cried, flinging his arms around his father's waist. “You are all dressed! You are wearing your nice shoes!”
“Yes, I am, my darling.” Hassan stroked his child's curls with a hand that would have been beautiful, had it not lost its middle finger.
Safiya's heart went out, as it always did, to the man she had adored from the moment he was born. Her twin brother's only child, Hassan had been the one she turned to after cholera had killed her two little daughters and left her starving for a child to love. Only six years old then, and with a mother of his own, Hassan had understood her need. For hours at a time during the first terrible days, he had sat beside her, one small hand resting on her knee.
Saboor, two years younger than his father had been then, already promised to be as loving as Hassan.
She caught the scent of musk. Hassan was wearing perfume. That, too, was a good sign. Of course if he were in the Maharajah's presence, he would also be wearing jewels: his heavy, waist-long pearl necklaces, kundan earrings set with rubies and emeralds, enameled bracelets, gold rings…
Jewels gave elegance and power to a man who knew how to wear them.
“You need feeding,” she said gruffly, enjoying the perfume's forceful, heady sweetness. “You are a skeleton under those fancy clothes.”
“Yes.” Safiya's gap-toothed sister-in-law nodded vehemently. “He must have plenty of yakhni and meat dishes to strengthen him.”
“You are going to Peshawar when you are well again, are you not, Bhai Jan?” asked one of the children.
“I do not know, Mueen, I may go there, or to Multan, or somewhere else.” Hassan grimaced as he settled himself on the floor, his little son at his side. “But I will not go anywhere until I can ride again.”
Saboor sat up. “When my Abba goes, I will share his saddle,” he announced, his eyes bright. “We will ride and ride on his beautiful gray horse, and then we will send for An-nah, and she will live with us!”
Safiya saw Hassan's fingers stiffen on the child's shoulder.
“Will you take me with you, Bhai Jan?” asked Mueen.
“I do not know, my dear.” Hassan smiled carefully. “I am not sure you should come with me. I will be traveling much of the time while I am there.”
“But I can help you,” the boy insisted. “I can carry your things.”
“I'll carry Abba's things, too!” Saboor looked eagerly from face to face.
Hassan did not reply.
Safiya, too, kept her silence. Keeping the peace in the restive Punjab was an unsafe and thankless enterprise, especially now, with so much turmoil at the Citadel. Wherever he went, Hassan would have to deal with never-ending complaints about taxes and the unpaid soldiery. Dealing with angry landowners and villagers would mean taking an armed guard when he left Lahore, not a pair of children.
Saboor peered eagerly at his father. “When will we see An-nah? Will we go to Kabul to bring her home? Will it be soon, Abba?”
Hassan smiled vaguely. “I do not know yet, my darling.”
“But I want to see An-nah now. I want to tell her—”
Unable to bear the pain on Hassan's face, Safiya made a kissing sound. “Do not worry, my darling,” she said in the singsong tone she reserved for pacifying children. “Inshallah , you will see your An-nah soon. Go to my room.” She pointed to the verandah beyond the curtained doorway. “You will find a paper on my bed, with my newest poem written on it. Take it downstairs and show it to your grandfather.”
Saboor's face had begun to crumple. “But, Bhaji, I—”
“Take him with you, Mueen,” she said firmly.
As the child shuffled away, bent-shouldered, his cousin holding his hand, two or three of the ladies looked up from their conversations. Safiya's sister-in-law leaned forward eagerly, sucking on her teeth. “What did the child say?” she demanded. “Is Hassan not going to bring his wife back from Kabul?”
Ignoring the questions, Safiya raised a hand. “Hassan and I,”
“Yes, I am, my darling.” Hassan stroked his child's curls with a hand that would have been beautiful, had it not lost its middle finger.
Safiya's heart went out, as it always did, to the man she had adored from the moment he was born. Her twin brother's only child, Hassan had been the one she turned to after cholera had killed her two little daughters and left her starving for a child to love. Only six years old then, and with a mother of his own, Hassan had understood her need. For hours at a time during the first terrible days, he had sat beside her, one small hand resting on her knee.
Saboor, two years younger than his father had been then, already promised to be as loving as Hassan.
She caught the scent of musk. Hassan was wearing perfume. That, too, was a good sign. Of course if he were in the Maharajah's presence, he would also be wearing jewels: his heavy, waist-long pearl necklaces, kundan earrings set with rubies and emeralds, enameled bracelets, gold rings…
Jewels gave elegance and power to a man who knew how to wear them.
“You need feeding,” she said gruffly, enjoying the perfume's forceful, heady sweetness. “You are a skeleton under those fancy clothes.”
“Yes.” Safiya's gap-toothed sister-in-law nodded vehemently. “He must have plenty of yakhni and meat dishes to strengthen him.”
“You are going to Peshawar when you are well again, are you not, Bhai Jan?” asked one of the children.
“I do not know, Mueen, I may go there, or to Multan, or somewhere else.” Hassan grimaced as he settled himself on the floor, his little son at his side. “But I will not go anywhere until I can ride again.”
Saboor sat up. “When my Abba goes, I will share his saddle,” he announced, his eyes bright. “We will ride and ride on his beautiful gray horse, and then we will send for An-nah, and she will live with us!”
Safiya saw Hassan's fingers stiffen on the child's shoulder.
“Will you take me with you, Bhai Jan?” asked Mueen.
“I do not know, my dear.” Hassan smiled carefully. “I am not sure you should come with me. I will be traveling much of the time while I am there.”
“But I can help you,” the boy insisted. “I can carry your things.”
“I'll carry Abba's things, too!” Saboor looked eagerly from face to face.
Hassan did not reply.
Safiya, too, kept her silence. Keeping the peace in the restive Punjab was an unsafe and thankless enterprise, especially now, with so much turmoil at the Citadel. Wherever he went, Hassan would have to deal with never-ending complaints about taxes and the unpaid soldiery. Dealing with angry landowners and villagers would mean taking an armed guard when he left Lahore, not a pair of children.
Saboor peered eagerly at his father. “When will we see An-nah? Will we go to Kabul to bring her home? Will it be soon, Abba?”
Hassan smiled vaguely. “I do not know yet, my darling.”
“But I want to see An-nah now. I want to tell her—”
Unable to bear the pain on Hassan's face, Safiya made a kissing sound. “Do not worry, my darling,” she said in the singsong tone she reserved for pacifying children. “Inshallah , you will see your An-nah soon. Go to my room.” She pointed to the verandah beyond the curtained doorway. “You will find a paper on my bed, with my newest poem written on it. Take it downstairs and show it to your grandfather.”
Saboor's face had begun to crumple. “But, Bhaji, I—”
“Take him with you, Mueen,” she said firmly.
As the child shuffled away, bent-shouldered, his cousin holding his hand, two or three of the ladies looked up from their conversations. Safiya's sister-in-law leaned forward eagerly, sucking on her teeth. “What did the child say?” she demanded. “Is Hassan not going to bring his wife back from Kabul?”
Ignoring the questions, Safiya raised a hand. “Hassan and I,”
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