Chapter Thirteen
He’s been doing it all wrong—living like a mortal.
He’d resigned himself to hardship and monotony, had been at peace with it so long as it meant falling into her arms once night fell.
It took seeing her bathed in color and laughter for him to realize that, with her, their world could still shine just as brightly.
DELHI, INDIA
After spending years in a monastery, getting off the train is like stepping into another world.
The station is packed with people, shoulders touching just to get anywhere. It isn’t just the crowd that feels different, though. There’s an energy, an excitement. Despite the jostling and the permeating smell of sweat, everyone seems to be in good spirits.
Anna catches little snippets of conversation, but there’s a set of words that seem to spring from so many lips. Beside her, two older women greet each other, hands clasped warmly. “Holi hai!” one says before the other mimics and the conversation moves on to admiring the other’s sari.
Happy Holi.
Anna keeps close to Khiran’s side, trying to shield him as much as possible from the crowd.
The day of train travel had allowed the wound to heal over enough for the bleeding to cease, but she can tell by the way his face pinched getting off the train that it still pains him.
“What is Holi?” The question is meant just for them, but between the trains and people she still has to raise her voice just to be heard over the noise.
He blinks, as if coming back to himself. Anna doesn’t ask where he’s been… she suspects it was somewhere between the pain in his ribs and the boxcar stained with a mix of their blood on the floorboards. “It’s a Hindu festival.”
“What does it celebrate?” she asks, her eyes roaming the crowd. “Everyone seems so happy.”
A soft breath of laughter leaves him, something she feels more than hears. It gets swallowed up in the noise. “The triumph of good over evil,” he says, the words weary. “They’ll be lighting bonfires tonight, to chase out the evil spirits.”
Anna scoffs; she can see the irony. “Let us hope it works.”
Lips twisting into a wry grin, he tips his chin in agreement. “Indeed.”
“Is there a story?” At his questioning glance, she shrugs. “You said it was a Hindu festival. Is there a story behind it?”
“There is always a story.”
She fights the temptation to ask him to tell it. There’s a stiffness in his gait, she can feel it every time she maneuvers around the crowd and is forced just a little too close to his side. They need to find lodging, the stories can wait until later.
The streets of New Delhi are still crowded, but it doesn’t feel nearly as suffocating as the train station behind them.
Anna has no idea where they’re going, but Khiran walks with a determination that says he clearly does.
Anna follows his lead down the bicycle lined streets, trying to keep up even as her eyes wander.
The city still holds scars leftover from Britain’s colonial rule: a plaque here, a statue there.
At one point, they walk past the entrance to Coronation Park.
The statue of the British King George the Fifth rises up like a pale spear jutting from the landscape.
It looks entirely out of place here, where saris fill the streets with color and the scent of spices perfume the air.
She catches the subtle tremble in Khiran’s frame, despite his valiant efforts to hide it from her. “Is it much farther?”
“Another few yards,” he promises. Anna can’t seem to tell if the words are meant to comfort her or himself.
In the end, she decides it’s likely a touch of both.
He pulls them into a tiny alley, checking over his shoulder to ensure they’re alone.
“Do you still have those gold pieces sewn into your clothing?”
“Yes.” Her hand automatically finds the hem of her collar, feeling the bits of gold between the cotton.
“Good,” he murmurs, his fingers replacing her own.
He pulls a small silver knife from his pocket.
Anna recognizes it as the one Silas used to carry.
He used to whittle tiny wooden figurines from branches for the children.
The blade cuts a small opening in the seam before being folded away.
Khiran diligently works the nuggets of gold from the hem, his knuckles brushing her collarbone. “We’ll need to get more funds.”
“Where’s the closest hideaway?”
He grimaces. “Geographically? Too far.”
Anna’s not sure what he means, but he doesn’t allow her the opportunity to ask.
He ushers her forward, his hand on the small of her back, leading her back into the busy street.
The lodging he brings them to is more beautiful than Anna expected considering their limited budget.
The doors and windows stand tall, ornately carved and painted a bright, welcoming blue.
Surrounding the entry, flowers carved in stone twine up the columns and arch over the doorway.
They remind Anna of the trailing vines she painted with her own hands in the home she can’t return to.
Yearning unfurls in her chest, an ache so soft she feels guilty feeling it at all.
She swallows, smothering the feeling of homesickness with reminders of her reality. “Can we afford this?”
The door creaks on its hinges as Khiran opens it. “We’re in the older part of Delhi,” he answers, in French, as his other hand gestures for her to go in. “Our gold will go far enough to get us settled.”
“And after?” she asks, matching his choice in language. Her eyes drift around the lobby. The host is walking towards them, eyeing them curiously.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he presses his palms together in front of his chest and dips his head in a slight bow. “Namaste,” he greets, switching to Hindi.
The middle-aged man mirrors the greeting, bowing his head to each of them in turn as he addresses them. He looks over his shoulder, gesturing a young girl with a tray forward. His hazel eyes dip, a not so subtle glance at their travel worn clothing stiff with dirt and streaked with blood.
Anna follows little of the conversation, but she gratefully takes a glass of water from the girl when offered. The glass sweats in her hands, cool against her palms. When she takes a deep sip, the taste of coconut lingers on her tongue like a promise.
Khiran has bartered one of their last pieces of gold for not only lodging and meals, but supplies as well. Anna wasn’t sure how far the gold would really take them, not until the young girl—the host’s daughter—delivers a box full of essentials to their room four hours later.
When Anna unpacks it all, she finds close to everything they could need: three sets of clothes for each of them, sets of underclothes, two toothbrushes, dental cream, and a bar of soap. She even included sanitary pads. Anna has no need for them, but she appreciates the thought all the same.
She runs a hand over a sari, admiring the feel of the emerald silk.
The other two are cotton—far more practical for their budget.
Before they had gone up to their room, Khiran had lagged behind to discuss final payment.
She suspects that must not have been the only thing that was said. “This is finer than we can afford.”
Khiran hums from the bed, an eye cracking open drowsily.
He’s sprawled out over the mattress, enjoying a patch of evening sunlight in a way that reminds her of a cat.
He’s still wearing the hotel bath robe he found in the bathroom after they scrubbed the dirt and blood from their skin in the large sunken tub.
The bathwater had turned such a filthy shade of rust, they emptied and refilled it once more before they felt entirely clean.
“Consider it my gift to you then,” he murmurs, closing his eyes once more. “To celebrate your first Holi.”
Her fingers drift, tracing the hem of the matching blouse.
“My arms will be exposed,” she says softly, old fears robbing her voice of volume.
Even if she wraps the sari in a way that hides one arm, the other will be on full display.
Not long ago, this wouldn’t have worried her, but they don’t have Khiran’s magic to fall back on. Not anymore.
He sits up, leaning against the headboard. The drowsy sleep-soaked look in his eyes is gone. “Are you worried?”
“Should I be?”
He gives her the courtesy of considering the question before he answers.
“You will receive stares, but it will unlikely lead to any violence.” His gaze drops to her chest, where a pale sliver of one of her larger patches peeks between the folds of her robe.
“Many will have seen it before. It is more common here than most.”
The admittance makes her interest pique. “Is it?”
His chin dips in a nod. “Not enough to be considered common, but yes.”
She picks up the sari, holding it against her chest. “So, in theory, I should be able to wear this without fear of being accused of being a witch or possessed by evil spirits?”
A smile pulls at his lips. “In theory.”
Her own falters. “You’re sure it wasn’t too much? When I asked, it seemed like your other safe houses might be farther than we can get to with what we have.”
“They are,” he admits, sobering. “The closest is in Kolkata to the east, but I’m not sure if it’s worth trusting. Not when Marcia knows we’re somewhere in the country.”
Anna thinks of how quickly they had to leave the temple—how they barely escaped on the train. It wouldn’t be a stretch for her to suspect they’re desperate enough to risk it. “And the next closest?”
“We’re going to Mumbai.”
Where they are going isn’t what she asked, and Anna is far too old and knows him far too well to believe the deflection wasn’t purposeful. Brows rising, she pins him with her stare. “Is your gold in Mumbai?”
He reaches for her, fingertips trailing the inside of her arm before curling around her palm and tracing her heart line. “The ocean is.”