"Higher," I croak. His hand finds my waist. "That's it."
"What next?"
"We, we dance," I say, my breath coming out in shallow puffs.
He turns me round slowly and awkwardly at first. There is so much space between us that a third person could stand there. I keep my eyes on our feet stepping so close to each other, leaving patterns in the thin layer of sawdust.
"I think it would be easier if you weren't pulling away," he says.
"This is how it is done," I answer.
He pulls me closer to him, far closer than is appropriate. There is but a whisper of space between his chest and mine. Instinctively, I look around, but there is no one to see us but the horses. Kartik's hand travels from my waist to the small of my back, and I gasp. Turning round and round, his hand warm at my back, his other hand grasping mine, I am suddenly dizzy.
"Gemma," he says, so that I must look up into those magnificent brown eyes. "There is something I need to tell you. . . ."
He mustn't say it. It will ruin everything. I break away, my hand going to my stomach to steady myself.
"Are you all right?" Kartik says.
I smile weakly and nod. "The cold," I say. "Perhaps I should be getting back." "But first, I need to tell you--"
"There's so much to do," I say, cutting him off.
"Well, then," he says, sounding hurt."Don't forget your gift."
He hands me the charm blade. Our hands touch, and for an instant, it is as if the world holds its breath, and then his lips, those warm, soft lips, are on mine. It is as if I've been caught in a sudden rain, this feeling.
There's a sensation in my stomach like birds flapping as I break away."Please don't."
"It's because I am Indian, isn't it?" he asks.
"Of course not," I say."I don't even think of you as an Indian."
He looks as if he's been punched. Then he throws his head back and laughs. I do not know what I've said that is so amusing. He gives me such a hard look I fear my heart shall break from it."So you don't even think of me as Indian. Well, that is a tremendous relief."
"I-I didn't mean it like that."
"You English never do." He walks into the stables with me on his heels.
I'd never thought of how insulting that might sound. But now, too late, I realize that he is right, that in my heart I have taken for granted that I have been so frank with Kartik, so . . . myself. . . because he is Indian and so there could never be anything between us. Anything I could say now would be a lie. I've made such a mess of things.
Kartik is gathering his meager possessions into a rucksack.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Rakshana. It is time for me to claim my place. To begin my training and advance."
"Please don't go, Kartik. I don't want you to go." It is the truest thing I've said all day.
"For that I am sorry for you." The mews is coming awake. Servants have sprung into action like the tiny mechanized figures on a cuckoo clock.
"You'd best go in. Would you be so kind as to give this to Emily for me?" he says frostily. He hands me the other gift, which opens just enough to reveal The Odyssey. "Tell her I am sorry I cannot continue teaching her to read. She'll have to get someone else."
"Kartik," I start. I notice he's left my gift to him from months ago leaning against the wall. "Don't you want to take the cricket bat?"
"Cricket. Such an English game," he says. "Goodbye, Miss Doyle." He hoists the rucksack upon his back and walks away, heading into the weak first light of morning.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
BY NOON, THE STREETS OF LONDON ARE A CONCERT of bells calling one and all to church. Grandmama, Tom, and I sit on hard wooden pews, letting the reverend's words wash over us.
"Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, inquired of them diligently what time the star appeared. And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, 'Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also . . . ""
I glance about the church. All around me, heads are bowed in prayer. People seem content. Happy. After all, it is Christmas.
A light-dappled stained-glass window shows an angel delivering the annunciation. At his feet, Mary kneels, trembling as she receives this fearful message from her celestial visitor. Her face shows the awe and fear of that news, of the gift she has not asked for but will carry nonetheless. And I wonder why there is no passage to describe her terrible doubt.
"What next?"
"We, we dance," I say, my breath coming out in shallow puffs.
He turns me round slowly and awkwardly at first. There is so much space between us that a third person could stand there. I keep my eyes on our feet stepping so close to each other, leaving patterns in the thin layer of sawdust.
"I think it would be easier if you weren't pulling away," he says.
"This is how it is done," I answer.
He pulls me closer to him, far closer than is appropriate. There is but a whisper of space between his chest and mine. Instinctively, I look around, but there is no one to see us but the horses. Kartik's hand travels from my waist to the small of my back, and I gasp. Turning round and round, his hand warm at my back, his other hand grasping mine, I am suddenly dizzy.
"Gemma," he says, so that I must look up into those magnificent brown eyes. "There is something I need to tell you. . . ."
He mustn't say it. It will ruin everything. I break away, my hand going to my stomach to steady myself.
"Are you all right?" Kartik says.
I smile weakly and nod. "The cold," I say. "Perhaps I should be getting back." "But first, I need to tell you--"
"There's so much to do," I say, cutting him off.
"Well, then," he says, sounding hurt."Don't forget your gift."
He hands me the charm blade. Our hands touch, and for an instant, it is as if the world holds its breath, and then his lips, those warm, soft lips, are on mine. It is as if I've been caught in a sudden rain, this feeling.
There's a sensation in my stomach like birds flapping as I break away."Please don't."
"It's because I am Indian, isn't it?" he asks.
"Of course not," I say."I don't even think of you as an Indian."
He looks as if he's been punched. Then he throws his head back and laughs. I do not know what I've said that is so amusing. He gives me such a hard look I fear my heart shall break from it."So you don't even think of me as Indian. Well, that is a tremendous relief."
"I-I didn't mean it like that."
"You English never do." He walks into the stables with me on his heels.
I'd never thought of how insulting that might sound. But now, too late, I realize that he is right, that in my heart I have taken for granted that I have been so frank with Kartik, so . . . myself. . . because he is Indian and so there could never be anything between us. Anything I could say now would be a lie. I've made such a mess of things.
Kartik is gathering his meager possessions into a rucksack.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Rakshana. It is time for me to claim my place. To begin my training and advance."
"Please don't go, Kartik. I don't want you to go." It is the truest thing I've said all day.
"For that I am sorry for you." The mews is coming awake. Servants have sprung into action like the tiny mechanized figures on a cuckoo clock.
"You'd best go in. Would you be so kind as to give this to Emily for me?" he says frostily. He hands me the other gift, which opens just enough to reveal The Odyssey. "Tell her I am sorry I cannot continue teaching her to read. She'll have to get someone else."
"Kartik," I start. I notice he's left my gift to him from months ago leaning against the wall. "Don't you want to take the cricket bat?"
"Cricket. Such an English game," he says. "Goodbye, Miss Doyle." He hoists the rucksack upon his back and walks away, heading into the weak first light of morning.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
BY NOON, THE STREETS OF LONDON ARE A CONCERT of bells calling one and all to church. Grandmama, Tom, and I sit on hard wooden pews, letting the reverend's words wash over us.
"Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, inquired of them diligently what time the star appeared. And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, 'Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also . . . ""
I glance about the church. All around me, heads are bowed in prayer. People seem content. Happy. After all, it is Christmas.
A light-dappled stained-glass window shows an angel delivering the annunciation. At his feet, Mary kneels, trembling as she receives this fearful message from her celestial visitor. Her face shows the awe and fear of that news, of the gift she has not asked for but will carry nonetheless. And I wonder why there is no passage to describe her terrible doubt.
