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Rachael offered feebly.
    ‘What has that got to do with it?’
    ‘Well, because the rice pudding smelt so good and it was Eid …’ She was stalling. She wanted to frame her replies in a way so as not to get Ram Singh into trouble.
    Papa went and sat down behind his desk. ‘Ram Singh,’ he called out in the cold authoritative tone that he reserved for servants.
    Rachael pulled at the collar of her dress. It felt rough and uncomfortable against her skin in this heat.
    Ram Singh came hurrying. He glanced at her and then at Papa. He looked as though life had been snuffed out of him. ‘I’m sorry, sahib,’ he began to plead.
    ‘Ram Singh, two cups of tea please and don’t take all day to bring it,’ Father barked.
    ‘Yes, sahib. Definitely, sahib,’ Ram Singh muttered as he left the room.
    Papa turned back to Rachael. ‘I know jolly well that it was Eid yesterday. It was because of that bloody festival that I got late for the first time in my life!’
    ‘Mr Bristow, your language,’ mother chided.
    Rachael unfolded her handkerchief and wiped the sweat from her brow and upper lip. ‘As I was saying, because it was Eid, it was difficult for me to turn down the invitation.’
    Ram Singh re-entered the room with two cups of tea. His hands were shaking as he placed them on the table. He then backed into a corner, hands folded, head lowered, almost invisible.
    ‘Who the hell in his right mind invites an unmarried English girl to Chowk?’ thundered Papa.
    ‘Chowk?’ Rachael squawked.
    ‘Yes, Chowk! Were you or were you not in Chowk two days back?’
    She let out a sigh of relief. At least Ram Singh was safe. She saw his face light up. But … but how did Papa know? She had taken all the precautions. Even worn a burqa. Then who could have recognised her?
    ‘Rachael, I want a simple answer. Yes or no?’ Papa tapped his fingers on the desk.
    ‘Yes, I was there,’ she whispered.
    ‘Speak up, young lady. I did not hear that.’
    ‘Yes, I was in Chowk the day before yesterday,’ she replied haughtily, lifting her chin and looking Papa in the eye as she spoke.
    Papa picked up his pipe from the desk and lit it, before turning back to her. Mother grimaced slightly at the smell of tobacco.
    ‘And I’m sure you have a good reason for being there?’
    ‘I’d gone to ask Bade Miyan if he knew someone who might be able to teach me Hindustani music.’
    ‘Do you not know that Chowk is the home of courtesans, and girls from good families never go there?’
    Rachael did not say anything. She wiped her moist hands on the side of her dress and looked out of the window.
    ‘What if someone had kidnapped you and sold you to one of those kothas as a nautch girl?’ asked Mother, who had hitherto been silent.
    Laughing hysterically, Rachael replied, ‘Mother, don’t be ridiculous.’
    ‘You can’t trust these natives, you know. Not after what happened to Richard.’
    ‘Richard died of malaria, Mother. And imagine someone trying to kidnap me – why, I’m taller than most of the men in this city.’ She let out another laugh.
    ‘That’s enough, young lady.’ Papa turned his attention back to Rachael. ‘No supper for you tonight and you’re not to step out of your room for a week. Your meals will be sent to your room from tomorrow. You can go now.’
    Rachael flounced out of the room angrily. She had simply been looking for a music teacher. What was wrong with that? And how dare he treat her as a child!
    * * *

    Rachael thought she must have dreamt it. No, she was not dreaming – there it was again – a small tap on the window. She looked at the clock. It was past midnight. Who could it be at this hour? After a tussle with the mosquito net, she hastily put on her gown and opened the door.
    ‘Ayah?’
    ‘Shhhhh!’ Ayah hissed as she placed the tray she was carrying on the little cane stool. Rachael bolted the door.
    ‘What is—?’
    ‘I bring dinner, missy baba,’ she said as she removed the embroidered cloth