#SampleSunday: Long Way Home - A Novella, Chap. 2

Chapter Two

July 1998

Kevin pulled the new Mercedes into the parking lot outside Los Palmas restaurant in downtown L.A. and looked in the rearview mirror. Satisfied with his reflection, he checked his watch. The digital face displayed six-thirty, perhaps an hour before sunset. His belly fluttered. He had arrived too early for dinner. Damn.

He should have hung around Ventura a little longer, but that would have meant listening to more inane chatter from Melanie. Melissa, he corrected himself. Whatever. He had met her on Friday at Karma, a new nightclub. She took him back to her apartment on Veronica Lane for a little after-party that lasted into Saturday afternoon. Now, he intended to forget the address and the girl associated with it.

He looked in the mirror again, tugging at the collar of his silk shirt. He hated when girls left hickeys on his neck, as if marking him as theirs. The collar hid most of the strawberry blotch from view, except for the very edge. He slapped the dashboard in frustration. If she noticed it tonight during dinner, would the sight bother her in any way?

He smacked his forehead. “Get a grip, Kev. Doesn’t matter what she thinks of you.”

The manila folder on the passenger seat indicated the opposite was true. He eyed it with a sigh. Why had he been keeping this thing with him for more than a month? What was he, some kind of stalker now? What would she think if she ever discovered it?

He reached for it, thinking he could just dump the thing in the trash when he got out of the car. His hand halted in midair. He was not ready for that.

Instead, he pulled out the contents, admiring the photo at the top of the pile.

“Taka.” As he breathed her name, an evening wind stirred the forms, newspaper clipping and the photo. He set the latter in his lap and placed everything else back inside the folder.

He gripped the picture in one hand and traced the left edge of it with his thumb. The photo ran in the Times the day after the crash, on the morning of the Democratic primary. A copy had appeared on the newspaper’s website also. It showed four people. He rummaged for the article containing the original image and re-read the headline.

“Oakland mogul Lei Chang hosts major fundraiser for Democratic gubernatorial candidate.” He scanned the first few lines of the article preceding the picture, words he had never bothered about reading beforehand.

“On the eve of the Democratic primary on June 2, Lei Chang, the Chief Executive Officer of Chang Industries Limited gave a generous contribution…”

Kevin shook his head, wondering how Lei Chang had felt on June 3, when he learned that his contribution of ten million dollars did not help his candidate secure the Democratic nomination. Both men had attended the same schools together, served on the same boards at overlapping times. Based on what Kevin had discovered about Mr. Chang through a paralegal at Carter-Chase, he doubted whether the man would even miss the money. Not only did Chang remain in sole control of the company he had founded in China thirty years ago, he was also a long-standing board member of two leading airlines.

Chang often appeared on lists of the richest people in America, but he kept a tight lid on most information about himself, including details of his million-dollar assets. Kevin had called on other resources among his mother’s media contacts just to determine how much Chang had donated to his friend’s campaign.

Kevin’s gaze returned to the photo he had printed. The four people in the image were all smiles, no hint of fear about the outcome of the next day. Lei Chang was on the left, in a tailored, buttoned-up gray suit. A silver Rolex flashed at his wrist. He wore his graying hair parted on the left. It fell around his ears. He and the woman next to him were short. His face was round and flat, with a button nose, which was red at the tip. The double creases etched around his sunken eyes belied the warm smile and brightness of his gaze.

Next to him, his plump wife Sachiko stood in a sleeveless, silver-blue silk gown that flared out from wide hips. A scarf of the same material draped her sloping shoulders. She wore her hair in a tidy chignon. Diamonds dangled from her earlobes and around her wrists, while a large sapphire glittered next to her gold wedding band. The former gubernatorial candidate framed the shot on her right.

Kevin’s attention diverted from him to Taka, who stood taller than the rest of them, her head and shoulders a few inches above her mother’s own. Instead of the black dress that had clung to her every curve and showed off those incredible legs during the accident, a blue jacket covered her narrow shoulders. Someone had tamed that unruly bob, as well. She wore red lipstick instead of the bare, pink kissable lips he had seen earlier that day. A mockery of a smile twitched on her lips.

The half-lidded eyes gave away her boredom. No emotion reflected from their depths, or at least none of the passion she had displayed on the highway at the accident scene. He felt certain she would have preferred to be somewhere else than in front of the camera, perhaps not even at the fundraiser. Despite her blank expression, he couldn’t help the stirrings of desire. Damn if she wasn’t beautiful.

His gaze drifted to Mrs. Chang again. Taka resembled her mother instead of the father. Why was he obsessing over her like this? It’s not as if they were on a date. He had other reasons for meeting her at Los Palmas.

The claims adjuster from Kevin’s car insurance company had contacted everyone, including the police officers and two witnesses they had detained at the scene for corroboration. Since Kevin and Taka had alleged that each person bore partial responsibility for the accident, Kevin insisted they talk about it. Her easy acquiescence at the end of the phone call still surprised him.

He read the caption below the photo in the Times aloud. “Oakland-based Lei Chang, CEO of Chang Industries Limited with his wife, internationally-renowned soprano Sachiko Nishimura, their daughter…hell, they didn’t even bother to find out the daughter’s name? What’s up with that?”

A blaring car horn followed by an exchange of curses jarred his concentration. The photo and clipping slipped from his grasp. He retrieved them and returned everything to the manila folder.

“Hurry up and pay, lady! I’m trying to park here.”

Curious about the source of the commotion, Kevin unbuckled his seatbelt, took the keys out of the ignition and turned in the driver’s seat.

At the entrance to the parking lot, the driver honked at the red cab idling in front of him. A thin woman extended a hand through the driver’s side window of the cab, with her narrow butt sticking out, as well as her middle finger, which she directed at the Jeep.

Kevin chuckled. Even after six weeks, he would have recognized her skinny ass and lean legs anywhere. He had not noticed the slight dimples at the backs of her knees until now.

Taka pulled away from the cab and glared at the Jeep’s driver. Even at a distance, her stare flickered like the tip of a burning cigarette. “Feel better now, asshole? Like, seriously, learn some patience and manners next time, fucker!”

Kevin’s belly rumbled with laughter. She dared lecture the poor Jeep driver about proper decorum while she cursed at him across a crowded parking lot. That mouth, another unmistakable trademark. How had a nondescript business executive and a demure opera star produced this little fireball? She was a total misfit.

As she picked her way around other cars, he admired the beauty of her long-legged stride. The untidy black mop atop her head made an appearance again, except this time it had a slight curl from some hair mousse or the shower. The A-line, pinstriped skirt fitted her just above her knees, paired with a white, button-down shirt with three-quarter sleeves. With a leather clutch in her hand and open-toed mules on her feet, she shuffled through the parking lot. Her cheeks glowed with vitality and a pretty blush, with a smear of pink lipstick across her mouth.

He didn’t expect this side of her. She was upbeat and vibrant, but still sexy as hell. Thin eyebrows arched like half moons. Heavy mascara made her wide stare exotic and arresting.

When her eyes alighted on him, she drew to a halt on the walkway that led to the restaurant. He shoved the manila folder beneath the seat and opened the car door. He cursed when he remembered the steering wheel lock.

She clasped the handbag in both hands and stood silent. Their gazes locked, even as he closed the collar one more time. It would have looked suspicious to anyone if he buttoned it up to the top. The temperature hovered in the upper eighties.

He locked the car, tucked his keys into his pocket and approached her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Ms. Chang.”

She looked past him at the vehicle and whistled. “Whoa! Nice car. I see Daddy came through again. Lucky you.”

“My father’s not around to buy me anything. The Senior Golf Open happened today. He’s still in Pacific Palisades, as far as I know.”

“Uh-huh.” She kept eyeing the car. “This shit’s even nicer than the BMW.”

His jaw clenched but he ignored the baited comment. “This is a nice place you suggested, my mother’s dined here before. She said the food was good, so I hope we’ll enjoy it, too.”

She eyed him with an upraised eyebrow. “I work here. My shift starts at seven thirty.”

He jerked a glance at his watch and sputtered, “It’s six forty-three! I thought we were having dinner.”

She responded with a half-hearted shrug.

He threw his hands in the air. “Why did you tell me about this place if you only intended to give me thirty minutes of your time?”

Despite the frustration roiling in his gut and his muddied thoughts, his voice dropped. What an idiot! He had blundered straight into another mess with her, but he had made this one. He couldn’t blame her, although he wanted to make the whole fiasco her fault. How had he misunderstood? How could he have just assumed they would have dinner tonight? She probably thought he was a total spaz.

He ducked his head, certain a blush crept across his cheeks. It didn’t help that she stared at him without saying a word. He shuffled on his feet, wanting to sink sandal first into the pavement or backpedal to his car without another word. He tugged at the collar again. It felt hot and oppressive around his neck.

A howling snort escaped her. She shook her head and strolled past him. “Not my flipping fault if you heard what you wanted to hear. I never said we’d have dinner, but you can eat here, if you want and wait for me until the end of my shift, guy.”

“My name is Kevin. Don’t act like you don’t know it.”

“Uh-huh.” The near whisper drifted over her shoulder.

He followed her up the three terracotta steps outside the restaurant. “What time’s your shift over?”

“We stop seating at eleven-thirty, so maybe I’ll knock off around one o’clock.”

“In the morning? What the hell?” He covered his face with his hands.

Her snigger frazzled him. He glared at her obvious enjoyment of his confusion.

She held the door ajar with a manicured hand, the nails short and trimmed. “What, I’m not worth the wait? The way you were looking at me when you got out of the car, I could have sworn you thought otherwise.”

Her eyes sparkled with teasing mischief. He stared, entranced. She had been beautiful before, but now with her pink cheeks and that delectable mouth curved in a smirk, she bewitched him.

“That remains to be seen, Ms. Chang.”

Her smirk widened into a full-blown grin. “It’s Taka. I’m sure you remember that, Kevin. You might want to close your collar again. The hickey’s like, showing. Want all of downtown L.A. to guess how your night went?”

With a wink, she entered the restaurant. He raked a hand through his hair, adjusted the shirt collar for the last time and followed her inside.

#SampleSunday: Father's Day Edition

Chapter 1

Fathers and Sons

Prince Faraj

Tarif, al-Andalus: Dhu al-Qa`da 693 AH (Tarifa, Andalusia: October AD 1294)

Faraj stood again with Muhammad and Khalid at either side of him. The sun blazed across the sky, beating down upon their heads mercilessly. He longed for the evening, when the sky in its myriad colors ranged above. However, today he felt hollow and suspected the view would not provide the same enjoyment as it had in the past.

An abrupt silence descended. Even the winds had calmed, leaving the air brittle and heavy. Doñ Alonso returned to the battlements. He strode toward the wall, with his men at-arms following him. Faraj’s gaze swayed to the tower window to the right where his woman stood. Her sharp nails gripped the ledge. She stared down at the child and waited to hear the fate of her eldest son, along with everyone else.

Suddenly, a fierce coastal breeze reared up again, whipping about Doñ Alonso’s short, red cloak. His gaze resolute on the boy below him, he withdrew a dagger from his belt, its handle covered with spinel and bloodstone. Faraj knew Christians believed gemstones carried certain properties offering aid to the bearer. Spinel was for improving character and, bloodstone, a form of jasper, for strengthening the will. The edge of the dagger caught the glow of the setting sun. Prisms of light danced across the blade.

Doñ Alonso began, “Fernan Alonso de Guzman y Coronel is my firstborn son. No father ever felt so much pride in his offspring as I did, when first I beheld him on the day of his birth. No father has ever felt the satisfaction in a son as I feel today. Now, Prince Juan would have me choose between the pride of my heart and the honor of my family. I did not father a son to be a pawn against the country I love and the land I call my own. I fathered a son who, in my stead, might have one day fought against the enemies of Castilla-Leon, be they Moorish or Christian.

“Prince Juan has by his actions, by his treason, made himself an enemy of Castilla-Leon. I shall never yield Tarif or betray the mantle of trust that King Sancho has placed upon me, not even to save my own son. If this rebel prince, who is little more than a dog, should put my son to death, he shall affirm my honor as the loyal defender of his sovereign lord, King Sancho. He shall ensure my son’s place in heaven as a martyr of the Christian faith, who died doing his duty before a faithless lord. He calls down eternal shame on himself in this world and the everlasting wrath of Christ Jesus after death. If Prince Juan wants to test my resolve, if he needs a weapon with which to murder my son, he may have my blade for his cruel purpose!”

Doñ Alonso flung his dagger down over the wall. The weapon spiraled before it landed with a heavy thud, a short distance from where the Prince sat mounted. Doñ Alonso nodded to his weeping son, bowed his head and turned away.

His shoulders were stiff, as he strode across the battlements. His steps never faltered. As one, those who ringed the ramparts bowed their heads as he passed them.

Faraj did the same to honor the noble but tragic sacrifice their adversary had chosen. His heart tore inside his breast for his enemy’s sake.

Prince Juan leapt down from his horse and now brandished Doñ Alonso’s dagger. He dragged the kicking and squealing child against him and forced his head back, exposing his tender neck. With a snarl directed toward the battlements, he pressed the glittering blade against the pale flesh. Tears flooded the boy’s face. In a swift motion, Prince Juan sliced a deep cut from ear to ear. Blood sprayed in a ruby-red arc out across the glittering sand. Shouts of dismay and horror flowed from those assembled on the citadel walls.

As the viscous redness gurgled and spilled down the dying child’s throat, he sagged against his captor. Prince Juan pushed him forward into the sand. The mutilated child fell at the feet of the horse. The stallion nickered and sidestepped the body. A viscid line of red ran from the dead boy’s throat and pooled on the sand beneath his nearly severed neck. The Castillan Prince tucked the Doñ Alonso’s dagger in his belt, still stained with blood and wheeled his horse around, dragging the lifeless body behind him.

No one within the Marinid encampment spoke. Some turned their faces away from Prince Juan, who stared straight ahead. Even the wind stilled completely.

Faraj sought out Doñ Alonso again. He had halted at a doorway though he did not turn around. Someone gripped his arm and spoke with him. Doñ Alonso’s shoulders slumped for a moment and he bowed his head. Then he nodded and re-entered the citadel. He never looked upon the grisly trail leading across the white sand.

Faraj whispered, “As a father of two sons whom I love dearly, I shall honor this sacrifice. I cannot taint this battlefield with the blood of our enemy now that his child’s life has been stolen in such a way.”

Chapter 9

The Union

Princess Fatima

(Malaka, al-Andalus: Rajab 701 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: March 1302 CE)

“Fatima?”

Her father’s voice beckoned and she stepped into the light. “I did not mean to intrude upon you and my husband.”

“You could never be an intrusion,” he said, holding out his hand. She rushed to his side and laced her fingers with his. His hand shook in her hold.

“Are you well, Father?” She studied the fine lines etched in his forehead.

He nodded. “I am overcome by the joy of this occasion. If you have a moment before you return to the wedding guests, may we speak in private?”

“As you command, Father.” She glanced at Faraj.

He bowed at the waist and then grinned at the Sultan. “I pray you may come to us again in the spring, when the Wadi al-Madina shall flow. The hunting shall be good at that time of year.”

Father said, “I look forward to it. Tell my grandsons I shall see them in the spring.”

Faraj nodded and pressed a hand to Fatima’s shoulder. She squeezed it and smiled at him, before he left them.

She slid her arms around her father’s waist and pressed her cheek against his barrel chest. “It’s so good to have you here, for Leila’s sake. You have honored our daughter on her wedding day, with your gifts and your blessing.”

“If only I might have done more, when she was a child. Now she is a woman and one day, she shall have children of her own. I have not spent enough time with my grandchildren. I should have known her, them, much better than I do.”

“It is the burden of your power. You shall always be my father and the grandfather of my children. But foremost, you are Sultan of Gharnatah. You belong to your people, not to us. It has always been so. I knew how it would be from the moment you ascended the throne. It has never diminished the love in my heart, the honor with which I revere you, as my father and lord of my life.”

He sighed. “I have not always deserved your love and respect. I feared I might not be welcome here today, after all the things I have said and done to your husband. To you.”

 “Father, that is all in the past. You and Faraj have forgiven each other. My heart is whole again, not torn between the love that I would bear a father and a husband, once at war with each other.”

“I have made many mistakes in these long years. Things I must undo. It is part of why I came to you and Faraj, to seek your forgiveness.”

“You have it, oh, Father, you shall always have it!”

She hugged him again. His frailty shocked her, bones and sinew knitted together in a wiry frame that was half his normal size. How did he possess the strength to stand?

She drew back and searched his gaze. “Something more than the troubles between you and my husband, more than Leila’s union has drawn you to Malaka. Father, what is the matter?”

His long sigh confirmed the suspicions that had dogged her since his unexpected arrival at the wedding.

She maneuvered him to the carved stone bench on the belvedere. When he settled on the seat with a groan, she sat and took his hand. He held her fingers in a shaky grasp and looked out on the water. Sunlight shimmered in the depths of the White Sea. Birds whirled and circled against the blue backdrop and wisps of clouds.

“Fatima, have you ever slept for so long that when you awoke, it seemed you had been slumbering for years?”

When she shook her head, her father continued. “I have lingered in a haze of dreaming. I am awake now. My eyes are open. I see the world as it truly is. I see my son Muhammad for what he truly is.”

Her heart pitched with fear for what her brother might have done and in heartbreak, for whatever painful discovery her father might have made about Muhammad.

He squeezed her fingers, with some effort and cupped her chin with his free hand. “I want you to know, you were right to caution me in the past about your brother. I indulged him too much. If he is deceitful, it is because I have failed him as a father, as I failed you.”

 “No, no, you have never failed me!”

“Fatima, hear me in this. I should have trusted in you and your instincts about your brother. You have never led me astray before. But I needed you to know that you were right. Now, I pray Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, may continue to bless you with the knowledge I did not possess. Be strong, my daughter, in the days of trial to come. Have the courage to see your loved ones as they are, not as you would wish them to be. Wisdom and strength are all I possess at the end of my days.”

“Father, what are you saying? You’re not dying, you can’t die now, not when we….”

“Hush, child and listen well. This is my last and best legacy, which I bequeath to you. Promise me, you shall hold fast to it, no matter what may come.”

She blinked hard against her tears and embraced him once more. She buried her tears in his familiar comfort.

“To the end and with my last breath, I shall honor you always, Father.”

#SampleSunday: The Rule of Love, Chap. 5

Chapter Five: At the Courtesan’s Pleasure

Kausambi, India – Late Summer

In the Reign of Kumara Gupta I (5^th century CE)

The strains of a flute followed Chandi, as she led Nandika toward her chamber. Her fingers interlaced with his, they strolled and shared a silent smile. Anticipation shone in his gleaming eyes, yet his countenance wavered as they approached the door.

She paused just outside the curtain and cupped his cheek. The prickly hairs in his beard tickled her palm.

“You are pensive now. Share your thoughts with me.”

He leaned into her hand and kissed the skin. Her stomach clenched in response.

“My jewel, my thoughts are only of you, and the delights to come.”

Suppressing her shudder, she laughed instead. “You forget that I know you as my own heart. We’ve known each other since we were children.”

He reached for her cheek. His finger caressed her flesh, his thumb sweeping across the curve of her lower lip. A ragged breath escaped her when their gazes met and held.

“Goddess, you’ve always known my thoughts without asking. I have never had to say the words. You know what I want, now.”

She looked away, but he framed her face in both his hands. Passionate warmth radiated from his touch. She trembled under the intense scrutiny of his darkened gaze, where passion and yearning swirled. Until now, his desires had never frightened her. She swayed against him. 

“I pray, Nandika, do not speak its name.”

His grip tightened. “Why? When it is what we both want?”

Lightheaded, she willed strength into her quaking limbs. Her lips clamped together, she fought against the urge coiling through her belly, demanding her surrender. She would never allow another man such control. Not again.  

She pushed her shoulders back, tossed her hair and returned his probing gaze. “And your wives? Would they look upon our arrangement with satisfaction? You have never been a selfish man. Will you begin now?”

A heavy sigh whistled through his lips. His hands dropped at his side and his gaze fell away.

Her heart damned for her a fool, pounded a tattoo of bitter resentment and regret. His obvious hurt pained her, but she could not risk the mistakes of the past. A painful lesson left its mark, cutting so deep that not even the balm of his love could soothe the old wound. 

Still, she wound her arms around his neck, soothed his slumped shoulders and cradled his neck. For a moment, he froze. Then his hands grasped her about the waist, though he kept his eyes averted. On tiptoe, she kissed his cheeks and forehead, her body pressed against his. She nuzzled his beard, inhaling the scent of sesame oil coating the dark hairs. The sounds of the musicians on the veranda faded. Muscles tensed beneath the caress of his hands. She explored the contours of his nut-brown skin, nails raking down his arms. With a ragged groan, he pulled her tighter. He met her stare.

“A fool can hope. If that is all I have, then it must be enough.”

She hushed him. “Tonight, you have me. I am yours.”

Smooth and supple, his lips parted. She pressed her mouth against his, their breaths commingled. The taste of mango and cinnamon on his tongue, he pressed her against him. The power of his ardor made desire leap in her belly. She clung to him, as though this embrace might be their last. Soon, it would be. Then she pulled away. He leaned into her again, but she laid a firm hand over his throbbing heart.

“Come with me.”

She led him into her chamber, crushing patchouli beneath her feet. They entered the bedroom, where the lone lamp on a small table by the bed banished the rest of the room into shadows. She glanced at the lacquered screen directly across from her bed, and then settled herself on the pillows arranged on the floor, Nandika reclining at her side. Offering him a smile, she clapped her hands twice.

At the sound of a drum echoing from the veranda next door, Samavati appeared, framed in the doorway leading to Chandi’s balcony. She bent at the waist, a fringe of black hair falling over her eyes. Chandi smiled at Nandika, who returned the gesture before he leaned forward, his gaze intent on the younger courtesan.

Samavati raised her hands in the invocation to the gods that begun the kathak dance. The drums continued in a slow rhythm, mimicked by her movements. As she moved, Chandi often turned her attention from Samavati toward Nandika. At times, he caught her gaze and flushed, as though embarrassed. Still, he could not keep his eyes from the entertainment for long.

When the tempo of the drums increased, Samavati twirled on her heel in a spin, winding faster and faster. The long braid spun in an arc. Flushed, her golden skin a glimmer of perfection in the lamplight, ragged breaths tore from her lungs. When she finished, Nandika roared his approval.

Samavati bowed. “Thank you, Master.”

“You have a rare talent, one hardly seen in one so young,” he replied.

She glanced at Chandi. “I’m not so young, but thank you for the compliment, Master.”

“You deserve better tokens of my praise.”

Nandika removed one of the bracelets on his wrist, gold inlaid with lapis lazuli. He held out his hand. Chandi recognized his approval, curiosity, and desire. For a brief moment, she pursed her lips and tossed her hair, but when Nandika looked at her, she pushed aside the flare of jealousy.

“Would you like Samavati to remain with us, my lord?”

He swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck, before turning away. She leaned toward him, took his hand in hers. She waited in silence until his sheepish expression returned to hers.

“I would like that. Would you allow it?”

“Do you need my permission?” She smiled, intent on reassuring him, although her heart thrummed inside her chest.

He shook his head and gestured for Samavati. 

The courtesan’s eyes widened. She drew a deep breath and licked her lips. The lamplight revealed her watering eyes and pinched lips. Her pain-filled expression found Chandi, who patted Nandika’s arm. He turned toward her again, a question in his gaze.

“Forgive us, the offense is mine. I should have explained. Samavati would prefer another’s touch, a woman’s own to be precise.”

His eyebrows flared for a moment. Then he settled back against the pillows. A lazy smile curved the corners of his lips.

“I can deny you nothing.” He paused and turned the pleasant expression of his face on Samavati, “not even her. If it is your pleasure, it shall be mine.”

#SampleSunday: Rule of Love, Chap

Chapter Three – The Lesson of Kama in the Aims of Life

Kausambi, India – Late Summer

In the Reign of Kumara Gupta I (5^th century CE)

 
Sarama followed her mistress along the perimeter of the easterly open-air courtyard, bounded by wooden pillars that supported the roof. The aromatic scent of tulsi filled her nostrils, as a few slave women tended the clustered purple flowers and watered the plants’ roots.

In the eastern quadrant, Mistress Chandi stopped and offered her devotion, whispered in fervent prayers. Sarama held the tray at waist level, while Mistress selected a cup of plant extract mixed with honey and laid it before the four-armed god Indra, among the pots of fragrance and flower petals already scattered at his shrine.

Vatsyayana’s sharp intake of breath rippled through the air. He hovered at her shoulder. Sarama rolled her eyes heavenward before she acknowledged him with a deferential nod. When their gazes met, his narrowed with contempt.   

“An offering of soma juice should be made at the temple, if she intends to ask Indra for rain.” His withering stare swept through the courtyard. “A brothel is hardly a sacred place.”

Her hand itched for the dagger, bloodless in its leather sheath. Mistress would never forgive her if she drew it against the boy. His superior tone vexed her more than anyone else ever had. What difference did it make where her mistress worshipped, at a shrine or in the great temples of Kausambi? Who was he to decide?

She returned her attention to her mistress but directed a response at him. “Here, we are guided by our beliefs alone, not what other people say is right or wrong.”

At his harsh intake of breath, she whirled and faced him. “And who are you to judge? You’ve studied at the great monastery of Nalanda, but all you’ve shown us is arrogance. Did the monks teach you to ridicule others at the Mahavihara?”

His fists jerked at his side before he lowered them, concealing the long, folded fingers behind his back. She met his baleful stare without flinching, though her heart hammered inside her chest. The dark mask of anger on his face warned her she had gone too far, stirring something inside her, buried deep in her memories. The scar on her hip twitched reflexively. She waited, lips trembling, for the blow that would strike her down. It never came.

For the first time, she recognized this man was different from any other she had ever known. Tremors coursed the length of him, visible beneath the angular contours of copper brown skin. His shudders betrayed the tenuous control he struggled for, as he kept his rage at bay. So many tangible emotions inside him, she could scarce comprehend how he controlled it. But she sympathized, for she understood blind fury too well. She had experienced its brutal power countless times.

Mistress touched her arm and she jerked, caught unawares. She glanced at her and found the usual sympathy in those dark, sparkling eyes. “Don’t provoke him, Sarama. The passing of his father has changed Vatsyayana’s life forever. It influences all our lives.”

She expelled a ragged breath she did not know she had been holding, and nodded curtly. Only a fool tangled with a tiger.

Mistress bowed before Vatsyayana. “Though you will despise me for it, I wish to make offerings of panda at the temple in your father’s memory.”

Sarama recalled the little rice balls prepared and set aside for the remembrance of her deceased mother. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. 

“Do as you please. I cannot stop you,” Vatsyayana muttered. “But one day soon, you will explain these devotions to my father. I shall not be satisfied until I have your answer.”

Mistress nodded. “One day, I will explain all.”

Sarama’s heart fluttered anew. She almost dropped the tray in her hand. Mistress Chandi’s gaze flew to her face and flashed a warning. She bowed her head and murmured an apology.

Vatsyayana edged closer, scrutinizing both their faces. By the powerful mercy of the gods, he withheld the inquiry shining in his eyes. She could have sighed with relief, but kept her face impassive. His attention lingered on her longer than necessary. Still, when she glanced at him again, he sneered and avoided her stare.

Mistress broke the tension-filled mood with a laugh. “This is a poor way to begin your lessons in pleasure, Vatsyayana. Let us walk to the Yumana River.”

“But, surely, you have already had your bath? How else could you perform ritual worship at the shrine?” He gazed down his long nose at her.

Sarama’s hand itched for the dagger again. She could not help it. This pompous, arrogant fool spoke as if her mistress tempted the wrath of the gods.

“In truth, I washed in waters drawn from the Yumana at dawn,” Mistress quickly corrected his foolish assumption, “but bathing is more than just a rite of purification. It is also a sensuous delight.”

When Mistress’ sandals slapped against the stone floor, he fell into step behind her. They bypassed slave girls who traced designs in rice flour at the entrance. They emerged outside the walls of the brothel. Sarama trailed them, admiring the glint of the midmorning sun on Vatsyayana’s narrow shoulders

Abruptly, he cast a glare over his shoulder, and caught her look. “What can be so amusing, woman?”

“It would not please you if I told you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because nothing I would say could ever please you. Isn’t that right?”

“Sarama, stop your teasing.” Mistress Chandi’s voice on the morning breeze echoed another warning for her. 

Sarama nodded to him. “I humbly ask forgiveness.”

“I doubt you know how to be humble.” He continued after her mistress, but not before another darting glance over his shoulder.

Dust billowed along the avenue of margosa trees. Sarama and her mistress draped their hair with white shawls, while Vatsyayana walked bareheaded. Sarama coughed, tugging her shawl over her face with one hand, while balancing the tray in the other.

Mistress led the way across a well-worn track, which they took every week toward the river, shielding her eyes against the harsh sunlight. Birds soared overhead, screeching. Dry haze hugged the sandstone cliffs in the north and obscured the near barren landscape below in waves of shimmering heat. In the west, the village bustled with noisy activity.

Their route took them on its outskirts, though a narrow and winding road connecting the village course with the brothel. Arid wind whistled through the remnants of desiccated trees and stunted brush, blowing clouds of dust toward the bamboo huts of the villagers. Behind her thin shawl, Sarama tasted the grit carried on currents of air.

She wished the two summer months would linger, despite the torrid heat and the dried, cracked earth cutting the soles of her bare feet. In the summer, she would not be stuck indoors, unlike later during the monsoon season, which would bar her from pursuing her own lovers while her mistress entertained in the evenings.

She chided herself, having already forgotten her vow of circumspection. Hard to deny oneself the pleasures of a man, but if the rains ever came and kept her at the brothel, the only available man would be Vatsyayana.

Once the idea entered her thoughts, the image of the petulant Brahmin student remained. His lean body was certainly more appealing than that of the pot-bellied cowherd who had crushed her beneath his ponderous weight on the previous night. Her mistress had rightly advised against seeing him again, for he tired too quickly. Her own hands gave her the pleasure the cowherd had not.

Now, she wondered how it might feel if Vatsyayana’s copper-colored fingers stroked her head to toe. He had spoken little more than arrogant words since his arrival, but she could imagine other infinitely pleasurable uses for his lips. None of them required one word. Her mind conjured his dark head of curls between her thighs. Her belly knotted and she sighed as if in the throes of a delightful dream. He looked over his shoulder at the sound. His dark glare hastened the warmth coursing through her belly. If she had seduced him earlier, would passion have furrowed his brow, lust firing his eyes? She mused on such delights during the course of the morning walk, pleasurable thoughts sustaining her against the heat and wind. 

They reached the left bank of the Yumana after midday, through a clearing of shisham trees at the edge of the rich alluvium. Sarama paused bedside her mistress, grateful for the shelter a crown of leaves offered.

A sheen of sunlight glimmered on the water. The river bustled with activity and noise. Boatmen called or cursed each other. A ferryman transported two Brahmin priests across a narrow place in the river, a long pole sliding between his nimble fingers. Gulls and cormorants skimmed the surface of the water, ever on the lookout for the golden mahseer swimming upriver. The land sloped unobstructed toward the water’s edge, but on the opposite bank, a continuous line of ghats swarmed with people.

Mistress sighed. “We’ll wait for a ferryman.”

When the boatman arrived, they clambered into his craft and crossed the river in silence. Nearing the right bank, Sarama spotted a merchant plying brassware. If any of it seemed of good quality, she might make a purchase. Others sold ritual offerings for the temples. Servants shaded the silk-clad nobles and rich guild merchants under bound palm leaves.

Some of the men waved to Mistress. She acknowledged their greetings with more than a little smile or nod. They strolled between elevated funeral pyres billowing white smoke, which made Sarama rub her eyes. Those who cremated their dead gave alms and food to the beggars lining the stairs of each ghat. With little show of reverence, three girls splashed each other in the water until a stern matron ordered them away.

When Sarama set the tray on the third step from the edge, Mistress removed her shawl and fingered her black curls. Vatsyayana stood apart from them, looking out on the embankment, his arms folded across his bronzed chest.

Sarama shook her head at him, while she opened a small pot of camphor, saffron, and musk mixed together. “Young master, don’t you think it’s as beautiful here as Varanasi?”

“It is possible every city has its charms.”

She rolled her eyes. Why had she expected anything less than his disdain?

Mistress sat down on the second step from the water. Sarama smeared the camphor, saffron, and musk down the length her hair, massaging the scalp. Mistress breathed a languid sigh and surrendered to her touch.

Then they rose together and descended into the water. Mistress disappeared beneath the swirling river, before she emerged with a radiant beam on her sweet lips. She shook beads of water from her wet hair. The folds of her dhoti clung to her thighs, outlining the plump yoni between them. Sarama joined her and plunged up to her waist.

She turned, smiled and held her hand out for Vatsyayana. “Come into the water with us, young master.”

He drew back, sneering. “I think not.”

She shrugged. “On such a hot day, only a fool might deny himself.”

“Sarama, I won’t warn you again today,” Mistress said at her shoulder.

She withdrew as Mistress approached him instead. “Bathing is a daily requirement, Vatsyayana, but there’s no reason you can’t enjoy it. All life is pleasurable, even a simple act of cleanliness.”

Since he only continued glaring at them, Sarama dismissed his disdainful looks and attended her duties. She cupped water in her hands and cleaned her mistress’ hair until it was soft and glistened. She washed the pale, glowing skin with a paste of soap nuts, avocado, and ghee. After a quick rinse, she followed her out of the water.

Mistress sank down next to Vatsyayana, who recoiled once more, as Sarama expected. Sighing with disgust, Sarama wound a long cotton strip around her mistress’ tresses. She kneaded her shoulders with sandalwood and aloes. The woman relaxed like a pampered cat under her ministrations and leaned back with her eyes closed. Full, firm breasts tipped with buds like betel nuts saluted the sun.  

Lustful, curious stares from the men assembled on the ghats followed Sarama’s every gesture. A bronze-skinned youth, perfumed and oiled, approached them. A garland of yellow amaranth flowers encircled his neck.

Vatsyayana cleared his throat and stood, blocking Mistress from easy view. The stranger strolled on, but his eyes blazed with fury in a bold stare. Sarama giggled at his disappointment.

“You interfere with my livelihood, Vatsyayana.” Chandi spoke without opening her eyes. “Pleasure is a courtesan’s means of support. If she doesn’t attract new lovers, her old lovers will soon be unable to provide for her.”

He sputtered, “Because you will have drained them dry!”

Sarama laughed at the unintended pun. “Indeed, in many ways!”

He frowned at her. “Keep your ill-mannered tongue behind your teeth.”

Her snicker made him red in the face.

“The pleasure is just a fantasy, a trap baited with voluptuousness and desire!” he said, returning his attentions to her mistress. “You have a duty to earn well, for otherwise you cannot enjoy a comfortable lifestyle. Yet, you must feign enjoyment in its achievement. You pretend at happiness. By your own admittance, you take joy only in what a lover has to offer, not in your time spent with him.”

Mistress stared him down. “A true courtesan takes pleasure in both her lover’s gifts and the reward of his companionship. There is joy in the sexual union, but equal delight comes in earning wealth. It is the second aim of life. I pursue it with no more apologies than my pursuit of the first aim.”

“You take from your lovers until they can give no more,” Vatsyayana persisted. “Tell me, have you ever lain with someone who could not meet your price?”

Sarama stopped oiling Mistress’ skin. What foolery was this?

Chandi said, “I would be a poor courtesan if I did.”

Her gaze sparkled with mischievous delight. Sarama chuckled at her pun.

Her mistress continued, “A poor man can do nothing for me. He cannot be generous. My lovers are men of high position and power who can afford to spend freely.”

“They are preening peacocks who succumb to the illusion of your favor, when you hold no man in higher regard than any other, except the one who can pay you the most money. You have promised I would learn of the rule of love. Have you ever loved any of the men you take into your chamber?”

Sarama’s hands fell away and her mistress stood, her countenance stern. “I am a woman and have a tender heart that can love. But I’ve been trained in the art of pleasure and I live by my trade. What I provide is pure artifice, the illusion of love, the most dangerous fantasy of all.”