Saira Russell huddled low, back against the door of the bookseller's shop, waiting for her stomach to sink back down to its rightful place and her pulse to stop pounding in her ears. The alarming buzz still ran through her, vibrating all the way down to her fingertips, along with the image that had exploded in her mind, like a shot of hot Chai jolting her brain into consciousness after sleepwalking through a previous lifetime.
The knob rattled, and then hammered fists rained down against the wooden door. Saira's back shuddered against the incessant pounding, and she thanked the sun and the moon for managing to flip the lock before sliding to the floor. She held her breath and lay as silent as the dead until the silhouette of the dark-haired man with unfathomable secrets finally stalked away from the reflection of the shop window.
She hadn't meant to do it. She had simply wanted to get close enough to pick up on the idea of him, to satisfy her curiosity and attempt to answer the 'why' of 'why had he compelled her to approach, when he was a stranger on the streets that she should have gone about her business and ignored?'. But then she'd gotten herself noticed, and he'd asked the question. And then she'd, what? Used her Gift to See and told him?
Yes, that's precisely what she had done. In the street. In public view.
What was wrong with her?
The familiar walls of the bookstore soothed her pounding heart as she crouched, low and still on the worn rug runner, following with her eyes the footpath that led to the display window. New titles showed off their covers to the town, fresh from the London presses and beyond. Shelly's St. Irvyne had come in last week, accompanied by something in German from Fouque, no doubt terribly romantic. A new French title about Germany leaned against a reprinted volume of Latin poetry.
How long had it been? Weeks? Months? Saira couldn't remember the last time she'd come here for the simple joy of perusing the titles for a leisurely read. Beyond the dust-free display, the morning light cast an eerie halo over the bookshelves in the corner. Abandoned dreams huddled within those shelves, like forgotten bedtime stories from her childhood. If she still believed in the life she'd been promised, she might picture herself reading any of those titles in front of a fire with someone of her own choosing. But that dream had turned to ash, leaving her with a future that was as intolerable as it was undesirable.
She had no time for frivolities. Maybe after she was settled in her newer, bolder future, she could think of pastimes and parasols, and whatever else young women got up to once they took themselves off the market.
Unless of course, she got caught.
She should have kept to the plan, collected the tinder box from Mr. Sheppard at the Caraway, picked up the package from the chandler… Saira frantically patted her satchel, feeling the weight of the heavy cylinder inside. She shoved the satchel open and pulled out the sausage-shaped bundle. Not satisfied with the feel of it, she slowly unwrapped an ornately-carved pillar candle and traced her fingers over the designs that her aunties had commissioned from the local artist, likenesses of symbols from her homeland that the British natives would merely call 'curious' and 'exotic'. Relief spread at the sight of the undamaged item, whole and beautiful in her hands. She placed it carefully on the floor and felt around inside the satchel for the small metal box. Ah, there it was, fallen to the bottom. She carefully rewrapped the candle and placed it back into her satchel.
And berated herself again.
What was it about him that had made her lose her head so completely? Was it the inexplicable way that he was unusually exotic in his own right, some kind of un-British accent, some kind of un-British swagger when he moved, the self-assuredness beyond his years - or maybe the combination of all of that woven together - and then also the prickle along the back of her neck that she needed to know more… asking herself what would happen if she just went up and touched him. And then the extreme shock when vivid colors had exploded inside her mind as she had brushed past.
None of that should have mattered. She wasn't paid to see it, and she certainly wasn't paid to share it.
If anyone in the street had recognized her with her cap half off and fake hair in her eyes, her entire world would have collapsed in on itself, and she would have brought more disgrace to her family name.
Stupid, stupid girl.
A deep, unsettling rattle floated from the back room. The noise at the door should have roused the bookseller and summoned him to the front to see about all the upset, but most of Mr. Cogsworth's customers, including Saira, were aware that his usual cup of morning tea sent him into a heart-slowing stupor that lasted well into the late morning. Saira had bet her safety on the constancy of his routine from the last time she'd been in to see him. She hated to gamble, but this time, she'd beat the house.
If she hadn't…
She preferred not to think of how it would have gone otherwise and unlatched the lock on the door. Slowly… silently… she turned the 'closed' sign back over, tipping it against the glass and laying it flat so it wouldn't rattle the door. Then she crept to the business office, passing Mr. Cogsworth where she'd expected him, slumped next to the shipping crate with its top pried off, one hand wrapped around an illustrated volume of Chaucer, and his head resting on his beloved collection of Shakespeare. He'd been one of her tutors for a time when she'd first arrived in England, a dedicated man who had loosed her native Hindi tongue around the British consonants and guided her pen along the lettered script of the isles.
She'd been raised bilingual, but under the guidance of Mr. Cogsworth, the English language had begun to taste like it belonged inside of her, instead of a foreign dinnertime game to please her father. Saira remembered the long tea-time lessons in that office, with her aunties shifting in their dusty chairs, kicking him under the table when he dozed off during one of her less inspiring recitations. He had been known to wake up quoting the classics.
Throwing the leather satchel strap over her shoulder, Saira noted the new set of grays in his hair, no doubt from his latest uncooperative pupil. It wasn't a typical arrangement to hire a shopkeeper as a tutor, but then Saira's family had always been a bit unconventional when it came to observing the prescribed British lifestyle. But their creative interpretations of 'good and proper' could only carry them for so long. Society was more lenient on an ignorant child who stumbled through the steps of the waltz and tripped over the keys of the pianoforte than a woman of age, expected to provide full discourse in French and be prepared, if so called upon, to discuss the virtues of Pliny's Naturalis Historia. Despite her displays of fine needlework and her rehearsed speech on the merits of the Socratic method, if Saira caused too many waves in the pond, or took too many missteps out of the prescribed confines of her place, the resulting social backlash would find her and her aunties entirely without a place at all.
Once upon a time, she'd delighted in Mr. Cogsworth's appreciation of her clean diction and the way he'd called her sharp-witted and clever, 'an intellectual match for any smart young man'. She would daydream of whose attention she might capture with her insight, and likewise, who might capture her own interest with his delight in her fanciful ideas. In her mind's eye, this nameless, faceless suitor would land somewhere between settled and unconventional in his own right. There would be butterflies in her stomach, a pink stain on her cheeks, and muffled giggles during which she discussed his many merits with her best friend during a garden walk. The daydream often included speculation over whether his proposal would be a seamless transaction, or if her aunties would have to finagle her father's approval.
Saira's face soured at the thought of her father's sudden turn. He had been pleased until he wasn't. Supportive until he'd found something else more worthy of his attention. He was a ghost in his own home, hovering, and then vanishing without a moment's notice, and he'd taken her prospects with him, along with his approval.
That life that she had often dreamed of, spending leisurely hours finding new ways to translate Virgil, or riding along the horse paths along the countryside, teaching the old folktales and songs to her children, had been so close, so within her grasp…
That was before. Before her promised future had dissolved before her eyes, becoming as fanciful as her imagination, unreachable as a castle made of clouds. Before she'd decided not to entrust her life and the lives of her aunties to the whims of an indifferent, fickle British man who would waste their provisions in the gambling halls of London.
Saira let herself out through the back door, coming to a brief halt when the bookseller snorted and shifted, murmuring about the dreams of waking men. She closed the door as softly as the hinges would allow, while her gut refused to resume its rightful position underneath her ribcage.
Her Gift often gave her no choice but to pay attention when it had something to say. Being inexplicably drawn to a veritable stranger from across the street when she had been minding her own business had to mean something. But the middle of the streets of Bath, amongst the early-morning shoppers, was neither the time nor the place for an in-depth analysis of a vision that she should never have had to begin with. This time, Saira would not listen to her Gift, no matter what it was trying to tell her.
Her nerves flared as she scanned the walkways for any sign that he may still be about, ready to catch her unawares. After making sure that no one was lurking in the shadows, ready to grab her by the arm and force her down another alley, she made her way out of the shopping rows, checking her back every few paces, banishing her curiosity with an iron fist of self-control, as if it was a childish impulse to shove a handful of sugar cubes into her mouth when no one was looking. The consequences of getting caught out with her disguise were far more serious than covering a cheek full of dissolving sweetness with a guilty smile.
She'd been foolhardy and impulsive that morning, like she was sixteen again and new to the world, when she hadn't known how treacherously people lived within their own minds. Saira vowed in silent prayer that if she reached her destination, she would never again act so rashly stupid like she had that morning. No vision, no man was worth throwing away her last chance at a decent life.
A short jaunt down Great Pulteney Street led her to Sutton, where she followed the path to Number Eight, Sydney Place. She straightened her cap, checked that her shirt wasn't mussed, and knocked on the door.
A harried maid greeted her by the servants' entrance. "The candle boy is here!" she called over her shoulder, and then grabbed Saira by the arm, pulling her inside. "Hurry, they're down to wicks in the library!" She waved up the stairs. "Third door on the right."
Saira pushed past the cook's helpers along the back stairwell and found the library easily enough. Once she slipped inside, she was met by a disgruntled woman whose dark skin and hair matched her own. Saira's Aunt Rameswari may have embraced British customs with her modest pea-green pelisse, but her mannerisms matched the brilliant shades of yellow and orange on the traditional dupatta that casually flowed across one shoulder and down her back, daring anyone to make comment, which no one ever did. Her hair, done up in elaborate braids of black, held up by shiny pins and clasps, was topped with stunning peafowl plumes, like extra eyes perched on the top of her head.
When she turned, her assessing gaze landed squarely on Saira. After a moment of judgemental silence, she threw her hands up in exasperation. "Sweet Gautami, your daughter is here!" she exclaimed to the ceiling.
"Sorry, Aunty Rame. I came as soon as I could."
Saira handed her the satchel, ripped off her hat and wig and began stripping off the boy's clothes next to a large leather case that lay open on the floor. She traded breeches for a dark chemise, and layered herself, all the way down to the stockings in black on black on black. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of the ladies' magazine she'd read the day before last, that had written her up as wearing a Mourning Dress.
Her Aunt Bavagna approached her from the other side of the room, coming out of nowhere and seeming to take up space everywhere at once. Her calm, outward appearance balanced Rameswari's overbearing presence, dressed in a tight-sleeved, low-waisted spencer jacket, trimmed along the front buttons with small bursts of the same fabrics from her sister's wrap. Her hands fidgeted with the black lace veil that she held out to Saira.
"Where were you, girl?" She didn't berate Saira like Aunty Rame did, but Saira could tell she was holding her tongue.
"Getting supplies," she said, while covering her padded body with dark lace and damask.
Off being stupid, they would say if they knew the whole truth of it.
"You were late. Did anyone see you?" Aunty Rame asked.
"I ran into someone and had to take a detour so he wouldn't follow." There, she'd said it. Truth told.
Aunty Rame looked ready to burst into hysterics, pacing circles around herself and throwing her arms around. "How could you be so careless? If your father heard you were in the city unsupervised, he would have all of our heads!"
"I wore the disguise," Saira said complacently. But he, whoever he was, had definitely seen enough to recognize her the next time they ran into each other. Saira could only pray that there wouldn't be a next time. She shook the unsettling feeling away, and concentrated on fastening the many buttons on her sleeves, all the way down to her wrists.
Aunty Bava placed the new pillar candle on a kettle table near the wall and admired it. "It does look better than our old one. The wick was getting short. And now we have our very own tinder box and won't have to borrow one from the housemaids."
"I'm telling you we could easily take one from home," Aunty Rame said.
But they all knew why nothing at the sitting could belong to Avonburgh House. With the exception of Rameswari and Bavagna, dark-skinned, and mysterious women old enough to warrant the story that they had 'connections' and 'knew someone' without others pressing for the details, nothing could connect what they were doing to where they lived. Even Saira's outfit was only brought out of the travel bag when her bedroom door was locked after the maids had gone to bed, for repair and alterations by candlelight. They even had it washed anonymously in town. Saira's boy disguise gave her the anonymity to get the secret errands done without connecting them to her or her family.
Her father, as stiff and upper-lipped as any proper Englishman could ever be, was privy to none of it.
Aunty Rame bustled about her as if she were a duchess or a bride-to-be. The likelihood of either future for Saira was between null and void. She'd calculated the odds herself.
"A boy, did you say?" Aunty Bava questioned softly, when Aunty Rame had stepped away to fuss with packing Saira's disguise.
"No, not a boy," Saira said, low enough for only Aunty Bava's ears. Up close, he had looked older than boy-age, maybe close in years to herself even. His eyes had the depth of someone who had seen more than his share of the world and had spent a large amount of time digesting it. "I don't know who he was," Saira said.
But she wanted to know. That was why she'd followed him from the coffeehouse and into the alley.
And also because she'd touched him.
And because of the vision, which was, again, none of her business. Not when she had her own future to attend to.
Her aunt nodded and continued helping her dress, as if a run-in with a boy in the streets was nothing to be further commented on. Aunty Bava seemed to trust Saira's instincts more than her more critical sister and gave her niece more credit for her own decisions. If Saira ever wanted to back out of this plan, Bavagna would support whatever she decided, and drag reluctant-to-change, bullheaded Rameswari with her. Not that Saira wanted to quit when she was so close to her goal. This was the best plan for all three of them, and it was working.
Her aunties bustled behind her and soon, a long, black dress covered every bit of her, and her hands were clothed in black gloves. Aunty Rame finished pinning the veil, and crowned it with a large hat. Saira could clearly see the inquisitive face of Aunty Bava and the discerning face of Aunty Rame through the lace, but they could no longer read her expressions. Even the color of her skin was obscured, blending in with the fabric.
Aunty Rame fussed with the front of her skirts, hand pressing the layers that had bunched up in the bag. Saira was enveloped in black on black, from her veil and dress, all the way down to her platform shoes, her black lace gloves pulled up to her elbows. To anyone who saw her now, she was a mysterious, fabric-covered woman, three inches taller and a quarter of a girth wider than Miss Saira Russell, daughter of The Honorable George Russell of Avonburgh House.
"Introducing the Shroud!" Aunty Bava announced and ushered Saira through the double doors to the stage beyond.