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there was something brewing, but he’d been reluctant to talk because there were other sepoys nearby. William remembered the word tigers, and presumed the man meant were-tigers.
    As the water carrier entered the room, bowing to announce that Sahib’s bath was quite ready, William said, “Would you tell Gyan Bhishma, the sepoy, to come to me?”
    The bhisti bowed again, and William hoped that meant he would tell the person considered appropriate, by whatever the protocol was, to run such an errand. He felt tired and impatient. Some part of him, the child who had read his grandfather’s letters and heard his grandfather’s acerbic comments on people who ignored native culture, despised the way he didn’t take in the local customs or the ranks of the servants. But William didn’t want to be here. Ever since he’d read the letters of his grandfather, for whom he was named, William had feared he would die in India.
    He submerged himself in the tepid water and washed briskly, savoring the coolness of the room and the water. It was shortly after sunrise, but the sun would soon be a fiery ball in the sky and the air would be heating till it felt like an oven. And William wondered when the monsoon rains were supposed to come, and if they would be soon. He wanted the promised coolness he’d heard about. He felt as though if it were only to rain, everything would cool down, the tempers of the natives with it.
    He had dressed and was shaving in front of a mirror when Gyan came in. He was what William’s grandfather would doubtless have described as a “likely lad” or some other similarly approving epithet. He was tall for a native, just shy of the six feet reached by William himself. He was close-shaved; his hair, longer than regulation, was combed and tied into a ponytail at the back; his uniform, impeccable and spotless; his eyes, clear; his features, regular and almost European in their cast, or at least made in such a mold that might have befit a statue of antiquity. He saluted William and took the other man’s wave to mean that he could stand at ease. Only, he must have been in the British army a long time, because his version of at-ease still retained a hint of military poise.
    “Sahib wished to see me?” he said. His voice was pleasant and his accent near flawless.
    William looked around the room and listened for sounds that indicated anyone might be close by. His bhisti had withdrawn after emptying the bathwater, and he would now, doubtless, be doing whatever he did during the long days, till it was time to set up things for William’s bedtime. And there didn’t seem to be anyone else close enough to listen in.
    “Yesterday,” William said, casting his voice just above a whisper, “you told me something about tigers?” In the mirror, he saw the shadow overtake the man’s eyes. “I presume you meant were-tigers?”
    The man looked away. “I was foolish, Sahib. Forget it,” he said, and stood just a little straighter, as if he were in a defensive position.
    “No,” William said. “You said there was a Kingdom of the Tigers nearby?”
    The man said something under his breath that might very well have been a curse, then sighed heavily. “Sahib, here in the Punjab, it is said there are more weres than men. We all know the empress”—he spat out the title Victoria had given herself as if it must be got out of his mouth as quickly as possible—“thinks there is a risk of new rebellion over the were laws.”
    “So why did you need to speak with me yesterday?” William asked, feeling as though he were fencing with an invisible foe who shifted position every time he thought he had him pinned.
    Bhishma took a moment. His eyes were half-closed—to veil his expression or to give him time to think, William could not guess. Finally, he sighed. “Sahib, if the empress had any idea how close the danger and how awful, why would she send only twenty-five officers, and more than half of those bringing women and