The Light of Stars

Prologue Kitty

He healeth the broken in heart,

and bindeth up their wounds.

He telleth the number of the stars;

he calleth them all by their names.

PSALM 147:3-4

1803, HYDERABAD, INDIA

The night smelled of jasmine and smoke.

Torchlight flickered across the marble arches and carved lattice screens, sending shadows skittering along the palace courtyard.

I clutched Ghulam’s hand so tightly my nails must have bitten into his skin, but my older brother did not flinch.

His other arm wrapped around my sleeve, tugging me close to the shelter of the wall, as if he alone could drag me out of the open expanse and back into the safety of the harem.

Somewhere beyond the colonnade, voices shouted, sharp and urgent.

“Stay with me, Noor,” Ghulam whispered as a clash of boots echoed against the pavement.

British soldiers and sepoys burst through the arched gateway, red coats blazing in the torchlight. Brass plates on the tall shakos atop their heads caught the firelight and flashed like coins, while their white trousers looked already dust-stained from battle.

We pressed ourselves deeper into the shadowed edge of the courtyard, hearts hammering, as if stillness alone could keep us invisible.

I hid behind my brave twelve-year-old brother.

I was only six, still small enough to believe in whispered promises.

We had been awakened in the middle of the night by a servant who coaxed us outside with strange tales of dates and sweets and our mother waiting for us on a moonlit adventure.

Of course, we agreed—especially after being confined to our rooms for days while illness swept through the palace.

And with Father newly gone, Mother’s absence weighed heavier than ever.

She often took us out in the late evening for fresh air and to point out the stars above and teach us their names.

But no treats and no Mother awaited us.

The servant who had lured us away slipped back into the palace, leaving us stranded as the soldiers advanced, muskets leveled and bayonets gleaming sharp and merciless.

At their head strode an older man with red hair already streaked with gray, his scarlet coat trimmed in gold and a crimson sash slashed across his chest. His sword gleamed, unsheathed and catching every flicker of flame as he barked for the guards to clear the way.

When he saw us, he gestured to my brother and me with a weapon in hand.

“Drag him. And her, if you must,” he said in Urdu.

Within seconds I was yanked from my brother’s side by one of the soldiers and forced to move toward the older man, who stared at me.

I screamed as loud as I could. Where was my mother? Surely the nizam’s guards would rescue us. Why were they nowhere to be found?

“Let my sister go!” Ghulam cried, but he was powerless against such strong men.

We stumbled over the tiles of the courtyard, our slippered feet sliding in haste, the hem of my purple gown darkening with dust. Shouts erupted behind us, the clipped orders of British soldiers mingling with the sudden wails of women.

More torches hissed in the damp night air, signaling an invasion.

“Faster!” the older man snapped as we were driven out of the courtyard.

A soldier’s gloved hand shoved against my shoulder, forcing me forward. My foot caught on the edge of a tile and I pitched to my knees, the stone biting through silk. Pain stung, but I twisted back, clawing against his grip, desperate to wrench free. My gaze flew to the doorway we had just left.

My mother stood there, framed in the lamplight, her jeweled veil slipping loose as she reached for us. Her chest heaved as if she had run as fast as she could.

“Noor! Ghulam!” Her voice broke as the British soldiers barred her way. “Give me my children!”

I screamed again and lurched against the soldier’s grip, grasping for her. She flung her arms toward me as well, her fingers straining as if somehow she could touch me despite the distance.

“Don’t look behind you. Don’t stop,” the older man said fiercely as he grabbed my hand, his grip crushing like an iron band.

My mother’s frantic sobs echoed behind us, mingling with the pounding of boots.

The older man swept me into his arms and hurled me toward a waiting black carriage just beyond the palace gates. Behind us, the great doors of the courtyard gaped open, unguarded and ominously silent.

My heart thudded as though it would burst from my chest as Ghulam joined me inside the carriage. Together, we huddled in the dark interior. The red-haired man clambered in, along with two British soldiers close behind.

“Where are they taking us?” I whispered. “Why isn’t Mother coming with us?”

Ghulam’s lips pressed into a thin line. He did not answer. Perhaps he did not know. Perhaps he feared the answer.

Pressing against the window, I strained for some sight of Mother within the courtyard where I had played the day before. A whip cracked. Our carriage lurched. The palace receded into the night, its white domes and minarets shrinking until only the stars remained above.

I sank against the cushioned seat, my body shaking. My brother wrapped an arm around me, awkward and stiff, but protective all the same.

“We’ll be all right,” he said through gritted teeth. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I prom—”

“Listen to me,” the old man interrupted. “Do you know who I am?”

I sniffled and shook my head.

“I am your grandfather, Colonel Richard Grenville. When I learned of your father’s untimely demise and rumors of diphtheria gutting the city, I came all the way from London to find you.”

“I-I want my m-mother,” I demanded as I shivered uncontrollably.

He leaned forward, the leather seat creaking beneath his weight.

“You must never speak of her again. You are going to live with me at my estate. You both will learn to speak English since you are the children of a gentleman. Your names are now Edward and Katherine Grenville. I never want to hear Urdu out of your mouths after tonight.”

Ghulam’s grip tightened around my shoulders while I cried. He muttered a very naughty word in Urdu, barely loud enough for me to hear.

My mother’s cries still rang in my ears even though we were far from the palace.

Ahead lay a future I could not imagine—a world without the warmth of her embrace, without the songs that had once lulled me to sleep beneath painted ceilings and fringed canopies.

I slumped against my brother as the city flashed by.

What I could see of the sky was now devoid of stars—the very lights my mother loved to point out to me.

Darkness fell within the carriage as we raced into the unknown, and my grandfather said no more.

The only thing I knew for certain was this: Nothing would ever be the same again.