Chapter 23
GRACE
Grace slammed the giant mythology book shut with a puzzled, “Huh.”
The library was cast into the afternoon sunlight, strangely bright after the dark stories she had just read.
So, Rakshasas were demonic creatures, the Asian myths said. There were many of them, malicious, monstrous, aggressive, and sexual. In Ramayana, one such demon kidnaped the main hero’s wife.
How fitting.
Grace couldn’t get the tiger out of her head all night. Or her husband. Or the image of his naked body, so glorious and alluring.
Two nights a month —she had already spent half a night wondering what it would be like. Perhaps, her husband was as cold in bed as he was in daily life. Or as brutal as the tattoo on his back.
And then Grace questioned Samira, who told her about the Rakshasas with hesitation, as if she were not allowed to talk about the legends.
He is not a demon , Grace argued with herself. But what was the meaning behind his tattoo?
A smile played on her lips as she remembered the powerful build of her husband. That Rakshasa was terrifying yet strikingly glorious on the back of its owner, its eyes green like emeralds— his .
A tune started humming in her head. She rushed into the music room. Right away, pen and paper found their way into her hands.
A minute later, she was rereading the words inspired by the myth. Her fingers touched the keys—the stunning grand piano that sounded even more enchanting than it looked.
And there they were—the low dangerous notes, morphing into aggressive ones, Rakshasa’s story weaving into it. He was in her song again, the fact by now so common. And then a soft trill came—her. She was always there, in her songs about him.
Grace paused midway through the song, the smile falling off her lips. She’d been so preoccupied for weeks with her “accidental” husband that she’d made more songs of her own, disregarding practicing her performance pieces.
Julien, her instructor, had written to her several times. She had promised to resume the practice as soon as she was settled and in my husband’s good graces , she had added bitterly.
I am absolutely thrilled to meet him , Julien had replied.
Oh, Julien…
Her husband might have accepted Rivka. But Julien, a man? That was a different story. She had never had the luxury of having friends or entertaining her own guests. This freedom was new, yet, she was sure it would come with exceptions.
Grace had gone to Harrods department store with Rivka, had spent a day walking through the Botanical Garden, had spent another day at a museum. And all she had gotten in the evening from her husband was, “Did you enjoy your day?” A cold smile. A too intrusive gaze.
Shaking off the thoughts about her husband, Grace took a deep breath and ran her fingers along the keys in C major scales. She carried on with the scales for some time, until her fingers were warm and pliable. She then opened the sheets for one of the concert pieces.
Focus.
She glanced at the music sheets only to align her mind with the piece she was starting.
“Danse Macabre” by Camille Saint-Saens, transformed into a piano solo by talented Liszt.
A beautiful piece—she touched the keys softly, the D note, twelve times, calming like the strokes of midnight.
Then a nervous trill followed—imitating the fluttering of her heart.
Then the aggressive chords boomed—the tritone, the Devil in music , its dissonance instantly jerking her mind back to her wedding day.
And then her fingers raced over the keyboard with infuriating, urgent passion.
Grace attacked the instrument. It was always like this—her feelings against the piano keys.
Julien had once said, “An instrument is a lover. You give it your best and your worst. And if you want it to be yours, you’d better listen to how it responds.”
Grace didn’t know what it was like to have a lover.
The image of him and his Rakshasa tattoo flashed in her mind.
She faltered on the keys. Her hands paused in surprise—she had played this piece flawlessly many times.
Again , she commanded.
She resumed from the start of the last double bar line. Her fingers attacked the keys, in sync with her pounding heart, like a metronome that she forgot to use. They moved vigorously along the keyboard as the images flooded her mind, the lines of the Rakshasa’s stripes, the fangs, the green eyes?—
She faltered.
Again. Again. Again!
“Dammit!” She slammed the keys and threw her head back in frustration, staring at the ceiling frescoes.
Those were colorful and elaborate, but she had never paid attention to the details.
Trying to clear her head, she studied the images, gods and goddesses, magical creatures and fantastical objects, intricate architecture and luscious gardens, flowers, animals, household scenarios, battle scenes, and?—
Grace frowned as her eyes paused on a scene of multiple people entwined together. Naked?
Cannot be.
She rose from the piano bench, her neck craning as she stepped to the spot that gave her the best view of the fresco piece above her.
No, no, no. She was certainly imagining things.
She dragged the bench over and stepped on top of it to take a closer look at what was going on in the scene above her. And what was unfolding was truly scandalous.
She called for Samira.
“Samira, dear, tell me that is not what I think it is,” Grace said as the two of them stood with their heads lifted to the ceiling.
“What are you asking, madam?”
“Are those people, a dozen of them or so…fornicating?”
“It is a scene from a scripture, madam.”
Grace widened her eyes at the maid. “Scripture? What scripture describes this sort of thing?”
“Our art promotes fertility and the idea of procreation.”
“But in the open like this? This is…” Obscene , she wanted to say, but could not take her eyes off the fresco.
Now that she studied it, the debauchery painted in the most vibrant colors and cheerful setting was unmistakable. Limbs and parts that were supposed to be clothed, legs open, bodies contorted, some upside down, standing on their heads, probing, fusing together.
“Vedas, the Hindu scriptures, promote the idea of creation and fertility, madam,” Samira explained.
“Uh-huh.”
“They find their way into Hindu art and everyday life. Did you know, madam, that many of our settlements and communities back home are built around temples? And because there is no other way to educate the poor about procreation and fertility, which is the essence of humankind, we use sensual images to promote the idea of a happy family?”
“Family,” Grace echoed.
“Of course, madam. The union between two humans is sacred. It is divine. Your scripture preaches about sins and punishment. Eastern scriptures teach about liberation and achieving harmony.”
“Harmony.” Grace shook her head. The indecency unfolding above her seemed anything but.
“ Kama in Sanskrit means pleasure, but also enjoyment. It is one of the goals of human life. Often, it is connected to children.”
“But…” Grace tilted her head, focusing on a figure in the fresco that was bent over another, its mouth taking another man’s member in?—
Grace pointed to her own mouth. “You cannot make children like that.”
Samira laughed, absolutely no shame in her cheerful trill. “There is more to a happy family than making children, madam. You have to be happy to make others happy.”
“How… peculiar,” Grace muttered and made a mental note to look for books on Hindu art in Drasko’s library.
She walked about the house. It called to her—to be explored, to know what sort of man lived in it. A new house was always furnished with the future in mind but was, in reality, a reflection of the past. Habits, values, and memories found their way into every piece.
Drasko’s house was a different world. Zebra rugs and masks of Hindu deities. Gods with savage faces and those with many hands. Tigers roared off the murals. An elephant tooted from a giant carpet on the wall in the summer room.
Grace’s head spun at all the vibrant colors and scents, flowers and musk, woven together and gradually becoming her home.
She went outside to the greenhouse, a luscious garden with exotic plants. The parrots screeched as they flitted from branch to branch. A giant mango tree grew in the middle of it, reaching for the glass roof. And a sculpture of a majestic lion rested under its lower branches.
Rakshasa?
Its eyes sparkled with blue stones that reflected the sunlight.
Grace hadn’t noticed them before and leaned in to take a closer look.
Diamonds?
“They are tanzanites, madam,” the voice startled her.
Samira stood behind her with those kind smiling eyes, accentuated by the black eyeliner many Indian servants used.
“Kajal,” Eden had explained to Grace one day, already more knowledgeable in their foreign culture than Grace. “They use it to ward off evil.”
Grace smiled at Samira. “I thought those were blue diamonds.”
The woman wiggled her head from side to side. “Master doesn’t keep diamonds in the house.”
“Why?”
Samira shrugged. “When you have many, they are like glass.”
Grace went to the library, picked several books with Hindu art, and took them to her room, then spent the rest of the afternoon studying them, searching for naked bodies, the vulgar scenes that made her restless with curiosity.
Darkness fell outside when she decided to leave her room and halted at the top of the stairs—her husband was talking to his men in the hallway downstairs.
She hadn’t heard him come home, was surprised he was at home at all. Her pulse quickened in cheerful anticipation. Perhaps, tonight, they could talk.
Loud footsteps came from downstairs, muffled voices, orders—he was leaving again with several of his guards.
Her body came alive at the sound of him, but her heart fell.
Another meeting? So late at night? A woman?
Was that why he hadn’t touched her yet?
The thought stung her.
Grace stood on the stairwell and listened to the front door close, the house suddenly quiet again.
Frustration flooded her. In a moment, she made a decision.
She called for her maid. “Eden,” she said in a hushed voice, “I need you to distract the doorman and Nina.”
“How?” Eden blinked in confusion.
“Figure out how. Please, Eden. Now, hurry!”
Grace put on her hat, picked up her reticule, and waited on the stairwell as Eden loudly called Nina and the men to the kitchen, conjuring some silly lie that worked for a minute.
A minute was all Grace needed to slip out of the house.
She heard the clip-clop of the horses outside the gate. Her husband’s convoy headed up the street. She rushed in that direction, her heart thudding like a drum, nerves on edge as she caught the first hansom cab and ordered the driver to follow.
Grace had never been so daring. Now? Now she was careless. This newly found freedom was alluring.
Her anxiety grew as she followed the carriages along the deserted streets. Soon, the men abandoned the horses and continued on foot.
Like a thief, she hurried after them, ducked into the shadows, jerked at every footstep behind her. The June night was pleasantly cool, yet she felt hot, her nerves on edge.
Perhaps, this was a bad idea.
Did she want to know he was seeing someone else? She didn’t care, did she? But, oh, did hurt twist her heart at the thought. An unwanted husband, but a husband nevertheless, and he was hers.
So, Grace carried on in determination, in pursuit of the men who walked, in eerie silence, until they reached the river Thames.
Oh, Lordy.
They boarded small boats and pushed off into the foggy river. This wasn’t a tourist pier, not the pleasure boats, not the ferries. Grace looked around—one small boat was left behind.
“I will pay you double,” she said to the boater. “Follow!”
Petrified of the ride, uneasy about the fog, she stared into the distance, barely registering the boats ahead.
The night was thick. The summer smog was thicker. She ordered the boater to slow down when the boats ahead docked at a dingy pier. Only when men disembarked and the only sound was the lapping of the water against the hulls did she tell the boater to dock.
Darkness enveloped her. She shivered despite the summer night heat.
“Wait here,” she ordered, stepping carefully out onto the wooden dock.
Her heart hammered in her chest. There was no light in sight, no lanterns, no signs of life.
And despite her orders, the boater stepped out of the boat right behind her.
A chill ran up her spine.
“I need you to wait in the boat,” she repeated meekly.
He started approaching slowly. A step. Another one closer, his shadow moving into her.
What have I done? she thought in panic.
Just then a loud voice in the dark made her whip around.
“Thank you, Bard, I’ll take it from here. Join the others.”
She knew the voice so well!
The sound of a struck match hissed through the damp air. The sudden flame illuminated a face with deep shadowed scars, a cigarette jammed between his lips, the smoke curling in the air and dissipating into the darkness.
The familiar green eyes met hers.
Drasko held the match in front of him. Little fires flickered in his green eyes. That mischievous smirk of his made her heart skip a beat.
“Hello, wife.”