Bill is good at what he does.
A curse-breaker. Initiate to the mysterious; himself part of secret and myth and ancient legend. Master of everything arcane and esoteric, and holder of the keys of fable.
Exotic is his specialty. He deals in the seduction of the Nile; the wild, fresh adventure of the Amazon; the unfathomable darkness of the Pacific. They match well with his dragonhide boots and his fiery hair and the translucent depths of his cobalt eyes.
India smells of heady saffron and gleams with gold and pulses with a magic somehow hotter and brighter than anywhere else, and Bill loves it as he loved Egypt, feeling the country envelop him with something turquoise-brilliant and sunlight-warm.
He lies in his Ministry-appointed rooms, hung with brilliant colours and full of silken pillows like some Muggle movie's imitation of India, and that's when he sees her.
Her hair hangs to her waist, impossibly thick and espresso-bean dark, let free from its plaited daytime binding. She wears a serene smile and loose white robes, and she is instantly all that is mystical and powerful and alluring.
She speaks with him, and tells him stories from the Ramayana, and her skin glows. Everything is rich wood and radiant light and her voice, and Bill's skin tingles. He imagines her as Sarasvati, Lady of Knowledge in this country's religion, and knows why she is a goddess.
Her skin is warm and smooth, and Bill is careful not to mark it with a too-firm touch or the press of his mouth. He wonders to himself if goddesses bruise, and decides not to risk it.
She, he decides, is his Shakti. She gives life to his mind and movement to his flesh, and the creative energy that goddesses supply to men and gods alike.
The Arcanum surrounds Bill in India, and not the least of its secrets is Padma.
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