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followed her, laughing and out of breath. He felt he had never been so happy in all his life.
    His foot caught in the twisted root of a tea bush that snaked into the path and he fell heavily. He got up and looked around. Where was she?
    â€œRose? Where are you?” he called out.
    He heard a faint giggle and he followed it. He heard it again, and sudden dread clutched at his heart.
    â€œRose!” he called urgently. “Rose, come out, I won’t catch you, I promise.”
    Then he saw her. She was hiding behind The Tree.
    It was a gnarled old tea bush that the Sudu Mahattaya had wanted cut down ages ago. The Kankanipillai had not cut it down for the simple reason that he was too scared. So was everyone else in the area.
    The tree had a yakka in it, a demon. And everyone knew that it was pure foolishness to bring the wrath of the yakkas down on themselves by cutting down trees in which they dwelt.
    Only old Asilin who lived in the workers’ compound had actually seen the yakka. She had been walking home through the estate one night and had been accosted by a huge, hairy man with the head of a bull, who had foamed at the mouth and made bloodcurdling growling noises. That had people so scared they took the other path at night. There were rumors that the yakka came out to forage for humans when it was hungry.
    There had even been suggestions that human sacrifices be made to the yakka to appease its anger, but when John Buckwater heard this he had sternly forbidden any such pagan nonsense, promising dire consequences for anyone who even discussed it.
    So people gave the tree a wide berth, muttering mantras of protection if they were Buddhists, calling on a plethora of different gods if they were Hindus and crossing themselves hurriedly if they were Christians.
    And now Rose was right there.
    â€œRose!” he screamed. “Rose, come here!”
    She didn’t answer.
    He started running as fast as he could toward her, his heart pounding with terrible fear. He had just found her, this small new best friend of his, and he couldn’t bear to think of her becoming an unwilling and Sudu Mahattaya–forbidden sacrifice to the man-eating half-person, half-bull yakka.
    He could vaguely hear her voice.
    â€œChandi, it’s time to wake up!”
    He came awake with a start and stared in confusion at his mother bending over him. His heart still beat wildly.
    â€œPutha, son, it’s time to wake up or you’ll be late for school,” she said.
    He sat up. A dream, he thought in relief. Rose was safe. Then reality came like the first bucketful of cold well water. A dream, he thought in disgust.
    Of
course
it was only a dream. The baby was six months old and she couldn’t walk, let alone run. Her name wasn’t Rose, either. It was Elizabeth, although they called her Lizzie; she had been named after the King of England’s daughter, his mother had told him. He hadn’t seen her properly, just glimpses through open windows.
    Lizzie, he thought indignantly. What a stupid name. If they had asked him, he would have told them Rose was a far better name. Only they hadn’t asked him.
    Six months had passed since the day it rained. Less than a week after the baby had arrived, her ayah had arrived. She guarded the baby as effectively as Buster guarded the Sudu Mahattaya’s car.
    A day or two after the ayah had come, Chandi had seen her with the baby on the veranda. He walked over casually, hoping to establish friendly relations for later visits, but she’d given him a look worse than any his mother had ever given him, and he had retreated quickly.
    He’d given up asking to visit; it only made his mother angry with him. It seemed so unfair that everyone else in the house got to see her except her best friend. And only Rangi ever told him anything.
    â€œIs she white, like the Sudu Nona?”
    â€œNo, sort of pale pink.”
    Perfect for a baby called Rose. If only they’d