The circular drive outside Avonburgh House was empty.
Saira's red and yellow patterned sleeves bulged against their buttons, showing bits of white underneath as she hefted the hessian sack back inside the foyer. Her favorite walking dress in deep ochre hues would soon be too light for the changing weather, and the cut of the tight wrappings around her arms wasn't the best choice for hauling twenty pounds of fabric. Except she had no place to put it because, as noted, there was nothing on the drive to put it in.
She dumped the sack on the floor inside the foyer. "Aunties?" she called.
Her aunties usually hustled and bustled on Monday mornings, loading sacks and sewing baskets so they could be off to town early. But Auntie Rame sat in the parlor with three sacks at her feet, like she was guarding a stockpile of coffee beans meant for the mill. There was neither hustle nor bustle. She merely stared out the window with a cup of tea in her hand.
"Where is the carriage?" Saira asked.
Rameswari unhurriedly raised her cup and took a long sip of tea. Fire burned behind her eyes.
"Your father is out," she said flatly.
"It's half past eight. I thought he was out yesterday," she said.
Auntie Bava sniffed from the other couch. "He never came home."
But it's Monday! Saira let the petulant thought wriggle around without allowing it past her lips. Yesterday, she had wanted go riding, but Mr. Tinley (her father's 'man of all work' after they'd apologetically dismissed the stable lad and the butler last year) had already tacked up the horses, informing her that 'Mr. Russell was requesting the carriage'. The day before that, she had planned to excuse herself early, dress in her boy's clothes and walk into town, but at breakfast, Cook warned that Mr. Russell was to issue an early family dinner at the time of his choosing. Saira had spent all Saturday locked in her room with the windows open, airing out her damp Shroud's clothing from the Queen's Bath Sitting, waiting on her father to have the bell rung. Once they were seated at half-past five around the dining table, George Russell plowed through his entire meal without speaking, leaving Saira to wonder why he had wanted her at the table at all.
Her father's wishes came first. It had always been so, and would continue for as long as she lived under the same roof with him. Frustration had begun to smolder like peat beneath her outward demeanor, and it was getting harder and harder to tamp down.
For a moment, Saira thought about loosing the reins on her control, and let out the well-rehearsed rant over his consistent disruptions to her life. But the typical British manner of holding it all in had been hammered into her too much to give in to the impulse.
She held in so much these days. Would it be so wrong to let some of it out?
Should she?
No, that wouldn't be proper, or fair. The person who deserved her anger was out with the carriage, and her aunties didn't merit a childish outburst from her over something they could not control.
Saira concentrated all of her frustration into plopping unladylike onto the couch and letting out a huff, which rattled Auntie Rame's tea saucer. She offered her auntie an apologetic look, and crossed her ankles, looking for something to do with her hands.
The embroidery had been stuffed inside of those sacks. But Saira detested embroidery as much as she disliked ruined plans.
In her solitude that weekend, she had had many hours to think on what had transpired in the steamy corridors behind the Queen's Bath. She had been rash and impulsive, two things that she always looked down upon when she Saw how rashness and impulse negatively affected the people she consulted in her Sittings.
And though she tried to chastise herself for her words and her thoughts, she regretted none of it. For the first time in a long while, she felt something growing within her, a feeling she had forgotten about.
There was a thrill in what she had done… was about to do… tomorrow… and she had thought… had planned to spend all of today figuring out how to make it happen .
She had told him the truth. She did take tea on Tuesdays. Just the tea, without the accompanying cakes and sandwiches, in the back away from the windows.
They weren't entirely on the brink of losing everything… yet. They still had Mr. Tinely, Cook, and Ms. Emma, the new Maid-of-All-Work-except-the-cooking-and-sewing who was still becoming accustomed to the man of the house locking himself away in his study and his daughter who likewise spent hours locked in her own room. But once a week, the three ladies went into town to be served and doted on, which was sometimes worth paying for.
Mondays, she and her aunties visited the modiste for a sewing day, and made their appointment at the tea shop, which was just a few doors down on Market Street. It was already in the plans to go. All Saira had to do was live through the arguments and persuasion it would take to pay for an extra seat.
It wouldn't be much of an expense, since they weren't reserving coveted window seats. Auntie Bava had seemed sympathetic when Saira had mentioned him once before. But Auntie Rame would have harsh words for her, including several variations of 'stupid, stupid girl'. Saira cringed, remembering that she'd already used those words on herself with no effect, since they hadn't prevented her from speaking to him again.
Perhaps Saira could make the tea appointment on her own. Yes, that's what she would do. Saira could go to the tea shop as soon as they got into town and explain the extra chair to her aunties afterwards. Tomorrow, if he showed.
If they ever made it to town at all.
Auntie Bava sank down on the couch next to Saira and gently squeezed her shoulder. "It looks loud inside your head today."
Saira took her aunt's hand and held it loosely in her fingers, trailing her gaze over the polished grain floorboards. The edge of Auntie Bava's frustration penetrated from beyond, even with Saira's eyes open. She couldn't See much with her own family, which was a mixed blessing, because her head quieted when she relied on Auntie Rame's expressions to read her swiftly changing moods, or Auntie Bava's quiet words to know her intentions. Saira was grateful for not sensing images in her mind from her father when they sat at silent dinners. The looks he threw her way, when he looked at her at all, were enough.
The last time she had hugged him was right after her mother died, and his darkness had been so strong that she never tried to hug him again. He hadn't even tried to hug her back.
At a quarter till nine, the rolling of wheels against the path got everyone's attention, and Saira's spirits lifted… and then plummeted when the crest of the mail coach came into view through the window.
Saira's aunties met the coachman at the door when he knocked, and then delivered a box wrapped in brown paper with a million markings on the outside. The recipient's address was still legible, reading 'Avonburgh House', though the ink had run over one side, as was the address of the sender.
Rameswari gasped. "It's from Hyderabad!"
Bavagna fumbled with her reticule and gave the coachman some coin and thanks.
Right there in the foyer, Bavagna grabbed the large Indian vase by its twin serpent handles and set it on the floor. Rameswari pushed the small brass tray aside and set the box down on the entryway table. They untied the package and let the paper fall open to reveal a crate. Inside a letter sat on top of the linen wrappings.
Saira recognized her name at once written in the foreign, yet familiar script.
"Open it," Auntie Rame urged.
Saira took the letter into the parlor and sat down with her aunties on either side. She could read the Urdu script clearly, but what she couldn't comprehend was why it said what it said.
Hardly able to breathe, she gave the letter to her aunts, who hovered over it like scrub doves to seeds. She watched Auntie Bava's lips move silently and Auntie Rame's face change shape as they digested the contents that had come all the way from India.
"Does Father know about this?" she asked, when she finally found her voice.
"At the time, he believed it to be a good arrangement. The British make you wait to claim your maturity, but in our… India," Rameswari said, pausing to not say 'our country', "the only requirement is to appear before the family on the day of the groom's birthday to claim your right."
Saira sank back into the couch in shocked silence. Her mind ran circles around her past, through the inner apartments of Chowmahalla where she and her mother lived while her father was away on duty. Images flitted by one by one, the months on the rocking ship, the happy early times when they'd first come to England, and the last five unfathomable years, when her father had disengaged himself from her life.
She had been brought up to believe that she would live English, marry English, and when that future had been taken away, she had worked her way into a different English plan. Not once had anyone mentioned going back.
"I wrote the family, when your mother died." Rameswari said.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Saira whispered.
"You were eight years old when we left the continent," Rameswari said, taking her shaking hands. Saira's fingers were so numb she couldn't even feel her aunt rubbing them together. "Your intended was barely breeched. If you remember, the war was the reason that your grandfather allowed us to leave. We didn't even know if your family or his would survive. And when your dear mother passed, I wrote to let them know. There was no point in setting your mind to the arrangement if there was such little chance of it coming to this."
"But it has come to this," she said, pointing a shaking finger at the letter, "and now I'm obligated to get on a boat and… marry a stranger?"
"You got along well at the time," Auntie Bava said. "He fell asleep almost every night to your stories."
Saira had the vaguest memory of reading to the younger children in the gardens of the zenana. Obviously, he was no longer a child, but as hard as Saira tried, she could imagine nothing but a little boy who had laid his head in her lap and played with the ends of her braid.
By the letter's account, he was turning sixteen in six months' time. A lot had happened in the four years since Saira had been sixteen to change her from the naive child into the reserved holder of secrets she had become. The letter had obviously been written by his mother to Saira and her aunts. There was nothing in it that hinted at her son's feelings on the matter. And there was no time to send a letter and receive a reply within the time allotted. Ships took a whole season to travel to India, sometimes longer.
Was he expecting her to appear?
Was he counting on her not to?
"What happens if he refuses the arrangement?" she asked.
Rameswari brushed Saira's concern away as if swatting a fly. "He cannot back out of a marriage contract. It's a simple matter. If you appear, it will be honored. If you do not appear, your intended will begin his search for another bride. But know this," she said, pointing to a line of script, "it is your choice to accept. Your mother insisted on putting that in."
"There is one more thing," Bavagna added. "You must give up your Gift before the marriage."
That stopped Saira's thoughts cold. "H… how is that even possible?"
"A ritual," Bavagna said softly, looking reluctant to say more. Which of course gave Saira more nerves than ever about the whole situation.
Bavagna tried to explain. "That's why Gautami and your father wanted to come to England. In India, a woman is married to a family, or married to her Gift. Your mother wanted both."
Saira couldn't imagine giving up her Gift. Her Gift was paying for her future here, in England. It was protecting her from misery and heartache and ill intentioned men. Why would she consider giving it up for a man she'd practically never met?
And… if she were even considering a man… which she hadn't considered in years… she would want to know his mind and his intentions. Saira's thoughts drifted to the man who had caused her Gift to change, the man she'd made her own contract with. The man whose name she didn't even know.
"Saira, you should look inside the box."
Rameswari had brought the box into the parlor and set it on the floor in front of her. With a slight tremble, Saira peeled aside the top layer of linen, but she dared not touch anything inside. She didn't have to, because as soon as the linen revealed a square frame, her aunties both leaned forward and lifted it out for her.
The wood carved with lotus flowers caused early memories to spring back to life, sending a wave of nostalgia over her, combined with a sense of belonging to a place that had accepted her wholly and without question.
"Oh look, it's his portrait!" Her aunties turned over the frame and showed her a likeness of her promised husband. He looked very un-English - a boon for her aunties who fawned all over it.
She wondered what the artist of the portrait may have embellished or hidden… were those his true eyes, or had a sense of kindness been added to them? Was his lean and muscular neck an artistic embellishment? Instead of reaching for the portrait to find out, Saira clasped her hands firmly together and leaned away from the entire situation that had just bubbled up like an unwanted spring, creating puddles of uncertainty everywhere.
She was so close to her plan, almost tasting the freedom in the air around her. Admittedly, fond memories of the zenana and the women who braided her hair came to her in her sleep, soothing her like a lullabye. But she also saw through the childhood scenes with a mature eye, and knew that those inner apartments with their lush private gardens would be her whole world if she went back. There would be no wandering the streets, no talking to mysterious strangers…
"I don't want to honor the arranged marriage," she said, hushing the heated conversation that had broken out between her two aunts. She knew exactly what they were saying in Urdu, but she wanted to hear no more about whether this would be better or worse than her current path.
"We will have the money soon, and maybe even as early as next year, we will be rid of this place. This… burden." She meant the debts of Avonburgh House, but a guilty part of her included her father in that thought. "Everyone will be happier for it. Won't we?"
"Yes of course," Auntie Bava said, setting the portrait aside. "It is whatever you decide."
"But it is good to see so many things from home." Rameswari sifted through the linens. Her eyes lit up with interest as she pulled at a corner of a silk in golds and blues.
"England is our home now," Bavagna said softly, yet firmly to her sister. "We promised Gautami that we would help her live her life. If she wants to be here, we should be here with her."
Here wasn't a wonderful place either, Saira admitted silently. But here was where her choices lay. Here, she was allowed to make them.
"I'll put this in my room for now," Auntie Rame said, stuffing the fabric back into the crate. "But Saira should keep the letter." She pressed it into Saira's hands and took the box down the hall.
Saira stared at the letter, her eyes blurring to the Urdu script until she could no longer read it. Why was this happening now? Had this really been what her parents had intended? Had they failed to mention it because, as her aunts said, they had moved on to a different life? Or had her father assumed all this time that this was what she was supposed to do, go back to India while he ran his own life into the ground?
All three turned their heads as the familiar gait of their horses came to a stop outside. The creak of the folding double-seated convertible top and the dull voice of their butler-driver-part-time-groom drifted through the window.
The door opened. George Russell walked with tired, unshaven purpose, rumpled shirt and overcoat slung over his shoulder, not even tilting his head their way as he beelined straight to his study. Acrid cigars and sickly sweet rum trailed after him and into the room at the end of the hall. With a resounding clack, the door shut, and its lock fell into place.
Saira wanted to rush over and bang on that door. She wanted her father to face her and say what he expected of her. If he wanted her gone, she wanted to hear it directly from him, and not from a letter half a world away. Before she even realized it, her feet had roused her from the couch, pointing down the hall, with the letter clutched in her fist. Her feet gained momentum, taking a step and then another, and one more, until an arm snagged out and pulled her around.
Rameswari looked sternly into her face. "This is not the time." She hoisted a hessian sack onto her shoulder. "We may go to town now."
As they passed a haggard Mr. Tinely, who had just come in and looked like he'd missed several nights in a bed, Aunty Rame waved him on. "I will take the reins."
Saira looked to her other auntie helplessly for anything… support, perhaps? Bavagna took her gently by the arms and guided her away from her father's study, but her voice was firm.
"Get in the carriage, Saira."
***The south-facing window on the second level over 'The Modern Modiste on Market Street' had the best sewing light, showing a clear view of the bookseller across the street. If one craned one's neck, one could see the door to the tea shop on the corner.
But Saira wasn't looking out the window. She waged war with a curved carpet needle, stabbing at the thick cloth of a newly stuffed bum roll again and again, until she managed to snag just the canvas without catching the new wool stuffing with the stitching.
Even though she wasn't The Shroud today, she still pretended. Her costume was a pleasant, studious and demure young lady in the midst of the proper company of her aunties and their friends, all with some form of stitchery in their laps. On the outside, she had never seen that letter or that box or that portrait.
Underneath her skin, she boiled.
"The Sothebys are hosting another party before the wedding."
Saira's ears pricked at the name, and she glanced up at her aunties who were nodding agreeably with Mrs. Lanchester, premier modiste in Bath and the surrounding towns. The other three ladies in the room made impressed noises about the new batch of dress orders meant for delivery next week. Mrs. Lanchester had been selected to provide the party dresses, as well as the outfits for the upcoming nuptials. Dresses for a future Marchioness and her family, Saira imagined, would pay quite handsomely.
It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Mrs. Lanchester was not only the most sought after modiste in Bath for her quality and style, but also held the reputation for the most reasonable turnaround on short orders. Her secret, of course, was enlisting the help of various merchants' wives and other accomplished and seasoned ladies, when needed. It kept her from spending hours under candlelight, ripping the crooked seams of inexperienced apprentices and redoing hours of labor on her own.
It also provided the women an opportunity to profit under the guise of socialization.
The other ladies made impressed noises about the upcoming wedding and agreed to dive right into the work after luncheon. "We are happy to help," Auntie Bava said, finishing the hem of their maid's apron that had become frayed. Auntie Rame set down the mended stockings and agreed with the other women in the room. They were all excellent stitchers that Mrs. Lanchester could call upon when she needed extra hands during the Season, or in this case, when she'd dismissed half her apprentices for the off season and her new students weren't up for such a prestigious and demanding job.
Once a week on the off seasons, Saira had attended sewing lessons, just as she had attended Mr. Cogsworth's bookshop for her reading and writing. She used to sit with the apprentices downstairs, but now that she was older, Mrs. Lanchester invited her to sit with the skilled women while they did their household mending chores and chatted away the morning. In the afternoons, they would turn to other sewing matters that Mrs. Lanchester dictated. Though she was never asked to take a piece of the paid work, Saira enjoyed sitting by the window and making pretty things, as long as they weren't embroidery.
The modiste owned a lovely set of rooms above Market Street, this one being the light-filled, airy drawing room. Since her husband had passed and her children has grown, she often complained that the place was too big for her alone. Mrs. Lanchester often said that one room and use of the kitchen would be enough for her, until she was ready to move to her daughter's place near Hastings when she retired.
It was her suite of rooms that Saira intended to purchase next year with her would be a family, of sorts. Saira loved the idea of Maria Lanchester as part of her family. Her kind words and constant encouragement almost made the absence of her mother bearable. She suspected that the dressmaker knew she was the Shroud, having helped Saira draft her pattern and muslin mark-up for The Shroud's long skirts and veil, but they never spoke of it. Until Mrs. Lanchester said something, Saira would remain silent as well. It was what she was best at.
It was also what her father was best at. She and her aunties had not discussed specifically how or if her father would fit into their plans… mostly because they had no idea what his plans were once the money ran out, or even if he had any plans at all… because he never spoke to them of anything other than what time they should appear for dinner.
But it was harder and harder to keep everything inside. Only her aunt's steady arm had saved her from saying regrettable things when her father came home that morning.
When she tucked the ends of the last knot neatly inside the seam of the padding, she looked up and found herself in an empty room. She frantically swiveled around and found Mrs. Lanchester peering through a monocle at a piece of white on white embroidery. She looked a little like Mr. Cogsworth in that way.
"Where did everyone go?" she asked.
The dressmaker scooted closer to the window without looking up. "While you were deep in thought, they went for sundries."
Saira looked out the window. Her aunties loved walking this town with the other women. She loved it too. In her boys' outfit, she could go wherever she pleased, and she was suddenly sad that she hadn't packed it. The dressmaker knew about the boys outfit, though not it's true purpose. She knew of Saira's love of freedom too.
Then Saira saw the young man with secrets strolling down the street. She could tell it was him by how at odds he seemed with his surroundings, peering skeptically into the shop windows, and openly staring at the carriages that passed in the street. She followed him with her eyes as he entered one shop, and then another, each time coming out with hands shoved in his pockets, shaking his head.
She had told him that she was taking her tea on Tuesdays, what on earth was she thinking by saying that? She knew nothing about him. She didn't even know his name.
He came out of another shop, this time with a small package in hand. He stopped and looked down at it like a spider that had just fallen onto his sleeve, and then tucked it into his overcoat.
"Someone you know?" the dressmaker asked.
Saira gave a start and noticed the dressmaker had stopped stitching and was watching her.
"No," she said too quickly. "Well, perhaps," she added. "We might be having tea tomorrow, but it's not certain that he will come."
"Why not?" Mrs. Lanchester asked, a smile playing on her lips.
"I didn't give him the time," Saira admitted. And oh, she didn't tell her aunties about any of it, and the sun was well past morning and she hadn't made an appointment at the tea shop… and this was turning into such a mess.
"Never mind. I suppose it wasn't meant to happen."
It had been an impulse. A slip of her tongue. Something she should have guarded herself against, but in the moment, surrounded by the steam, she had failed to keep her inner thoughts from spilling over. Her Gift hadn't shown her anything new, but an undeniable feeling of certainty had come over her that yes, he would honor their contract. Maybe, she thought, she had just met someone with whom she could actually talk to. About what, she didn't know, but she had wanted to find out.
And now she would be worse off for squashing the small seed of hope she'd felt for the first time in forever, instead of refusing to let it germinate in the first place. So many of her hopes had been trampled over the last four years that she shouldn't be surprised at this inevitable disappointment.
"If you intend to live on Market Street one day, you should acquaint yourself with the neighbors. Why don't you go down there and confirm the time with him?"
"But my aunties… and we were late this morning, so we didn't make an appointment…" Saira's mind filled with a cacophony of reasons why she should forget about her silly plans for tea.
"You can go with me," the modiste said with a smile. "Once you have confirmed with him, I'll set the appointment. You and I can have tea, and he may join us if he wishes. Tell him two o'clock."
Could it be that easy, Saira wondered? "And my aunties?" she asked, hoping against hope that Mrs. Lanchester had thought through that snag too.
"I'll tell them I invited you," she said. "Which I just did. A lady should have tea with a gentleman, if that's what she wants."
"Thank you!" she said, dropping her completed project into her basket. Another seed of hope sprouted within her, and she almost jumped to her feet.
And then she paused, her eagerness to leave stilled by the sudden doubts eating at her resolve.
"But what if…"
Mrs. Lanchester patted her arm, and Saira leaned into the warmth and affection behind the gesture. The modiste's nimble fingers squeezed gently, ready to untangle the most stubborn of knots.
"This wedding dress requires new sharps if I'm going to finish it on time. Pickup a fresh set from Milsom Street while you're out. Now, chin up and smile. Anything else that happens is a happy little aside to your day."
"Yes of course!" Saira said, and hurried down the stairs.
***Most off-season visitors to Bath came for treatments or follies. Whether they had come to cure their health or their boredom, no one cared who went where with whom, and kept their sights on their own personal missions. Likewise, the merchants who lived in Bath had a sole mission to direct the visitors to their wares and make a profit. So when a lady ambled down Market Street on her own, everyone assumed it was to pay respects to the coins in her purse and left her to it.
Saira had heard from a friend once (when she once had a friend), that if a girl went out on the London streets alone, she could get written up for misconduct or jeered at by strangers. She didn't know how much, if any of that, was true. But this wasn't London, and she was no longer a starry-eyed girl. Still, after Mrs. Lanchester's scheduler downstairs gave her coins for the notions, Saira did her best to look like a proper Bath resident and tied her bonnet firmly under her chin before she stepped into the street.
She had lost sight of the person of interest during her conversation with the modiste, and now wasn't sure he was still on Market Street. At a loss, Saira took a few strides to the left, and then turned and retraced her steps back to the right, not knowing which way she should ultimately set out until she remembered the notions errand. Thankful for Mrs. Lanchester's instructions, she spun on her heel to head towards Milson Street and practically stumbled right into someone walking in the opposite direction with his head in a paper as she had been putting the coins in her bag.
"Oh!" they both exclaimed, and each bent to recover the coins from the walkway.
When they stood, she was met with those same green eyes that had stared her down in the steamy rooms. He looked taken aback, like he expected there to be more space between them. Then he stepped forward, peering into her face as if assuring himself that she was really there.
"Your coins," he said, and dropped them into her open bag.
In the daylight, without the steam, he looked different. He was dry, for one, with no water pooling at his feet this time. Semi-fashionable strolling shoes had replaced the heavy working boots. His dark overcoat was neat, but otherwise gave nothing away. The brim of his hat rode low on his forehead, and Saira clutched her purse strings tightly to stop herself from reaching out to push it up so she could see his green eyes more clearly. From his appearance, she couldn't tell which class or profession he belonged to, gleaning no further information on him than she had before.
And she wouldn't if she didn't say anything.
Did he recognize her?
Well, of course he did. There weren't any other young women her age in this town with a dark tint to their skin.
"Are you following me?" he asked, a look of bewilderment crossing his features.
Saira's nerves gave a start. "I… saw you from the window and needed to tell you…" She listened in horror to the words rambling out of her mouth, wholly unprepared for how difficult it was to bring up how they'd run into each other the last time. Maybe he had forgotten entirely, or maybe he hadn't heard through the hissing steam, or maybe he wasn't interested in making her acquaintance, and she was just making a fool of herself out in public.
He folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. "About tea on Tuesday," he said. "That's tomorrow."
Oh. So he had heard. "Yes," she said, hope sprouting tiny, fragile roots inside of her.
"And you think this is a good idea, us having tea together?" he asked.
"Under the circumstances…" Saira trailed off, unable to form a proper response to that question. It was an idea. Her idea. As for it's goodness… Ugh, had she forgotten how to speak English?
"Yes, the circumstances," he said, still not giving anything away.
Then he shifted as the crowd moved away as a carriage came down the street, heading almost straight for them. Saira was pressed by the crowd up to the walkways, and the man in front of her seemed to stare at the carriage and make a motion with his hand at it, and then turned back to her. A bit of yellow and white and green peeked out from under his overcoat. She'd seen that pattern before.
"Daffodils?" she asked, indicating with her hand.
Saira clutched her wrap close around her shoulders as he looked her up and down, apparently searching for something to say about her person, but the only thing he came up with was, "Color suits you."
Yes, she had been in all black the last time they spoke, and she supposed that his comment might be taken as a compliment. But as the seconds drew out and he failed to add anything else to his observations, Saira decided that perhaps their conversation might be headed for a downturn. Anything else was extra, she reminded herself. Instead of wasting another minute for her confidence to shrivel up and fail her entirely, Saira started walking again.
Surprisingly, he fell into step beside her.
"I was thinking," he said barely loud enough for her to hear. Definitely soft enough that it was only her who heard him. "There are probably things we should say to each other regarding our agreement."
"Contract," she corrected, making sure no one else heard that either.
"Yes," he agreed. They regarded each other silently, she with some trepidation, and he with something akin to curiosity.
A carriage passed them, which he looked slightly alarmed by, but swallowed away his discomfort. They turned the corner where the people thinned out considerably, and Saira felt like she was doing something entirely unsuitable altogether. She wondered what business, if any, her companion had on Milsom Street.
"Weren't you going in the opposite direction? And in a bit of a hurry, weren't you?"
"It can wait," he said. "Look, I'm just going to say this plainly. It's important that I know whatever you know about me. I've worked very hard to stay anonymous, and this whole thing about someone… you… knowing something… anything…, it doesn't sit well with me."
"Well," Saira said. "No one should know what you know about me either. I don't know as much as you might think. I don't even know what to call you."
He stopped abruptly, which caused Saira come to a standstill as well. They stood a minute in silence as he seemed to work something out in his head.
"I can't believe I'm about to do this." It was difficult to say if he was talking to her or himself, but then he held out his hand. "Some of my friends call me Five."
"Mr. Five," she said.
"Just Five," he corrected.
She shook his hand, which still gave her nothing as it had before in the tight closeted space. Well, there was something, but it had nothing to do with her Gift. No burst of color. Not even a single image. Saira kept staring at him, waiting for a hint from her Gift that if she closed her eyes, she would See more. But he remained a blank page in a fresh journal, like the last time. And the time before that. Her Gift wasn't telling her anything about him.
"What does everyone else call you?"
"Hopefully, they don't have reason to call me anything. I gather there's room in your contract for that."
"Certainly," she said, still holding his hand. Shaking it, and not Seeing anything. Saira wanted to know more, of course she did. But she got the feeling that she would have to first find a reason for him to tell her. Otherwise, she got the impression that he wouldn't tell her any more than he absolutely had to.
"Are you reading me right now?" he asked, looking slightly conspiratorial.
"No, it doesn't work like that," she said. "Not with you."
"How does it work, then? With me?"
That was the problem, Saira thought fiercely, losing some of her inner composure. It didn't work at all like it was supposed to. Not with the sudden colors everywhere inside her head, and now… not even gray clouds or hazy lines. Maybe it had been a one-time accident. Maybe she had imagined the whole thing. Saira loosened her grip, but he still held on. The warmth from his hand was real. The butterflies in her stomach were real. Not that she really wanted to let go, but they were standing in the middle of the street, and there were people about.
She shook her head this time, instead of his hand. "I shouldn't be talking about this here. I shouldn't be talking about this at all."
A carriage stopped right beside them and a man's head poked out. Saira shook her hand free and feigned indifference to the interruption.
"Oi! Are you coming or not?" The man inside the carriage directed his question at the man who had been holding her hand, Five.
"Yeah, give me a minute," he said, sounding not at all like the schooled gentleman she had just been talking to . Five turned back to her. "I suppose we will see each other again."
"The tea shop," she said without thinking twice. "On Market Street. Two o'clock. I'll be with my friend, Mrs. Lanchester," Saira specified. "Since we are friends now." Which was entirely not a socially acceptable invitation, and she knew it. Her aunties were not even privy, and even though the modiste had suggested the means, she still felt like she was breaking all kinds of rules.
"Friends," Five said, as if it was a new taste in his mouth. He checked his pocketwatch. "I'll be there. Oh, and this is yours." He reached inside his coat and handed her a small package.
Stunned by his ready agreement, Saira took the package, curious because he looked a bit green when he'd given it to her. She watched him get into the carriage with the other man, and looked down at the paper-wrapped box. It was the second package she'd opened that day. The first had had her name on it. This one… well, he'd said it was hers. Right there in the street, she unwrapped it and found a small black-on-black fan made of paper and lace.
It was from the haberdasher's shop on Market Street. Saira had never once dreamed that she would own anything from that shop, because the prices were all too high, and the items were all too frivolous. A small card hung on the end of the fan's handle, attached by a string, and Saira made the mistake of looking at the numbers.
Oh sweet Gautami! She shut the box and stuffed it in her bag, as if Auntie Rame's dog-eared copy of the Amaruhataka had magically appeared in her hands. Hurrying into the notions shop, she wondered if her cheeks looked as pink as they felt. And then her face heated even more, embarrassed by the sheer act of being embarrassed. But like Mrs. Lanchester had said, she was simply getting to know someone. Being neighborly. And he'd happened to give her a very nice gift.
No need to get all giddy about it.
Her cheeks flushed again in spite of her self-chiding. The morning talk must have addled her brain, thinking about men and marriage contracts. Which were still out of the question. It was a perfectly respectable social function, being cordial. Meeting people. Setting appointments with strange men who had numbers for names.