiful. Shazia's heart thundered in her breast. She shut her eyes. His hands were like Gibran's hands, summoned the same sensations. She couldn't allow it. She loved Gibran, not Ahmad. Gibran was beautiful too. But it was a different beauty. Gibran came to her in and through darkness. Ahmad blinded her. She had

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Midnight Flame to shut her eyes against him. He was gilded with light. But he drew her like a moth to a flame. “Help me,” she whispered, eyes still closed. “Your father chose me for you, but he also chose to imprison my brother. I will not be ruled by your father's choices.” She paused, then dared to add, “Take me to my brother.” “Impossible,” said Ahmad. “Only my father and Madsud Yar have keys to that chamber. Your brother will be released when we are wed.” “Will he?” asked Shazia. Opening her eyes, she couldn't see for a moment in the swimming light. Then she fixed Ahmad with a penetrating gaze. “After he caused such trouble for your father? Will he be released, knowing what he knows?” She felt awkward, aware she was bluffing, fumbling to draw from Ahmad the truth that she intuited but did not fully understand in all its sordid detail. From the keen expression in Ahmad's eyes, she was convinced he could call her bluff. But he played along anyway. “What he knows, every man in Shahjahanabad knows,” said Ahmad slowly. “My father's trade is an open secret. It is not knowledge that makes your brother a threat, but the will to act on that knowledge. Your brother wants to force the Court to notice what it deliberately ignores. My father cannot allow that to happen. He has too much at stake. His gardens, his palaces, his dreams… they are all built on this evil. The white death….” He trailed off, thumb still tracing the arch of Shazia's brow, black eyes searching hers. The white death. The phrase hammered in her head. “Emperor Aurangzeb is too far away to enforce his laws. His ministers curry favor with the nobles close at hand, those whose gifts profit them directly. Aurangzeb has picked his war, and it's out on the plains, fought with steel. It's not here. Shahjahanabad fights its own war. Sweet war of smoke… secrets… small acts of violence. Your brother thinks my father controls this city, that if he can topple my father, weak men like your father will crawl out from beneath his thumb and stand on their own feet. But weak men like your father were born to crawl,” said Ahmad. “The opium is an excuse. Your brother is wrong.” 209

Shazia stood. It seemed that the sun had grown larger, burned hotter, and the blood rushed to her head. She felt weak, but she knew that she needed to get away. Of course, her father was not Bilala Nazeem Shah's slave, not the poppy's slave, but the slave of his own lassitude, greed, and self-indulgence. But Bilal Nazeem Shah exploited weakness. She understood everything now. His business was opium, a lucrative business, one that created a captive market, ensorcelled men who came to rely on the flowers' dreams. “The sun,” said Shazia, weakly, fanning herself. She moved into the shade of a lemon tree. Ahmad rose too, but he was not looking at her. His face hardened and he gave a scant bow. “Father,” he said wryly. Bilal Nazeem Shah was walking steadily towards them, and though he was a big man, shorter than his sons but heavier, he moved just as silently. Today he was dressed in red. He resembled, with his powerful shoulders, large features, jet hair, and long mustaches, nothing so much as a bull caparisoned in scarlet. A maddened bull is unpredictable, thought Shazia, fighting off her dizziness. “It seems I cannot keep you away from my son,” said Bilal Nazeem Shah. “Even the prospect of a prompt wedding does not deter you from clandestine visits. Although I suppose I might attribute your presence here to your overweening fondness for marigolds? These do have more life in them than those grown by your father.” Shazia felt cornered, desperate, as this smooth-voiced, powerful man seized control with his oily wit. “Impatience is a common trait in passionate women,” Bilal continued, “but passionate women are most commonly sought as dancing girls and courtesans. Rarely are they brides. When I asked your father if I could have you for my son, I may have been too generous with my terms.” Shazia saw of flash of red beneath the black and silver mustaches as Bilal Nazeem Shah twisted his lips. “You are not fit to be Ahmad's wife,” he said. “No,” said Shazia, surprising him, and Ahmad also. She sensed both men start. She was aware she had violated the rules of the engagement, had refused to make rebuttals on Bilal's terms. She 210

Midnight Flame pressed her advantage. “You are right. I am not fit to be Ahmad's wife. I appreciate the honor you did me, but I agree, you were mistaken in your selection.” Shazia was not aware of what was happening, but she could tell from Bilal Nazeem Shah's face that something odd had transpired. His skin whitened, eyes narrowed. She stood on the path, sunlight streaming all around her through the tiny leaves of the lemon tree. The big bull-like man gaped, looking as though he had seen a ghost. “The light,” he said hoarsely, and Shazia looked up, then down, at the blue of the veil draping over her shoulders and the deeper blue of the gown upon which points of light scintillated. Like stars. Like constellations. A map of our destiny glittering on the mirror work of a woman's dark gown, thought Shazia, intuiting the source of Bilal's fear, and a part of her, the story-teller inside her, relished the beauty of the image. What did Bilal read, written across her body, in scattered light? Shazia wanted to take advantage of her sudden power, to step toward him, but she did not want to spoil the effect of the dappled sun by moving out from the tree's shelter. Ahmad stepped forward instead. “Shazia is fit to be my wife,” he said. “Not because you say so, but because I want her. I… need her.” He said he needed me. Shazia's mind whirled. Coming from his lips, the admission of need sounded like an imperial command. “I will tell you what you need,” Bilal Nazeem Shah replied, but compared to the quiet surety in his son's voice, his own voice issued in a stammer. He was clearly flustered, out of his element in his wife's courtyard, where ghosts held the upper hand. Why did he come here? wondered Shazia suddenly. Surely not to pick a marigold, to think of the dead woman who loved them? Could Bilal Nazeem Shah, the monster, give way to sentiment? Shazia held out her arms, aware of the swimming light and shadow. The sharp scent of the lemon tree cut through the fog in her head and she felt lucid, purposive. She came out onto the path and stopped just before Bilal Nazeem Shah. She was preparing to 211

ask that he let her see her brother. “Take me to Suleiman,” was on the tip of her tongue. Instead, her mouth formed other words. “I came here to see where your wife gave life to your sons,” she said. “To thank her. Now I want to see where you gave her death.” Bilal Nazeem Shah raised a hand to his face. The hand tremored, but only slightly. “I built those underground rooms as a water palace,” he said. “With pools kept cool by the earth, and that cooled the air. The cistern there was to be the womb of the garden, feeding the watercourses and fountains. I built it all for her pleasure. Sometimes a palace is a crypt and you discover it too late. I'll take you there.” Shazia thought she saw a plea in his eyes, which were slitted to contain his pain. “Crypts are difficult to leave,” said Bilal, “for the living as well as the dead.” He's warning me, Shazia realized. He's warning me that if he takes me down those steps he will never return to let me out. He can't stop himself, but he is warning me. A small part of her softened with pity for this twisted man. “Father,” broke in Ahmad, urgent, wild-eyed. Bilal Nazeem Shah had spoken strangely, as though in a kind of trance, in a voice his son had never heard. Shazia knew she should be frightened, but she felt like she was moving through the steps of a familiar dance. Ahmad reached for her shoulder, but she shrugged him off and put her hands in the damp hands of Bilal Nazeem Shah. “Let's go,” she said. “I'm ready.”

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Chapter Eleven Shazia followed Bilal numbly through the narrow gate in the courtyard wall. Ahmad did not try to stop her. Rather, he fell into step beside her and she could feel the golden heat of his anger and despair. Ahmad has a strong father and Suleiman a weak one, and I don't see which makes it easier for a son to become a man, she thought. Then she pictured Mumtaz, a cold, white pillar, beautiful, hard, unbending, and unspeakably sad. Not that it's easy to be a woman, she added to herself, even if you do successfully become one. Bilal was taking her to Suleiman in the underground room, not to visit with him and emerge again into the light, but to remain. To share his fate. He's going to leave us both down there, she thought. He's mad enough to do it. For who knows how long. But surely the pendent, whatever message it communicates, will enable Suleiman to win our freedom. She wondered again what ciphers that crude serpent could carry. It seemed impossible that the dull iron could convey anything. But didn't some artisans inscribe whole poems on grains of rice? Gibran would be waiting for her in her father's garden, waiting for her to come to him, waiting to carry her away with him, away from Shahjahanabad, through the Ajmiri gates, the hooves of his black horse sparking…. But what if she did not escape in time? What if he waited and she did not come? She barely noticed the mingled scents diffusing from flowers, trees, and herbs as she walked behind Bilal. Her senses had already dulled in anticipation of the murky descent. She remembered the flash of empathy she'd felt for Bilal Nazeem Shah when she first saw his gardens and recognized his appreciation of, his devotion to, beauty.

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“The beauty of these gardens is a tribute to life,” she said aloud, almost without meaning to, trying to trigger her own sensory response. The gorgeous patterns of magenta and azure blossoms, green and silver leaves. The star-shaped beds of bougainvillea. The white fountains, the sound of water trickling over stone. The sculpted juniper trees. Why didn't any of it stir her? “The beauty of these gardens is a tribute to life,” she repeated, this time with vehemence. “But you trade in death and slavery.” She flung the accusation at the regal, red-garbed back before her. Bilal Nazeem Shah stopped walking, pivoted slowly to face her. Ahmad, too, paused, amazement written plainly across his face. “I believe that you love beauty,” continued Shazia, eyes fixed on Bilal. “Your gardens, your palaces—they reveal your eye for symmetry, your understanding of art, religion, history. They reveal your sensitivity. How do you reconcile the contradiction?” “There is no contradiction,” Bilal replied, mastering himself. His features, which had at first registered surprise and displeasure at her outburst, resumed their masklike complacency. His hand drifted up to stroke his black and gray mustaches. “Death and slavery, as you put it, are at times in service to beauty. What is more beautiful than Heaven? And what requires more indubitably one's death as the price of entry?” Bilal's red lips glistened between his mustaches as he smiled, pleased with his line of questioning. Shazia made no attempt to answer. “I am indeed devoted to beauty,” continued Bilal. “I am a man of vision. A man of vision has a right—a sacred duty—to realize that vision. What would your father do with wealth and power? Eat slices of sugared quince off the bellies of courtesans? Bathe in palm wine?” The contempt in Bilal's voice made Shazia wince. “It makes no difference whether your father succeeds or fails, lives or dies.” Bilal's brutal words struck Shazia's ears. She felt as if she was reeling. Bilal did not acknowledge the effects of his discourse, the reaction Shazia could not disguise. He did not seem to take pleasure in her discomfort, as she would have expected. Instead, his tone was matter-of-fact.

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Midnight Flame “He is expendable,” said Bilal. “Many men are expendable. But you understand, and I understand, that beauty is not expendable. I serve that higher purpose.” “You serve your own purpose.” Shazia's throat worked convulsively. She could not bear to glance at Ahmad and stared instead at the red jewel in Bilal's turban. It winked at her in the sunlight like a baleful eye. “Your love for beauty has been corrupted by your pride,” she spat. “I didn't say my devotion to beauty was disinterested,” Bilal murmured. He seemed bored by Shazia's protestations, or at best, faintly amused. “It is a good thing to attain glory in this world. To leave behind a great name and everlasting fame. Your brother would understand what I mean. I don't think his devotion to your father is entirely disinterested, either. Suleiman, too, is eager for a name he can be proud of. Do you think it is love for Zuben Wali Dad that motivates him?” Bilal sounded bemused, as though trying to fathom the extent of her ignorance. “Your brother has attempted to stake out his own ground, to make his mark. To topple the patriarch… if you can call Zuben Wali Dad a patriarch. But I don't think Suleiman's vision is strong enough. Sadly, I think Suleiman may be just another one of the expendable many.” Shazia's hands had balled into fists. She forced them to relax. Whatever moment she'd imagined she seized by addressing Bilal, it had come to nothing. My brother is not expendable, she wanted to cry. But she knew this would be tantamount to accepting Bilal's terms, admitting that some people mattered and some people didn't. She swallowed hard and stayed silent. Bilal held her gaze, then shrugged and turned, continuing along the path to his quarters. Shazia felt a sense of release as he turned away from her. She noticed that Ahmad was regarding her thoughtfully, his powerful arms folded across his chest. He did not look as though he considered her outburst childish, foolish. He looked as though he admired her. Desired her. What had he said to Bilal? I want her. I need her.

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She couldn't deny her attraction to him, even more damning because Gibran had made her his. She tried to summon Mumtaz's stony resolve. She walked past him, aware of the loose white fabric of his shirt fluttering in the breeze, caressing the golden muscles beneath. Her body almost brushed his as she passed. She moved more quickly, falling into step with Bilal so that Ahmad had to walk behind alone. Bilal glanced down at her as she drew abreast, his nostrils flaring… with what? Shazia wondered. Surprise at her tenacity? I will not be intimidated, she swore to herself. She forced a smile, bright and false. Bilal accepted the effort and spoke. “You admire my gardens.” It was not a question. “Yes,” she said, simply. Bilal nodded. As she walked with him, he named for her the varieties of his fruit trees, commented on the origins of rare flowers, his smooth voice reciting the foreign names, almost lulling her into a sense of security. He snapped his fingers at the group of gardeners Shazia had seen earlier, now tending a different cluster of trees. A lean, stooped, fork-bearded man shuffled over with an apricot. Bilal tested the flesh with a fingernail and handed the fruit to Shazia. She noticed suddenly that her mouth was dry and bit the swollen fruit gratefully. She smiled at the gardener, but he had already gone back to work, eyes downcast. Bilal intercepted her smile instead. “It's like comparing rubies to cut glass,” he breathed, eyes widening. Shazia's smile faltered as she half-comprehended his meaning. “Gone already,” Bilal said, and reaching out, touched Shazia's lips with a fingertip. She kept perfectly still, and he withdrew his hand, sighing. “A pity. You are beautiful. Perhaps I should call you my apricot? Peach wasn't quite right. An apricot is tarter, firmer. There's a density to the flesh that makes it all the more satisfying… to part.” A bizarre mood seemed to have gripped him. He'd shrugged off the role of blandly charming connoisseur as easily as he'd assumed it. The menace had returned, but it seemed less controlled. Almost hysterical. He was short of breath and breathed in little gasps. 216

Midnight Flame Stubbornly, Shazia looked straight ahead as they resumed their slow walk. Toward doom, she thought. They passed between the resinous, fragrant aloeswood trees that flanked the marble entranceway to Bilal's living quarters, and Bilal stopped walking at the foot of the stair. He faced Shazia and waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. She frowned, confused. “Take yourself off to the stables and groom your horse,” he said. “I hear he has a burr on his coat.” Then she realized he was speaking to Ahmad. The golden man had stopped on the path. Several armspans separated him from Shazia, but she could see the tension in his face, the slight pulsing at the corner of his long eyelid, the swiveling shadow where the muscles connected to his jaw. For a moment, it seemed he might refuse his father. Shazia felt as though some force was drawing their bodies together. His black eyes searched hers and she felt her arms raising, felt herself about to reach out. He had to move towards her. She rose onto her toes, pulled to him. Before she could move, he bowed his head in a gesture of sardonic obedience. “Yes, father.” He turned abruptly and was gone, striding back the way they'd come with long, easy strides. Shazia didn't expect to feel so vulnerable, so betrayed, as she watched the tall, muscular form recede, and she berated herself for it. Ahmad Shah is not your protector, she told herself. Nonetheless, she had felt safer when he stood nearby her. Now it was her and Bilal. Bilal had ascended the first step into the palace and so loomed over her, like a giant, not a man. Framed by his massive palace, he reminded Shazia of an ifrit, one of the terrifying spirits from the old tales who spend the centuries hatching infernal plots while trapped in carnelian statues or pillars of porphyry. “Come, little one,” said Bilal, almost gently, and held out his hand. Shazia ascended the steps slowly. She refused the proffered hand, and he winced, an exaggerated sign of mock regret. 217

“Women today wound a man's pride,” Bilal murmured, still playing the rebuffed gallant. It suddenly struck Shazia as hideous, this ruse of courtly manners. As they walked together through the cool, vaulted hall, richly hung with tapestries, Shazia became of aware of Bilal's growing eagerness. He cut his eyes at her, trying to observe her impressions of the sumptuous halls. “It's all for you, Zahara,” he whispered, and Shazia's blood froze in her veins. She pretended not to hear and repressed a shudder as he took her arm, guiding her, more swiftly now, through the halls and chambers. He dropped her arm as they turned down a narrow corridor and darted ahead of her, almost capering. When he'd traveled halfway down the corridor, he whirled and walked back toward her, his tread more measured, but his cheeks flushed, his forehead shining with sweat, chest rising and falling in quick pants. “Come, come,” he said and seized her elbow once more. The corridor was dim, without high lattices or skylights, though the jewels inset around the tops of the pilasters gleamed in the low lamplight. Aromatic oils had been mixed with the lamp oils. The air was warm, thick with scent. The other halls gave the impression of grandeur, the balance of masses and voids creating a spacious harmony with many portals opening into wide rooms or lightflooded alcoves. This corridor had but one door, the small silver door set between pilasters at the terminus. The silver door. “Touch it,” said Bilal, softly, and Shazia moved forward, caught in a dream, fingers outstretched, until they touched the timedarkened silver. The silver was cool. Cold air seemed to seep from the seams below and from the sides of the door. “A place to escape the summer heat,” Bilal said. He was close behind Shazia, crowding her body between his warm bulk and the cold silver. She felt trapped, every fiber of her body tensing, screaming run, run, run. “I meant this room to be a sanctuary,” Bilal continued, smooth voice a monotone. His breath tickled her neck. “Instead it became a chamber of suffering.” “You didn't have to do it,” whispered Shazia, eyes fixed on the door before her. “You don't have do this either. You can unlock the 218

Midnight Flame door and let Suleiman come up. You can make him promise not to interfere anymore with your trade. Your vision. He should know by now that he can't stop you.” But even as she said it, she knew her brother, no matter what he'd endured in the past few days, would never give such a promise. “The stars betrayed me,” Bilal said, as though he hadn't heard her. “They predicted the destruction of my dreams. I realized the sanctuary I had dug was not a sanctuary from the summer heat, but a sanctuary from the heavens. How far underground do you think celestial influence can penetrate?” Bilal's voice had tightened. “Through how many fathoms of mud and stone?” He reached an arm over her shoulder, bracing his hand against the door, and with the other hand turned the key in the lock. Shazia held her breath, his arms on either side of her, hemming her in. The door swung open, creaking, into the black mouth of the stairwell. Dank air rushed towards her, fetid and chill. “I'm sorry,” Bilal said. Something like sorrow did indeed sound a new depth in his voice. Shazia felt his hand on her back, nudging her forward, and she stepped down in the darkness. She could still taste the apricot on her tongue, but the juice was souring. She swallowed hard. Took another step. The door did not swing shut behind her until she was halfway down the staircase, but when it did, the light was utterly extinguished and she felt a moment of panic, reaching out with her toes blindly, feeling for the next slick, uneven step. She scraped her fingers along the wet limestone wall as she descended, pressing so hard she was certain her fingers were bleeding. So this was Zahara's last journey. Did she try to kindle hope in this darkness by envisioning marigolds? Shazia imagined the darkness dispersed by the ruddy golden light of marigolds and almost loosed a wild laugh. Why aren't our destinies written in flowers? she wondered. They are warmer and closer to us, and every year we can plant them again until we find the right arrangement. Ahmad wanted his destiny written in sunlight.

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The sun is a star, he'd said. Of course, he loved the sun, she thought. His first days were spent in this darkness. Gibran still lived in the darkness. It was all he knew of life. Her slipper almost shot out from under her on an uneven step and she gasped, raking her hand along the wall so that pain seared her fingertips. Concentrate, she told herself. She had to be near the bottom. Her outstretched foot slid along level ground. She took a tentative step forward, then another. The air felt slimy on her skin. Her nostrils flared at the heavy odor of mildew, rot, waste. She heard rustling, imagined enormous spiders dropping from the ceiling, swarms of blind vermin, snakes, bats, frogs…. “Suleiman?” Her hoarse whisper seemed to die on her lips, failing to carry into the gloom. Nonetheless, the answer came quickly. “Shazia?” “Suleiman?” She stumbled in the direction of the voice, bumped into a figure stumbling towards her. “My eye! For God's sake, Shazia.” She heard a slap, knew he was clapping his hand over his wounded eye. “Suleiman?” She reached out again, more tentatively, fingers tucked against her palms. “You've blinded me,” he grumbled. “Or at least, I suspect you've blinded me. I can't know for sure because there's nothing to see. Shazia! You always manage to create fresh trouble.” Now Shazia did laugh, with relief at the familiar, exasperated tone. Suleiman was still… himself. “Well, if you don't know if you're blinded or not, it's all the same,” she retorted, moving her hands down until they found his. “Seeing or being blind. There's no use worrying about it.” The hands that grasped hers were moist and cold. “I'm not worrying about it,” said Suleiman. It was strange to hear his voice so close and yet not be able to see him, not so much as his outline. This is the darkest place I've ever been, thought Shazia. Darker than the garden cypress grove at night. Darker than the riverside in the village. She turned her head all around, trying to make out some 220

Midnight Flame contour, some point that stood out from the black uniformity. Nothing. “Shazia, you occupy all of my worries. Even before you showed up in this reeking pit, I was half mad thinking about what might happen to you if I didn't return.” His hands tightened on hers and she rubbed them, hoping she could move the blood through the rubbery flesh. “I occupy all your worries…?” Her voice trailed off. A week ago Shazia would have doubted and resented this claim. If he worried about her, why did he ignore her? Why didn't he confide in her? And furthermore, why did he worry about her at all? Did he think her so incapable of taking care of herself? Now she realized that his worry for her had little to do with her own behavior and much more to do with the way their family was crumbling around them. “Well, I've been half mad trying to figure out a way to make sure you returned,” she said shakily. “How are you here?” he asked. “Why are you here? Gibran promised me he would keep you safe.” “Gibran is the one who told me to come.” Shazia was glad the darkness hid her face as she uttered the name. “I will kill him,” Suleiman said simply, dropping her hands. She heard him move away through the gloom. “Someone had to help you,” Shazia cried, frightened now that she was standing alone in utter darkness, surrounded by rank miasmas and who knew what invisible insects. “It wasn't going to be our father, we both know that.” “Shazia, don't speak lightly of our father.” There was a warning note in Suleiman's voice. “How can you say that after everything that's happened to you because of him?” “I take responsibility for my actions,” said Suleiman. From the sound of his voice, he was moving toward her, trying to silence her, but Shazia continued, the passion welling up inside her, all her newly adopted principles of restraint dissolving in her eagerness to communicate her feelings to her brother.

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“Suleiman, I respect you for what you've done, how you tried to stop Bilal Nazeem Shah from poisoning the city, from, from… enslaving our father. You tried to destroy shipments of opium, didn't you? I understand everything now, or not everything, but I understand now that Bilal Nazeem Shah's wealth depends on smuggling, that the officials have turned a blind eye, that the nobles are hopelessly addicted, that our family is falling apart, and that you took matters into your own hands. I know what you've been going through, about the battle you've been fighting for our family's sake. For my sake.” Her heart thudded. She hadn't said anything so personal to her brother in years, and never about their father. She heard a strangled laugh. “Gibran speaks more freely through his mask than I could possibly have imagined.” Suleiman's bitterness cut Shazia to the core. “Gibran was as irritatingly cryptic as you are,” she snarled. “I figured it out on my own. Not by opening my eyes, but by paying attention to what was already in front of them. Sometimes seeing and being blind are the same thing. I didn't want to notice anyone's misery but my own, even though it was right there, all of it. Suleiman, let's go away from here, from Shahjahanabad.” Suleiman gave another bark of laughter. “A fine proposition, little sister,” he said. “If we could begin by leaving this hole, I would feel more inclined to give it proper consideration. As things are, I don't see the use in fantasizing.” “Would you go?” she asked. “Would you go with me?” “With you? You are leaving Shahjahanabad?” The mockery did not wound her. “Yes,” she said. “I have to leave. Suleiman, it's killing me.” “We have obligations to our family,” he said. “To our father, to our mother, to each other. I will not let Shahjahanabad kill you. I will not let opium kill our father. I boarded Bilal's boat because I thought it might convince him I was serious, that our organization was serious. I even dabbled in intrigue.” He laughed ruefully. “I hoped Bilal might fear some powerful rival had put us up to the act and tried to insinuate as much. If Bilal's actions were brought to the attention of the Emperor, he would be locked up, killed most likely. 222

Midnight Flame He's been lining his own pockets by flooding the markets with opium from the North and paying the empire nothing. “Our boarding didn't go exactly as planned, but I'm not beaten yet. I have another option. I can strike Bilal at a more vulnerable point. I can make him lose much more. I didn't want to… I don't want to. But I have no choice.” Suleiman sounded as if he was speaking to himself. Shazia wondered if he had begun to speak to himself. How many hours can you spend alone in the dark before you start sounding your own voice for company? “I don't want to abandon the family,” said Shazia. “But I can't abandon myself, or my heart. I know that law, custom, and the verses say otherwise, but Suleiman, I've found something that moves me and I know that it is right. Sacred, even. I've felt the light and gloried in it. I am going to follow my heart.” “Shazia, if Gibran touched you….” “Gibran has touched me deeply,” she said, “spiritually, emotionally—” “I will kill him,” said Suleiman again, his voice shrinking in the darkness as he retreated. She heard the sound of him dropping to the floor. He must be getting weak, she thought. Breathing this stagnant air, eating nothing or next to nothing. Did Bilal feed him? Had he been given any respite from the dark? She moved forward, gingerly lowered herself to the foul floor, mud and broken rock and softer lumps with an undecidable texture. Rats? Mold? She folded her hands on her lap and tried not to think about it. “I trusted him,” Suleiman said. “Your trust was not misplaced,” said Shazia. “He sent me here to save you, because he knew I was the only one Bilal might admit to this chamber. You know, Bilal meant this place to be beautiful, cool, filled with water, a sanctuary.” “It's a corpse hole,” said Suleiman unpleasantly. “Filled with flesh-eating spiders, as you'll soon find out.” After that, they sat for a while in silence. Shazia scrambled backward until her back touched a wall. Afraid something might 223

scurry under her skirts, she sat with her knees up, her feet trapping the hem of her gown so it made an impermeable tent. Finally Suleiman spoke. “There are spiders. But they don't eat flesh. I was teasing you.” Shazia shrugged. He couldn't see it, of course, so she grunted her assent. “I wasn't scared,” she said. “I was,” admitted Suleiman. “The first night. Part of me did wish you were here. The sound of scurrying and slithering and dripping was making me crazy and I'd think how we used to like slithery, slimy things. Down by the river. Remember? We'd catch frogs and lizards and huge water beetles and we'd take them home and keep them in pots.” “Mother would find them and tip them over,” said Shazia. “And you'd scream!” laughed Suleiman. “Because you'd given all the frogs names and they'd become your friends and then they were under everybody's feet, getting stomped on, and you'd tell everybody to stay still, all the servants and the people passing by. ‘Nobody move!’ you'd say, and we'd try to collect them all again. I was wishing you were here to tell me the story of one of those frogs. You had so many stories about frogs.” “It's funny, in Shahjahanabad the only frog is Mansoor,” said Shazia. “He made me forget I used to have good relationships with frogs.” “Mansoor?” echoed Suleiman. “I call him the frog,” said Shazia. “Only now you remind me that I'm doing a disservice to frogs,” she continued as Suleiman sputtered with laughter. “Being froglike is more becoming in frogs than men,” said Suleiman. “Mansoor is a miserable specimen.” “I thought you wanted me to marry him,” confessed Shazia. “No one else was likely to have me, and it seemed that would be the best option for everybody. To get me off your hands.” “Marry Mansoor!” The outrage in Suleiman's exclamation filled Shazia with warmth. “He tried to tell me he was your best friend,” Shazia said, giggling.

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Midnight Flame “When does Mansoor get the opportunity to tell you anything? Does he hop after you all around the gardens?” “More like lies in wait on his lilypad,” said Shazia, still glowing inside. She and Suleiman hadn't shared a joke in a long time. It felt good. It felt natural. “Shazia, I don't want to get you ‘off my hands,’ as you say,” said Suleiman. “You certainly give the impression you'd be happier if you didn't have to deal with me.” Shazia hated her sulky tone, but she couldn't help it. She'd felt the pain of rejection too deeply and too long for a few moments of camaraderie to dispel it. She thought Suleiman might try to deny that distance had grown between them, or worse, deny that they had ever been closer, but she heard him sigh heavily in the the darkness. “I used to think I would be happier,” said Suleiman. “How would you feel if you were a boy and your little sister could run faster, climb higher, shoot straighter than you ever could?” “I'd feel like I had the upper hand,” grumbled Shazia. “Because I was the boy and I could do whatever I wanted.” But even as she said it, she realized it wasn't true anymore. She was glad she was a girl— a woman—and maybe, just maybe, she could do what she wanted anyway. But she couldn't share this new feeling with her brother. “What about these past few years?” she rushed on. “You weren't ignoring me because I won some silly footrace when we were children?” Suleiman sighed again. “Of course not,” he said. “I didn't think about it. I didn't even really notice it was happening. We were in the city and I had new ideas, new friends, new pastimes. They just didn't include you. It's normal, Shazia, for a maturing boy and his young sister to grow apart.” “It still hurt,” whispered Shazia. “You were my dearest friend.” “I knew how unhappy you were that we'd left the village,” said Suleiman softly. “Part of me refused to face your unhappiness. It was too hard. It was easier to pretend I didn't see it. That I didn't see you as anything more than an annoying little sister.”

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“We've both done a lot of pretending,” said Shazia. In the silence that yawned again between them, she said, “Father betrothed me to Bilal's son. To Ahmad.” Suleiman sucked in his breath. “That's why you want to leave Shahjahanabad,” he said. “Yes,” said Shazia. And no, screamed a voice in her head. She wasn't running away from Ahmad. She was running to Gibran. To love. She couldn't risk discussing it further with her brother. Even though she felt like the walls between them were tumbling down, he could still cut off his compassion and assume the role of unbending authority figure in an instant. She knew him. “Bilal wants you married to Ahmad so he can control father,” said Suleiman slowly. “I see that. But why has he locked you down here?” “He's mad,” said Shazia. She had the uncomfortable feeling something was moving down the damp, gritty wall behind her and scooted away. “He didn't plan to do it. I think he's been warped by his ambition. And by living so long without love.” “You seem to know a lot about love,” said Suleiman, and Shazia could not interpret the tone in his voice. She decided to ignore the statement. “I'm cold,” she said. “I can't feel my fingers. This place smells worse than old Talib's well. Remember when the snake died in his well? Mumsa had us bring him a pail of fresh water every day, but he'd still make us go to his well so we could sniff and tell him if his water was clean again.” “Old Talib,” said Suleiman, musingly. Shazia wished she could see his face, that thin, alert, mobile face. She stood up, shaking pebbles from her gown. “You'll be warmer standing,” said Suleiman approvingly. “The wet stone sucks heat.” She heard him rise to his feet. “Suleiman, Gibran gave me a talisman.” She drew the iron serpent from beneath her gown. “I'm glad he gave you something,” said Suleiman. “I was starting to fear he expected you to save me with enchanting conversation or fairy dust. What is it?”

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Midnight Flame She unclasped the chain of her necklace and held out the serpent. Suleiman's fingers bumped her wrist, then closed around it. He felt her palm, found the serpent, and took it into his own hand. “Do you understand it?” she asked eagerly. “What does it say? It's a code. It's a message, and Gibran says you'll know what it means. You'll be able to use it so that we can escape.” “A code.” Suleiman sounded worried and Shazia's body turned to ice. “You don't know any code?” she gasped. She had trusted Gibran implicitly. Was it possible he had never intended to help set Suleiman free? He was Bilal Nazeem Shah's son. A fact that Suleiman did not know. She opened her mouth, wondering if she should reveal Gibran's secret. She wanted to talk with Suleiman about him, to hear every detail about the man, the history of their friendship, Suleiman's assessment of his character, but she bit off her words. Not now, she told herself. “If there's no secret message, we're lost.” Panic rose into Shazia's throat until she could barely breathe. For the first time she let herself imagine them both plunged into this dark for all eternity, hour melting into hour until time meant nothing. To her immense relief, Suleiman began to laugh. “What?” she cried. “What is it? How can you decipher the code in the dark? What does it mean?” “It doesn't mean anything,” said Suleiman. He sounded pleased and amused and Shazia's breathing returned to normal. “My dreamy, impossible little sister, did you think there was something written on it? Do you think Gibran is one of those men who writes poems on grains of rice?” “No,” said Shazia, too quickly. “Of course not.” “It's not a code. It's a tool.” “I don't understand,” said Shazia blankly. “There's nothing to understand,” laughed Suleiman. “Gibran gave you an iron bar, that's all there is to it.” Comprehension was still slow in coming. Shazia stood silently as Suleiman moved around the room. She heard the sound of scraping.

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“I've explored every inch of every wall in this room, as Gibran knew I would,” said Sueliman. “Listen.” Shazia listened to the dull thumps as he banged the stone with his fist. “That one! Did you hear it?” “It's different. Hollow.” Shazia swallowed. “There's nothing behind this wall,” said Suleiman. “The cistern,” whispered Shazia. “Bilal built a cistern. It was supposed to feed the pool in this room and also provide water for his gardens.” “And I've felt a small seam… Here.” The scraping grew louder. “I think it's a hatch covering the duct through which the water was supposed to flow into the pool.” Suleiman grunted. “I'm trying to lever it open.” As Shazia approached, there was a screeching, metal grinding on metal, and a definitive pop. “Got it!” Suleiman was beside her in an instant, holding her shoulders, shaking her, hugging her, his thin frame sharp against her. “There must be a duct leading out of the cistern on the other side, up into the garden. Are you ready to crawl?” “How did Gibran know?” Shazia felt as though the numbness in her fingers had penetrated to her brain. “How did Gibran know about the hatch and the cistern and the duct?” “We can ask him when we're out of here,” said Suleiman, still breathless with excitement. “Unless you'd prefer to stay here surrounded by spiders and speculate?” “Nooo….” said Shazia weakly as Suleiman pulled her over to the wall. “Ugh.” Suleiman coughed. “The air in here is mostly dirt, I think. And the hatch is small! This will be about as miserable as getting thrown down old Talib's well. Are you ready? I'll go first.” Shazia worked on her breathing. Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid. Imagine you're an earthworm. Did she ever have good relationships with earthworms? She couldn't remember. “All right.” Suleiman's voice was muffled. Shazia reached out, touched the cold wall, slid her hands along the surface until she felt the metal lip and her hands plunged into empty air. Hands first, like a diver, she wiggled through the 228

Midnight Flame aperture. It was large enough for her to crawl on her hands and knees, but barely. The air was thick, close, and her gown was strangling her. She almost cried out for help, but suddenly the ground fell out from beneath her hands and she toppled head first, dimly aware that her brother's arms were holding her up, setting her on her feet. She swayed. “We're in the cistern,” said Suleiman. He spoke softly, but his voice reverberated strangely. His footsteps echoed as he crossed to the opposite wall. Shazia almost slipped as she followed him. She felt her slippers moving through cold puddles and pressing uneven surfaces. Once again she had to fight to banish the images of rats and snake nests. “It's big enough!” cried Suleiman. “I feared…. But we'll be able to fit. Praise Allah that Bilal Nazeem Shah dreamed on such a large scale. This waterworks would have been massive.” “How do we know the tunnel will lead all the way to the surface?” asked Shazia. “That it hasn't collapsed?” “We don't,” said Suleiman. “We have to risk it. Or… I have to risk it. There's no need for you to come along. You could go back into the chamber. I'll go to Bilal and demand your release. I can promise that—” “No!” Shazia's voice was sharp. “I go with you. It can't be any worse than the time I got stuck halfway through that rotten log.” “That sounds like my fearless little sister,” said Suleiman. They began to crawl once again, Suleiman first and Shazia following. The marble or ceramic that should have lined the watercourse had never been installed so the tunnel was rough, raw earth and rock. Dirt fell on their shoulders. Their hands and knees sank into clammy sludge. Shazia felt a guilty relief knowing that any cobwebs that stretched across the tunnel would break against her brother's face and not her own. They toiled upwards. The incline was gradual. The ascent seemed infinite. Shazia felt like she was going to implode, the pressure of the earth all around, the cramped posture, the thin air, her torn hands and knees, but she kept going. Several times, though, she 229

paused, let her head fall so that her forehead rested on the compacted mud between her hands. I can't go on, I must go on. This ran through her head without cease. I'll go on, I can't go on, I'll go on. She almost chanted as she crawled, breath exploding from her lips. She wheezed as she tried to pull more air into her lungs. At last, when she knew she couldn't bear another moment, she heard Suleiman scrambling and scratching. Little rocks bounced up into her mouth, struck her cheeks. Then hands were grabbing her shoulders, her hands, dragging her free of the tunnel. She lay panting on the grass, looking up at the dim sky. After a time, she sat up. Suleiman was running his hands through his hair, shaking off mud. His face was streaked with dirt. He had pale gray clay in his beard. But she could see his face, his dear, birdlike face, the large eyes shining at her in savage triumph. They were at the edge of Bilal's orchards, at the top of the slope that led down to the Yamuna. The sun had dropped below the horizon. The sky bore only smears of red-gray light in one quadrant. The rest was a dark bowl in which the first stars had begun to glimmer. Gibran, thought Shazia. He must be waiting for me in the garden. He must be wondering why I didn't come. But suddenly Suleiman bolted to his feet. He was waving his hands at a dark figure moving slowly toward them from the bottom of the slope. A man half merged with the dusky shadows, his body swathed in black, came slowly uphill from the river. He was leading two horses. “Gibran!” Suleiman's cry was low and hoarse, and in an instant he was bounding down the slope, crushing his friend in a fierce embrace. Sitting on the grass, her legs like jelly, Shazia watched the two men swing each other in a wild circle, pounding each other's backs with such enthusiasm the more coltish of the two horses reared. Gibran had not gone to the garden to wait for her. He had been waiting for Suleiman, at the spot he knew Suleiman would emerge. Those two horses were to ensure escape, but not for her and him. For him and Suleiman. 230

Midnight Flame Shazia waited until she was sure her legs would hold her before she stood. The two men were deep in conversation and did not look up as she approached. Nonetheless, she pretended they were watching. She pretended that Gibran's eyes were fixed upon her so her pride would keep her erect. Her head ached. Every limb burned. Her nails were broken, rimmed with dirt and blood. She had ripped away her veil as she crawled, afraid she would strangle herself, and so she was bareheaded. Her braid was heavy with a freight of clay and soil. Hardly the princess of a fairy tale. But the lover she approached was hardly a prince. He betrayed me, she thought. Revenge is his love. I was a fool to hope for anything else.

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Chapter Twelve As Shazia neared, the horse shied again. “Gibran,” said Suleiman, but the masked man made no move to catch the bridle. He stood as though rooted to the spot, staring at Shazia. Suleiman's eyes darted between his friend and his sister. He looked as though he wanted to speak, then cursed, moving away to soothe the horse. “Did you bring us a yearling?” he grumbled over his shoulder. “By Allah, this horse is green.” Gibran ignored him. Shazia tried to wipe the mud from her forehead before realizing that she was smearing it all the more. She dropped her hand. What did the grime matter? After everything they'd shared, the man she loved was standing in front of her, masked and silent. A stranger. That was the only thing that mattered. Her stomach churned. He doesn't love me. She would rather crawl back into the tunnel and lie on her belly in the slime than face that thought. Gibran was so close to her, yet so far. She knew the line of those broad shoulders, the curves of muscle that wrapped around, forming the hard chest, the tight, rippling abdomen. She had stroked the body beneath the black cloth, brushed her lips against the whorls of hair beneath the brawny arms, the serpentine veins that lifted the dusky skin of his hands. Those hands had stroked her body, touched her everywhere. I want to die, she thought, the phrase sharp in her mind. It was the first time she'd ever thought such a thing with such stark clarity. Maybe she was out of her head. If a man could drive her so mad, consume her so utterly that his betrayal made her wish for death, a crime against Allah…. Gibran's eyes shone above the dark cloth that covered his proud nose, his sensitive, scornful, plundering lips. It was that time of night when every second seems to bring a perceptible dimming, and 232

Midnight Flame she noted how the shadow welled around him. Behind him the Yamuna was a low glimmer. And behind her… up the slope, Bilal's gardens spread, and somewhere on those grounds, beneath a vaulted roof or the interlacing boughs of an arbor, Ahmad was pacing, thinking of her…. desiring her, needing her…. She knew her eyes held a question, but Gibran's gaze was shuttered, inscrutable. Why aren't you there, in my father's garden, waiting for me? She couldn't ask him, not without revealing everything to her brother. Besides, she already knew why. Gibran had chosen vengeance. He had weighed hate against love and found that love lay too lightly on the scale. The balance had tipped for him, toward blood and pain and a solitary life in the night. The balance had tipped for good. She wouldn't fight with him. When she'd given herself to him in the garden, she had compromised her future, but that didn't mean he owed her his. She put no claim on him. She had acted freely, out of love, and he could act freely now. Out of hate. She was not aware of the contempt on her face until she saw Gibran's eyes waver, saw shame and sorrow crease his brow as he pushed his hair back with a restless hand. So he's not as indifferent as he seems, she thought, but this sparked neither hope nor fear in her breast. I've lost him nonetheless. Suleiman had an arm around the arched neck of the young horse. He rubbed its withers rhythmically and the horse seemed to settle on its hooves. “Easy.” Suleiman stroked down to the creature’s back with a firm hand before tugging the saddle, testing how tightly the horse had been girt. “I should take the steadier mount,” Suleiman said. “So Shazia can ride behind me. Bilal might not notice we're gone until tomorrow, when that guard comes to throw me my daily crust, but there's no time to go home. If it comes to my father's attention that I've returned, he'll know where I have to strike next. What I have to do. He'll try to stop me.” “Will he?” Gibran asked. “Forgive me, but your father's prescience is widely remarked for its power to underwhelm.” 233

Shazia expected Suleiman to turn on his friend, enraged, but instead, he said nothing, stroking the horse's neck. “No,” he said at last. “You're right. I'm not afraid my father will stop me. I'm afraid that if I go back to my father's house, I will stop myself. I will lose my nerve. I don't want to hurt him. He will be humiliated, ruined.” “But that too will pass,” said Gibran gently. “And perhaps a new cycle will begin.” Though she did not fully understand their words, the current of compassion between the two men struck Shazia forcefully, warmed her even as it caused her pain. Gibran is tender, she thought. He's not meant to be a denizen of shadows. He needs a brother. And a lover. “Perhaps,” said Suleiman. Gibran was already reaching for the reins, throwing his foot into the stirrup, and swinging his leg around the wild steed. “Step on my knee,” said Suleiman, crouching by the haunches of the black destrier, offering Shazia his hand. She wanted to protest— she was perfectly capable of mounting a horse—but she felt as though her bones were leaking out through the soles of her feet. She doubted she could climb onto the back of the monstrous black horse, even with Suleiman's help. But Gibran was watching. He was looking down at her, reining his horse in tight circles as it attempted to bolt. It took a few dancing sideways steps toward the other horse, nearly crushing Suleiman between the flanks. Shazia rushed forward and, summoning all her energy, put her foot on her brother's knee and vaulted onto the horse's back. In a flash, Suleiman was in the saddle in front of her, and they were wheeling about, pounding over the flat riverbed land that stretched alongside the Yamuna. Shazia shut her eyes, pressing her cheek to her brother's shoulder. She was surprised at the damp roughness of the cloth, then remembered how filthy he was. How filthy they both were. The horse had a long, steady stride, in no way smooth, but Shazia was exhausted enough that her limp body rolled easily with the 234

Midnight Flame thundering gait. She slitted her eyes and saw a blurry dark bolt, Gibran riding beside them. After a time, the ground beneath the horse's hooves changed and Suleiman slowed to a bumpy trot. Shazia knew they had veered from the river and were cutting through the city streets. She opened her eyes, leaned out. She could barely see Gibran, now riding ahead. The blank walls enclosing havelis rose on either side of the street, interrupted here and there by elaborate entranceways. When she next opened her eyes, lights gleamed within the open doors of narrow buildings. She saw cookfires winking in the scattered stalls and shacks. She caught glimpses of people moving in front of the lights and heard snatches of their conversation. The air smelled like garlic and cooking oil, causing her empty belly to clench. When next she opened her eyes, it was because the horse had resumed its gallop and she leaned out again to see what lay ahead. She saw the enormous gates, dull black in the starlight. The Ajmiri gates. And then they were riding through them, through the Ajmiri gates, as she had longed to do, as she had imagined a hundred girls doing in a hundred different circumstances. Now it's my turn, she thought, arms wrapped around her brother as the man who had been both her dream come true and her destruction led the way into the night. **** When they finally slowed to a walk, and Shazia swam back through fathoms of fatigue to an awareness of her surroundings, they were in the countryside. The two horses were walking abreast, Gibran and Suleiman deep in conversation. “…can't stay at a sarai,” Suleiman was saying, referring to the walled inns that accommodated merchants and pilgrims along the highways that led to and from Shahjahanabad. “Not with Shazia.” Shazia shifted uncomfortably against his back. She hadn't realized how stiff her body had become. “I want to be in Paharganj by first light,” Suleiman said. “Shazia's absence is unlikely to be remarked before tomorrow evening, and with luck we can have her back in time to explain it away. Her reputation may be salvaged when it's known she was with me, and not… unchaperoned.” 235

Shazia tried to peek at Gibran, who was looking straight out between his horse's ears and did not answer. “If I know Shakuntala,” said Suleiman, “she will do everything in her power to cover up Shazia's disappearance.” “Shakuntala?” said Gibran. “The little maid?” “She's pretty as an almond flower but harder to crack than the nut itself,” laughed Suleiman, and Shazia was surprised to hear the admiration in her brother's voice. She'd never imagined he noticed Shakuntala at all. “Tomorrow will be chaos,” Suleiman continued. “And that too will work in our favor.” “What chaos?” Shazia tapped Suleiman's shoulder, hating that she was once again assuming her role as shrew-inquisitor but unable to resist. “What are you going to do in Paharganj? That's where father stores his grain.” “Yes, it was,” replied Suleiman, so low that Shazia could barely hear. “Tomorrow you are returning me to the zenana,” she said, flatly, fingers tightening on Suleiman's shoulder. “Even though it means I will be Ahmad's bride?” She could not help but look for Gibran as she said it. He still looked straight ahead, body swaying with his horse's jolting hoofbeats. “After tomorrow, we will see if the betrothal stands,” said Suleiman. “Tomorrow is a new day.” “Where are we going?” Shazia blurted out, fidgeting more dramatically. She was so uncomfortable she wanted to cry. The suburbs of Shahjahanabad were receding behind them, the tombs and planned gardens with the little, light-shedding huts of their workers giving way to unbroken swaths of vaguely undulant darkness. The air already felt lighter, cleaner. She wanted to leap down and go to sleep in the cool grass, right where they were, in the open air. “You know where we are going, little sister,” said Suleiman, and he could not disguise the sudden eagerness in his voice. “You've traveled this road before.” “It was so long ago,” murmured Shazia, heart throbbing with relief and joy as she comprehended. “I barely remember.” But she 236

Midnight Flame instantly felt new energy flooding her body, new resolve to continue. Her mind was already winging ahead, tracing every rise and fall of the road that would lead them to the village, to Mumsa. Home. **** She couldn't be certain how many hours had passed. She was once again beyond exhaustion, in a state between sleep and wake. She couldn't imagine how Suleiman, who had endured far more than she in the pit, managed to keep going. The night was dark, but as the horses slowed once more and she looked around, she recognized the shapes of the ashok trees, the champa and the ashupal. “Suleiman,” she gasped. “Let me down, let me down.” She struggled against her startled brother, sliding down the horse's heaving flank and flinging herself onto the ground. She pressed her face and fingers to the sweet soil. She traced circles with her thumbs, almost nibbled the dewy grass. After the muck of Bilal's underground tunnels, the dew seemed pure, like the sweetest nectar. Suleiman leaped down after her, but not to remonstrate. He drew her gently to her feet. “We're here,” he affirmed. A dog howled, but other than that lonely looning, the village was silent. The villagers were asleep. The people here still lived by the rhythm of the sun, not like the people of Shahjahanabad, who carried on with their debaucheries until the early hours of morning and slept through the day in stale, curtained rooms. Shazia peered through the darkness at the rows of huts, thought of the children she had once known who lived in those huts. Kamini who refused to eat anything but rice, Mythili who carried her pot sideways on her head when she walked to the well in the morning. Had they married? Were they now raising their own children in the village? Winding slowly through the huts toward the heart of the village, Shazia and Suleiman did not speak. Their feet were leading them both to the same place. She realized she had forgotten all about Gibran until she heard a snorting whinny behind them.

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“He's rubbing down the horses,” said Suleiman as she paused. “He'll follow. Come on.” In the darkness, she could not tell that the hut sheltered by the weeping branches of the laurel tree bore a simple, sunny design— interlacing rings of red and yellow mud—but in her mind's eye she could picture the pattern, picture the hut in the light of day with Mumsa standing outside, waving to her. It had been years, but she knew it and loved it so well that she could have found her way to the door blindfolded and in chains. “Mumsa!” with a strangled cry she started forward, running to the hut's entranceway, even as Suleiman held her back. “He's asleep. Shazia, be patient. It's late. Our arrival is unexpected. It will shock him. Shazia—” But Shazia was shaking him off, darting to the hut's threshold, peering into the warm dark where she knew a light would burn. There… A candle flame. Mumsa was awake! He was sitting up, by candlelight, deep in meditation, counting beads with his fingers. Even in the low guttering of the flame, Shazia could see how thin and drawn his face had become. She stepped back uncertainly, her payaal tinkling musically. Years of illness had wasted the stooped but hale figure she remembered. We should have been here to care for you, Shazia thought, aching as the light danced over the deeply scored forehead, the heavylidded, sunken eyes, the wispy gray beard, and the lips moving in prayer. Had worry for his absent family, for her and for Suleiman, contributed to those care-lines, to the slight tremor in his hands? Suleiman was behind her, whispering. “Don't disturb him. Wait out here.” But Shazia shook her head. She didn't want to disturb Mumsa, but she needed to be with him, be near him. He had always made her feel safe and strong. She needed, now more than ever, to be in his presence. She settled upon a low cushion by the wall—her old seat—and waited. She was sore and hungry, but as she sat, she felt calmed by Mumsa's steady murmuring. All the turmoil of the long day and longer night drained from her, and she filled with something lighter, something brighter. She tipped her head back and breathed in the familiar scent of the smoky air with gratitude. 238

Midnight Flame Mumsa always burned a mixture of herbs he collected carefully from the riverbank and the jungle, herbs whose delicate, peculiar fragrances she had never smelled elsewhere. She felt as if she was drawing home into her lungs. “Is there a monkey in my hut?” Mumsa interrupted her thoughts, and Shazia's eyes flew open. Mumsa had always called her his monkey, shaking his head at her long-armed exploits in the laurel tree. She tried to laugh, but it was almost a sob. “There is, Mumsa,” she said. “Your monkey….” Unable to continue, she crawled forward, reaching towards his hardened feet, gripping his ankles, and she felt his hands upon her head, blessing her. “And where is my little bird?” asked Mumsa, and Suleiman's low voice cut the darkness. “Here, Mumsa. I'm here.” Shazia felt her brother kneel beside her, lowering his forehead to Mumsa's feet. Then they were all laughing, talking at once, Mumsa lighting the lamps and laying out bowls, his pot of rice, and making a line of small, hard papayas that he began to slice with a knife. In the lamplight, Shazia noticed again how filthy she and Suleiman looked, and that Suleiman's left eye was red and swollen. She tried to explain to Mumsa, the words tumbling out, but he shook his head, raising a gnarled hand. “Eat, my dear one. The mouth is better filled with rice. We can talk to our heart's content tomorrow.” “We must leave early tomorrow.” Suleiman swallowed a mouthful of rice. “Mumsa, I am sorry. To come to you like this, after all this time, and then to leave again. Things have been hard, Mumsa, but I'm trying to make them better.” Suleiman faltered, and Shazia knew he didn't want to criticize their father, Mumsa's son, or to worry their grandfather with too much information. Mumsa sat back against the wall, legs drawn up, eyes bright. “I knew you were coming,” he said, softly. “I could see in the stars that my loved ones had arrived at a crossroads, and that before they went forward, they would need to come back, to me. Don't strain yourself, Suleiman. Eat,” he urged. “Eat and rest. Leave your burden outside my hut. My hut is too small for the load you carry.” 239

At the words “outside the hut,” Suleiman started. “My friend, Gibran,” he said. “He's helping us. He's outside tending to the horses. May I invite him in?” “Certainly,” said Mumsa. “Shazia, fetch another bowl.” As Suleiman left the hut, Shazia took another bowl—the only other bowl—from its wall niche. Mumsa lived simply. For the first time it occurred to her to ask, shyly, “Mumsa, why didn't you remarry when Grandmother died?” Mumsa smiled faintly, keen eyes growing brighter still. “Because I am still married to your grandmother,” he said quietly. “I renew my vows to her every day.” Mumsa did not sound sad. He spoke evenly, with the assurance of a man who feels a great love and knows that the love is returned. Mumsa understands love, thought Shazia. Well, of course he did. The depth of Mumsa's understanding was profound, the result of a lifetime spent observing, and respecting, the cycles of nature. She opened her mouth to confess that she too had learned something of love, that she was turning and turning, buffeted by love's storm, that she didn't know which way to go, and that she needed him to help her. Guide her. But he saw her open mouth and wagged a bent finger. “Rice,” he said. “The rest will follow.” She ducked her head, and instead of speaking, ate another mouthful of rice. “Mumsa.” Suleiman had returned and Gibran was with him, dropping down beside her on the floor, head bowed. His masked face intruding into that intimate circle of family members seemed like a horrible disrespect. Mumsa smiled in greeting, but Shazia wanted to scream at Gibran. Show yourself. How dare you conceal your features when my grandfather offers you food and shelter? Gibran refused the proffered bowl of rice. “Thank you, I'll wait until morning,” he said. Suddenly Mumsa leaned forward. Shazia had never seen him stare so intently at another human being. Gibran did not flinch, and Mumsa drew closer. Shazia caught her breath. Mumsa closed 240

Midnight Flame Gibran's eyes with his thumbs, felt the ridge of his brows and the shape of his head. Shazia watched, entranced. “You are only half here, my son,” Mumsa murmured, running his thumbs down the center of Gibran's head. “How do you live like this? Torn in two….” He put his palms on Gibran's temples. He seemed to be pressing the sides of Gibran's head together, exerting considerable pressure, and Gibran was allowing him, breathing steadily. “I don't know,” Gibran whispered, the words pulled from him. In the close confines of the hut, Shazia could feel his muscular body trembling. It seemed like each word cost him an enormous effort. “I can't bear to be myself. My birth was death.” He spoke so low that Shazia couldn't believe Mumsa heard him, but the old man leaned even closer to Gibran so their faces nearly touched. “Every birth is death, my son,” he said. “You can see it as a curse, or as a challenge to live. To love.” Shazia felt Mumsa's eyes lock on hers and elation flooded her. He knows, she thought, incredulously. Somehow, Mumsa knows. And he does not condemn me. Suleiman was shifting restlessly on Gibran's other side. “I can't hear you. What are you two saying?” he asked, irritated at being left out. “We hear what's intended for our ears,” said Mumsa, sitting back on his heels. Shazia detected the scowl in Suleiman's voice as he said, “Yes, Mumsa. But maybe there's been enough talk for everyone tonight. We're all strained from the journey.” “Then sleep,” said Mumsa. “You boys here, and Shazia….” He led her to the inner chamber where his own bed lay against the wall. “No, Mumsa,” she said, “I won't take your bed,” but he was already tucking her in, and she found she was too tired to move her limbs in resistance. “Some nights I sit up,” said Mumsa. “I listen for the river. I watch the stars rise and set. I'm old enough that dreaming and waking are no longer distinct states. I seem to move between them. Tonight I 241

won't sleep. The peace I feel knowing you and Suleiman are together, under my roof, is deeper than any peace brought by slumber. Sleep is for young muscles, and young minds, and matters less for the ancient.” She heard laughter in his voice and was already slipping away, eyelids heavy as boulders. “Good night, little monkey,” she heard him whisper, and tried to answer, but could not. **** In the morning Shazia rose, chagrined to see that she had covered Mumsa's bedding with grit and clay. She shook out the sheets and folded them neatly in a pile to take and wash at the river. Mumsa was outside, filling a bowl with sliced fruit, which he handed to her with a smile. Though his face and body had shriveled, his teeth were still white and even. She heard the clanging of cooking pots coming from nearby huts, dogs barking, children shrieking, chickens clucking. The air smelled like fruit and grain and clean water and dung, like heaven. The heat was less suffocating than in Shahjahanabad, the trees and the river and the earth cooled and refreshed even during the hottest months. Shazia tipped back her head and looked up at the turrets of cloud in the deep blue sky. All people have a place in history, she thought. I want mine to be clouds. That's where I want my story to be written, in clouds, not in marble. Not in grand, heavy towers or mausoleums. In sun and rain and light and dark. “They're always changing,” she said. “Mumsa, what do you see?” “I see my little monkey,” said Mumsa. “And also a beautiful woman.” Shazia started, met Mumsa's eyes. He was looking at her, not the clouds. “This is good,” Shazia said, turning her attention to her bowl. “Your fruit is always the sweetest.” “That's because I drizzle it with honey,” said Mumsa, dryly. “Where is Suleiman?” “Gone,” said Mumsa. “He rode at first light.” “And Gibran?” Shazia studied a slice of mango. “He's at the river,” said Mumsa. “He stayed to escort you home.” “That's not my home,” said Shazia, bitterly. “This is my home.” 242

Midnight Flame Mumsa was silent for a while. Then Shazia asked, “Is it easier to be a father or a son?” Mumsa smiled. “It's easier to be a grandfather than a father,” he said. “I know that much. I was an angry son and a negligent father. Anger was easy for me as a boy, and negligence was easy for me as a man. I think I could have tried harder at both, at being a son and at being a father.” “I can't believe you were negligent,” said Shazia. “You could ask Zuben,” said Mumsa, his face darkening. “There was a time when he tried to tell me he didn't want to live in the village, that he didn't want to be a grain merchant. He loved books, poetry. He had an agile mind. He drew wonderfully from life.” “My father?” said Shazia doubtfully. “My son,” said Mumsa. “Whom I helped shape into the father he became. The mold I pressed him into didn't fit, and he shows the cracks.” Shazia didn't know what to say, so she finished her fruit while Mumsa sat with his eyes closed. “Do you know what Suleiman plans to do?” she asked, setting the empty bowl by the door. “I am too old to care much for the particulars,” said Mumsa, opening his eyes again. “My concern is with the larger pattern. Suleiman is becoming a man. Like your Gibran.” “My Gibran?” repeated Shazia, shocked. “My monkey, have you seen yourself today?” asked Mumsa. “Your hair is gray as an old woman's. You are covered in clay. Go to the river.” “Yes.” Shazia scrambled up. “I meant to wash your sheets.” “Forget the sheets,” said Mumsa. “Go to the river now.” There was a twinkle in his eye. “Thank you, Mumsa,” whispered Shazia, and she was off, running down the path that twisted and turned until it reached the banks of the river. Running made her sore muscles scream. Made her feel alive. Her muddy braid thunked against her backbone. Her bare feet were as clever as ever, picking their way between the stones. The air grew cooler as she neared the river. The drone of insects grew louder. The path turned slick and silty. 243

Shazia heard women's voices—women singing at their washing— and she paused, tempted to peek through the reeds to see if they were women she knew. But she did not look. Not now. She crept away from the voices, farther upstream, to where the boulders made the river run swift and white and eddy into large, crystal pools. No women came to wash cloth here. This was her special spot. She had come here often as a girl, to sit and listen to the water. The rocks were secluded by Golden Shower and Flame-of-theForest trees. Even in late summer, the pools were always rimmed with golden blossoms. That morning only a few vermilion petals still hung between the green velvet leaves of the Flame-of-the Forest trees, but the blossom-freighted Golden Showers scattered their petals with every mild breeze. The only sound was the torrents of water. Purple and blue wildflowers bloomed in the cracks between the rocks. Shazia clambered over the rocks until she reached the flat-topped boulder that jutted over her favorite pool A man was bathing in the pool. Completely nude. Completely magnificent. She started in surprise, even though she was not surprised. She had known she would find him there. It was inevitable. Many paths lead to the same destiny. He had his back to her. She watched him from the rock as he sluiced water over his shoulder so it ran down the center of his back, funneling through the slabs of muscle that wrapped his ribs. The water was almost waist deep, the curving tops of his powerful buttocks winking above the surface. The dense foliage dappled the water with shadow. The man bent to dunk his head. He threw his head back so the droplets flew in all directions, sparkling. His body was mottled with shadow and with sun. Darkness and light. He hit the water with his hands, sending arcs of spray. He was playing. A smile formed on Shazia's lips. He was cavorting, laughing, kicking, like a boy who had never been allowed to frolic, who had never felt a moment of freedom, a moment unencumbered by fate. Like a child raised under the burden of his paternity by an uncle in Agra. Like a captive prince. Suddenly, the man swung his hand at the water with such force that the movement spun his body around in a half-circle. He stood, 244

Midnight Flame dripping, staring dumbly at Shazia, who sat above him on the rock, bare feet swinging down. She looked at his slim, muscled hips, his wide, glistening chest, his thick arms, strong throat. She let her gaze travel upwards until she was looking into his face. His face with those haunted eyes, those startling black lashes, sharp cheekbones, chiseled jaw, proud nose, sensual mouth. Black hair plastered his forehead. He was panting from his exertions. He wiped his mouth helplessly. The uncertainty he felt revealed itself plainly. The clouds must have shifted over the sun. A bar of light fell across his features, and Shazia marveled at his golden skin. He looked like he had been cast in gold, and she remembered the gleaming muscles knotting in Ahmad's arms as he drew back the bowstring. She remembered how her whole body had screamed with that excruciating tension. Desperate for the bolt to fly. She felt that tension now. “Who are you?” she whispered. He waded toward her through the water, stepped up onto a low ledge of rock so he could reach her. A cold, dripping arm wrapped her waist and before she knew what was happening, he'd lifted her into his arms. She was pressed against his chest, which was chilled by the river water. The water that ran down his body soaked through her gown. He stepped off the ledge, falling back into the water, and she gasped as the icy stream rushed over her. “Look!” She laughed and pointed at the gray clouds of filth forming in the clear pool. She struggled out of his arms, feet finding the riverbottom, and screwing up her courage, she plunged underwater, raking her hair free of its braid and shaking her head to feel the current catching at the long locks. “Ahhh!” She emerged, sputtering, the weight of her dress and dripping hair making it difficult to stand. She stood in the shaft of sun and felt like her body would burst. Sun and clouds and river and shadow, all mixed together, that is all I want from history. That is what I want my life to be made of. All of it intermingled, brought together by love. “Shazia,” Gibran began. “I did not abandon you.” 245

She dunked again, his voice replaced by the soundless volume of the water, a motion she heard with her whole body. “… have never abandoned you,” she heard as she shot up, shuddering, gulping air. “Shazia….” She plunged underwater again, and this time strong hands gripped her arms and pulled her up, yanked her forward so she was pressed to Gibran's body. She felt his inner heat radiating through the cold rivulets. His hand moved up to hold her head still as he brought his face close to hers. “I knew you were not waiting for me in the garden,” he said. “I knew you were locked down in the chamber with Suleiman. I came for both of you. I did not abandon you. I knew you would be there.” “How did you know?” She murmured the words against his mouth, his lips were that close. His hot breath on her dripping face made her shiver. She wanted to shut her eyes and melt into him, but this was too important. She held his gaze. “How did you know about the hatch and the duct, the cistern and the tunnel and where it would emerge? Gibran….” “There is no Gibran,” he whispered, voice breaking. His eyes filled her vision. The pain in the black depths seemed bottomless. “Gibran is a creature of shadows. A figment. A mask. You love nobody.” She kissed him. Fully, on the lips, devouring his whole mouth, stopping his breath, his words. He moved his hands over her hips, her waist, pulling the wet fabric from her shoulders, baring her breasts, the nipples dark and so tightly budded with the cold that she cried aloud as he grazed them with the pads of his fingers. He broke the kiss, almost tripping as he reared away. “I am nobody!” All his control was breaking. The mask behind the mask was slipping. She could see the vulnerable boy, the motherless baby. The trust it took to expose this part of himself made her ache with compassion. “You are the man I love,” she said. “I wanted so much to believe my brother survived,” he whispered, half-twisted away from her, unable to meet her eyes. “I 246

Midnight Flame wanted to be him, the darker twin. I wanted to live the life of the boy who got away, who was free to ride in the shadows, who could feel rage. I could never hate my father. But Gibran could. He did. I do. I—” Shazia seized his chin, turned his head toward her. She ran her fingers over his face. The muscles in his jaw were straining so hard she was afraid she would hear the bones break. “Suleiman will hate me when he discovers I am the son of Bilal Nazeem Shah,” he said. “No,” said Shazia. “Suleiman knows. Like I knew. He knows without knowing consciously, but he knows. Because we know you. Maybe we know you better than you know yourself.” “I've been afraid to be whole,” he said, crushing her to him, lips on her wet hair, her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. “I didn't think I could contain all of it. Everything I felt.” “The boy could not,” whispered Shazia. “But the man can. Ahmad can.” And with that, she pushed the wet gown down from around her waist so that it bubbled and bulged in the flowing water, then she pushed it down farther so that it tangled about her shins until she stepped on it and held it down with her feet. Ahmad's hands found the small of her back, kneading the tight muscles, her sore buttocks. She arched against him. His arousal was long and hard against her belly and she rubbed herself against it. His moan was low and long and sounded like the rushing water. With his thumb, he parted her feminine slickness. As he spread her lips, the cold water slid inside, the river mixing with the nectar pumping from her drenched center. She drew a shuddering breath, slippery hands finding his shoulders, trying to pull herself up his body, wrap her legs around his waist. He hoisted her up, pressed his member against the tender skin below her belly, rubbing back and forth, touching her sex with his, pushing against her. She moaned, desperate. He gripped her buttocks with both hands and lifted her higher. She sobbed as he drove into her, moving her hips against his. Her hair slapped the water as he tipped her back. She tensed her stomach and curved up again. She wanted to press her breasts against his chest, close the distance between their mouths. As she tensed her belly, she felt her inner muscles 247

tense as well, tense around the hard length inside her. Ahmad groaned, jerked against her. She reached her fingers up to brush against his lips. He took them into his mouth, enveloped the length of them in his warmth and wetness. He sucked them, running his tongue around them. She felt his pulsing shaft filling her more completely with each stroke. He rocked inside her, back and forth, and the sweet friction made her dissolve, fall back so that the crown of her head skimmed the water and she opened her eyes for a moment to take in the green leaves, the golden blossoms, the blue sky, and the sunlit spires of clouds before her eyes swept his face. He was looking down at her. Mouth open, eyes half-lidded. She clenched her newfound muscles again, stroking him deliberately, and watched his mouth open wider, saw his eyes close. She watched him moan. “Shazia—” She shut her own eyes as the rhythm picked up, became more urgent. She felt him shift her body, cradling her with one arm so the other hand could tease her nipples. “Ahmad,” she gasped, the name rising easily to her lips. His hand crushed hers, drew it down to the tight nub above her opening. She touched herself and felt his movement within her through her fingers, felt his thrusts accelerate. She moved her hand frantically, stroking the juncture of their bodies until the tension made her wiggle and thrash as she came apart, pelvis pounding against him, screaming out as he shuddered within her, tipping forward into the water, so that their bodies were separated by the cooling, cleansing river. They bobbed up in a tangle of limbs, touching each other, holding each other, satiated but still eager for contact. Shazia pressed her mouth to each rib, kissing up the rungs of the ladder until she seized his nipple with her teeth. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned back, looking up at him. “What are you thinking?” Ahmad asked, tenderly. “I am wondering if I have ever felt better than I feel right now,” Shazia said, smile widening.

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Midnight Flame “I don't know,” said Ahmad, mouth curving into the playful line she loved. “But in five minutes I can make you feel better still.” He rubbed against her, the meaning clear. Shazia splashed him, shyly delighted. Then she screamed. “My dress! Ahmad, my dress!” And he dove into the water, laughing, diving again and again until he came up with the heavy fabric. “Thank God,” Shazia giggled. “Mumsa is an unusual man, but I think even he would protest if you brought his granddaughter back to the village naked.” “He's a wonderful man,” said Ahmad. “You're lucky.” “You're lucky now too,” replied Shazia. “What's mine is yours.” And holding the hand of the captive prince, the unluckiest man in Shahjahanabad, she felt convinced they were the most fortunate two people in the world. They dozed on the riverbank with Shazia's gown spread on a rock in the sun to dry. Shazia started up when she felt that Ahmad was no longer beside her. He was standing on a rock, looking down at the water. He heard her movement and turned. He had donned his black shirt and jamas. The shawl hung slack around his neck. He had not pulled it up around his face. He approached and crouched beside her. “I must go to Paharganj,” he said. “This is my battle as much as your brother's.” She'd thought he might say that and was ready. “I'm going with you,” she said, scrambling up. Her full breasts swayed, causing the skin across their tops to twinge, and she cast a quick glance of annoyance down at her ample figure. Ahmad was looking too, and his expression was anything but annoyed. Shazia grinned and strolled to the rock where her gown lay, still damp. It felt delicious, all her limbs bare, the sun's beating heat tempered by the breeze from the river, and Ahmad's gleaming, appreciative eyes. She hated to climb back inside her heavy garments. But the idyll had to end. They couldn't spend the rest of eternity at this river.

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Maybe we can though, she thought. Just not yet. The thought made her smile. “Aren't you going to tell me not to come?” she said as she worked the cloth back up her body. “Aren't you going to tell me I need to go back to the zenana? That you are going on men's business?” “I told you it was my battle,” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “And what's mine is yours.” “I bring you luck?” she said. “And you bring me… battles?” He closed the distance between them in a few strides and caught her lower lip between his teeth. “I didn't promise you this would be easy,” he growled against her mouth. “I don't want easy,” she breathed, amazed that her body could respond so readily to his touch after she had felt so replete, so sensually spent, only an hour before. “Then come,” he said, and together they walked back to the village. **** Shazia wanted to ride her own horse, but Mumsa did not keep horses. “You'll have to ride with me,” said Ahmad. “This horse is a fine stallion.” They stood beneath the laurel tree outside Mumsa's hut. Late morning was swiftly mellowing into hot, still afternoon. Mumsa chuckled as Ahmad's horse tossed his head and stamped. “In a few years, I don't doubt it,” he said. Then he sobered, taking Ahmad and Shazia by the wrists. “I'll see you both soon,” he said. “Ride well.” As they cantered away from the village, Shazia seated in front of Ahmad on the saddle, she felt like her heart was opening, opening so wide it could fit the whole village and all of Shahjahanabad too. “I thought it would kill me to ever leave here again,” she said. “We'll return together,” said Ahmad. Shazia smiled. “I know.” Nestled against Ahmad's chest, she felt far more comfortable than the previous evening, when she'd been forced to cling to her brother's back, feeling almost certain she would slide off the horse's broad rear. The countryside was beautiful by day. The sun was too strong—what will Mumtaz say when she sees my skin? thought 250

Midnight Flame Shazia, ruefully—but her damp gown actually kept her cool for the first hour of the ride. But as they rode, she felt Ahmad's mood turn. His chest and arms felt tighter and the horse seemed more skittish. “Ahmad,” she said, turning her head so the words wouldn't be swept away in the wind. “What is my brother doing in Paharganj?” Shazia had not been to the grain markets since she was a little girl. They lay outside Shahjahanabad, in the suburbs beyond the Ajmiri gate. Her father's granaries, which he'd inherited from Mumsa, were large. When she was disobedient as a little girl, which was often enough, her father would threaten to take her to those granaries and lock her in. “I won't let you leave until you've counted every grain!” he would say, and Shazia would squeal with protest. “I believe you will see very soon,” said Ahmad, for they were already traveling on the main road that led to the bazaar, nearing Paharganj. The road was thronged with merchants, and livestock milled about. The haze over Shahjahanabad made a gray line in the distance. But closer, the sky held a darker plume. “Ahmad,” said Shazia. That was no cloud in the sky, no goldencrested turret of vapor, but a black serpent of billowing soot. Ahmad put an arm around her chest, hugged her to him. “Suleiman has burned our father's granaries,” she said stupidly. “Suleiman has burned our father's granaries! His livelihood! His inheritance!” She wasn't sure if she speaking of her father or Suleiman. Everything was a jumble in her mind. “There was no grain in those granaries,” said Ahmad. “Your father emptied them months ago, so he could store my father's opium. “ “Why?” Shazia asked. There it was again, that stupid question that she used to plague everyone. Why? Why? Why? “Debt,” said Ahmad. “He owed my father money. And greed. He thought he could make much more if he became more involved.” He sighed, or Shazia thought he did. His chest moved slowly up and down. “Zuben has been warehousing all the opium imported into this part of the Empire. Everything that comes from Malwa comes here, 251

and Zuben keeps it in crates until it can be distributed, throughout Shahjahanabad, but also to the British in Surat. My father promised him a cut of his profit. But by getting rid of his grain, your father has made himself completely dependent. He has nothing of his own to sell. Suleiman wanted to stop my father without implicating Zuben, and I was willing to help him. But my father left Suleiman no choice. Now both men, my father and yours, are lost.” Ahmad urged the horse into a gallop and they sped along the highway, which narrowed into the road that ran straight through the bazaar to the granaries. People were streaming the other way. Some of them had clearly been close to the conflagration. Their faces were covered with soot. Shazia could already feel the heat, hear the flames. There was a wide circle of spectators around the burning building, watching the red-wattled timbers fall, the steaming stones drop. Shazia imagined that the smoke would be sweet, intoxicating, but the heat had been so strong that the opium had eaten itself, incinerating instantly. The smell of char was only vaguely tinged with poppy. The horse bucked, terrified, and Ahmad lifted Shazia down and dismounted. He ground-tied the horse and they pushed through the crowd. “There was a fortune in there,” said a voice at Shazia's elbow. “Suleiman.” She clutched her brother. He stroked her head, turned to Ahmad. If Suleiman was surprised to see his friend with the shawl slack around his neck and his face exposed, he gave no sign. He fixed his eyes again on the gusting flames. “And many fortunes are ruined today.” “Maybe not,” said Ahmad. “Maybe you have cleared the way, so that new destinies can be charted.” “Yours is fulfilled,” said Suleiman. He spoke slowly and he was now looking at Ahmad carefully. “You have destroyed your father.” Ahmad's eyes, which had been scanning the crowd, locked on Suleiman's. Shazia knew Ahmad was in agony. She knew what Suleiman meant to him, what he feared he might lose. 252

Midnight Flame “But you have also gained a brother,” Suleiman continued. “I can't be the brother you lost. But I can be a brother to you.” His face was thin, drawn, soot-smeared, and exhausted, but a shy excitement gleamed in his eye. “After all, we have made common cause. And my sister is to be your bride.” Ahmad's smile outshone the flames, then chilled. Shazia, standing near him, felt him go rigid. “Father,” said Ahmad. Bilal Nazeem Shah was walking towards them. Even with the inferno burning behind him, the ash fluttering all around, his yellow turban, shirt, and jamas, and deep orange sash were immaculate. Shazia wanted to touch Ahmad, to give him her strength, but she knew he needed to stand alone. She stepped back. Bilal Nazeem Shah's eyes moved from face to face—Ahmad, Shazia, Suleiman. Ahmad. “My son,” he said. He coughed, turned away, looked back at the smoking wreck. “Should I walk into the flames?” he asked suddenly, head snapping around. “You lost your brother to water. Your mother to earth.” His eyes danced as though the flames had walked inside him. “Now you condemn your father to the fire.” “I did not condemn you,” said Ahmad. His voice was steady. Father and son locked gazes, and Shazia noted again how Ahmad towered over his father, how reduced Bilal looked next to him. “You condemned yourself,” said Ahmad. “I am your son, but I am my own man. My life is my own. My fate is my own.” His new confidence made him gentle in victory. Shazia saw the muscles move in his throat as he swallowed hard. And held out his hand. “Father, they're gone,” he said. “But I am alive. I am your son. Today we can both start again.” “Today I am finished,” said Bilal Nazeem Shah, slowly, hoarsely. His eyes dropped from Ahmad's face. His voice had filled with a kind of wonder. His words were thick, slurred. Shazia realized he was stumbling.

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“I have flown too close to the sun,” he said, red lips flashing between those black and silver horns of hair. “But the flight was glorious. It was beautiful.” Ahmad caught him as he sagged, his hand on his heart. As Ahmad lowered him to the ground, he caught Shazia's eye. “It was beautiful?” Bilal whispered and she stood frozen above him, unable to confirm or deny, until his eyes closed. Shazia pulled Ahmad to her and held him while he seized with withheld sobs. “His heart,” said Suleiman, kneeling with his fingers on Bilal Nazeem Shah's neck. He didn't need to tell Ahmad the heart had stopped. Bilal Nazeem Shah lay on his back, the yellow and orange silks shining. It seemed to Shazia as though he had in a sense disappeared into the fire. Had chosen to burn. Ahmad untied the shawl from around his neck and knelt, covering his father's face and neck with the black cloth. He rose and faced Suleiman “Does Zuben know?” he asked, indicating the granary. “He may have been told,” said Suleiman grimly. “But he is always slow to arrive.” The flames were dying down, but the wood was still snapping and buckling and occasionally a jet of fire sprang up again with a roar. But some of the spectators had begun to drift away, and a few of them now encircled Shazia, Suleiman, Ahmad, and the body of Bilal Nazeem Shah. “You will need a doctor?” a man asked, uncertainly. “A carriage,” said Ahmad. “Who was this man?” asked a woman, fishing for gossip. “His clothing is very expensive. A nobleman?” Ahmad glanced at her, then back at the still figure, at the orange silks fluttering slightly in the gusting heat, at the shroud that did not stir, a black mask for the head and face. “He was my father,” said Ahmad. Suleiman grabbed his hand. “And I am your brother,” he said. “Don't forget it.”

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Midnight Flame Shazia nudged her brother away. She lifted her hand to Ahmad's cheek, touched the fierce planes of his face, exposed to the world at last. “And I am your bride,” she whispered. “As if I could forget that,” he said, mouth quirking in an unsteady smile. The sun was slicing through the smoke, illuminating Ahmad's golden skin, gilding his black eyes, which, though troubled, shone with love. “I don't know what will happen next,” she whispered. “I know one thing that will happen next,” said Ahmad. “I will make you mine. You will make me yours. And whatever else comes, we will face it together.” “I can face the dark with you,” Shazia murmured against his lips. She felt his smile. “With you I can stand unashamed in the light.” The granary burned on. They heard the crash of stones as the roof collapsed. Felt a wave of heat. But Shazia could not distinguish the heat of the flames from Ahmad's golden embrace. And his kiss was hotter than a thousand suns.

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About The Author A wanderer by nature, Alessandra Shahbaz has lived all over the world, although as of last year she's been splitting her time between Delhi and Denver. She spends the majority of each day writing, reading, talking, or thinking about love! Her dream is to one day write romance for a living, but for now she's content to pen her novels in the off hours. She can eat more fresh figs than anyone alive (if a challenger wants to put her to the test she's ready! Come bearing figs!) and probably ranks in the top three for lychees. If she ever settles down long enough she'd very much like to have a garden.

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