The Sandalwood Princess

He shrugged, and she recommenced. “I struggled, needless to say,” she added, glaring at him, “and he laughed. When the laughter died, he’d vanished. I was chilled. I picked up his cloak to put around me, and found the Laughing Princess at my feet. I tried to pick it up, but it was too heavy. I was weary and hungry and cold, and all alone on this great, black sea, so I wept, and called to the moon—to Anumati— to help me. Then the breeze blew. It came warm this time, filled with the scent of agarwood. The air grew thick with smoke. I raised my hand,” Amanda said, lifting her arm as she had in the dream. “A dark form swept down from the heavens. It was a falcon. It circled my head three times, then alit upon my wrist. ‘I will serve you,’ he said.”

Padji paused, his brown eyes alert. “The hunting falcon is female. This spoke to you in man’s voice?”

“The robber’s voice, again. At least, so I believed in the dream, because I told him he was false, and a thief. I shook my wrist, but his talons gripped painfully, and I cried out.”

“The third time.”

Amanda nodded. “That last cry must have wakened Bella, because she woke me. I was too agitated to go back to steep. That’s why I went above,” she added without meeting Padji’s gaze.

Padji threw the dough into a bowl and placed a cloth over it. “The dream is plain enough,” he said. “Anumati sent it to you. She knows you grow anxious and impatient. She warns you the statue cannot be moved until you are no longer upon the endless sea. You understood that wisdom, for we spoke of it many weeks ago.”

“Of course I understand. That isn’t what bothers me.” Her finger traced the outline of a bud embroidered on her skirt. “I only want back what’s mine. But sometimes, when I think about what must be done, I wonder if it’s wrong.” She glanced up. “You promised not to—not to hurt anybody, you know.”

“I obey your wishes in all things, my golden one.”

“I am not... convinced that M Brentick knows anything about it,” she said, unconsciously lapsing into English. “It’s possible his master has not confided in him. Mr. Brentick s not been long in his employ and—and men of law are very secretive. My brother certainly doesn’t confide in his valet. It’s even possible Mr. Wringle objected to his own role, but hadn’t any choice. Or maybe he doesn’t know the statue was stolen. It may have come through another intermediary. Lud, even Randall Groves.”

“One cannot know. One cannot look into another’s heart,” Padji agreed.

“In fact,” Amanda went on with more assurance, “if either were truly dangerous men, Anumati would have warned me, wouldn’t she, in the dream?”

“You did not see the man’s face in the dream.”

“But I heard his voice,” Amanda reminded. “It was not Mr. Brentick’s. And Mr. Wringle hasn’t the same form. He’s too short and square.” She glanced away, frowning. “Why did I dream of a prince and a falcon, though? Can there be some other on this ship? But that doesn’t make sense at all. What the devil did it mean?”

“Thrice he changed his form,” Padji said reflectively. “A thief, a prince, a falcon, each held you by turns. One robbed, one loved, one brought pain.” He shrugged. “Most strange. A prophecy, perhaps.”

Amanda shook her head. “No. Dreams may help explain what is, but I am still too English to believe they can tell what will be. I am certainly no oracle. Nor do I wish to be.” She shivered, despite the heat.

Amanda certainly never intended to return to the upper deck at night. The trouble was, the closer they got to England, the more anxious she became.

Two months passed, during which more than one night lengthened into morning while she lay broad awake in her bed. She didn’t venture above every time she was restless, only when it became intolerable. That added up to a mere half-dozen late night rambles. She found Mr. Brentick there every time.

Still, he could not possibly get the wrong impression. Amanda had let him know, the second time she’d crept above, that Padji was lurking about. Padji must have let others know as well, and in his own inimitable way, solicited discretion. Certainly, not one whisper of Miss Cavencourt’s nocturnal wanderings reached Mrs. Gales’s ears, even though Captain Blayton told her everything.

The Evelina was at long last approaching the Channel. She’d probably be sailing up the Thames in a matter of days, if the winds held favourable. In a matter of days, the Laughing Princess would be Amanda’s at last... if all went well. But she would not think about that, she chided herself this night as, for the seventh and positively last time, she escaped her cabin and sneaked up to the deck.

Mr. Brentick looked round at her approach, his countenance half surprised, half—was it pleased? Amanda recollected that in a matter of days, he would be out of her life forever. Well, what did she expect? she asked herself crossly. Did she think that, like Padji, the valet would suddenly develop an irresistible need to abandon his employer and follow her to Yorkshire? If he looked pleased, it was because he liked her Indian stories.

“Another difficult night, Miss Cavencourt?” he enquired sympathetically. “I suppose you long to be home, and its being so near makes you restless.”

“It’s good to hear some rational excuse,” she said. “I simply felt wild to get out of the cabin. Now I shall sleep the morning away again.” She glanced up. “Are you always here?” she asked. “Are we seized by similar demons at the same time? Or do you never sleep?”

“Old habits the hard. In the military, I grew accustomed to a few hours’ rest snatched here and there.”

“Oh.”

He glanced about. “I suppose Padji is of similar habits.”

“I wonder if he sleeps at all.” She, too, looked around her. “Where is he? I told him there was no need to skulk about. Everyone knows he’s there.”

“Evidently, he’s well schooled in discretion.”

“Yes.”

“He’s been with you a long time, I take it.”

She considered briefly how to answer. Perhaps it wasn’t wise, but if she told the truth, Mr. Brentick’s response might tell her something. She wanted reassurance. Not that it mattered, really, whether he was innocent. She’d never see him again. But how unpleasant to part, suspecting him, feeling unsure...

“I might as well speak frankly,” she said. “We’re nearly home and I doubt the captain would have Padji tossed over at this late date, even if he could find anyone audacious enough to attempt it.” She stood a bit straighter, her posture half-defiant. “Padji wasn’t my servant. He ran away from the Rani Simhi. He’d committed an offence, and was terrified of what she’d do to him. You may find that difficult to credit, considering his size and strength. So did I. But I got on this ship and there he was... and so I told the captain a lie.”

“What hideous crime did the fellow commit?” Mr. Brentick asked.

With some relief she discerned only genuine curiosity in his tones. “I was attacked... and robbed one night, and he was supposed to be protecting me.”

“The rani sounds monst

rous unforgiving.”

“That’s what Padji would have one believe. Nonetheless, I’m happy to have him with me. He is an excellent cook.”

“And an excellent watchdog.” He sounded peeved.

“Does he make you uneasy, Mr. Brentick?”

“My dear lady, the fellow is over six feet tall, big as an ox, and strong as one. Only a nitwit would not be uneasy.” After a short pause, he went on, “Do you know, I’m terrified to move a muscle when you’re by, lest it be interpreted as an unfriendly act, and result in my immediate demise.”

“Padji is big, but he’s not stupid,” she defended. “I’m sure he can distinguish an unfriendly gesture from a friendly one.”

“Can he distinguish friendly from too friendly, Miss Cavencourt?” he asked.

Her face grew warm. “I don’t think I wish to know what you mean,” she answered firmly. “You’re getting that tone in your voice, Mr. Brentick.”

“What tone is that?”

“Your flirting one.”

“And you find it disagreeable.”

She threw him a sidelong glance. “You know perfectly well that women find it agreeable. I’m sure you practised for years to get it just right.”

“Practised? For years?” he echoed aggrievedly. “You make me out to be thoroughly unscrupulous.”

“Not at all. You told me you’d developed diligent habits of study. One might naturally assume you applied them to more than Cicero’s orations.”

“Natural philosophy, for instance?”

“Call it what you like. I only request you not do it with me,” she said nervously. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but you needn’t make me feel I’ve sneaked off to an assignation. I realise flirting is practically an addiction with you, Mr. Brentick, but you must try to show it who is master. If I were a man,” she added in earnest tones, “you wouldn’t try to flirt with me, would you? Why not just pretend I’m a man?”

He gazed at her a moment, then laughed.