When they arrived at the clock tower midmorning the next day, Daphne found it disappointingly unimpressive. She’d spent the tonga ride searching for the tower above the rooftops, but the structure barely peeked above the buildings surrounding the circular clearing where it stood. The tower was mostly built of the same reddish sandstone as the officers’ billet, with a wooden frame and a brick base. There was only one clock face at the top, the glass dusty and the numerals almost too small to read. Above the face was a simple spire that ended in a prong-like symbol. The clock tower seemed inadequate for a grand city like Lucknow.
“Dinky thing, isn’t it?” Crosby muttered at her side. “I hear they want to rebuild it in the English style, but don’t have the funds. What with all this strangeness of towers falling, maybe they won’t have to.”
Perhaps it was the casualness of his remark, but Daphne suddenly felt nauseated.
A groom helped her out of the tonga—she didn’t mind offending Crosby, but didn’t want to be rude to the Indian man—and she looked up at the building. She didn’t know what the tower in Khurja had looked like, but if it was anything like this one, she wondered why it had been targeted. Did the terrorists have a strategy? Why not hit the largest cities first? Of course, everyone kept saying Delhi might be attacked, but not until New Year’s.
Daphne’s boots thudded against dark gray cobblestone as she circled the tower. Crosby had brought along Partha and another sepoy, but apart from their small contingent and the sepoys who stood at every entrance to deter anyone from coming near, the clearing was empty.
“What exactly are you looking for, Miss Richards?” Crosby asked after several minutes.
“Water.”
“Ah. We did hear that the ground around the Rath and Khurja towers was damp after the attacks. Do you know what it means?”
“No clue.”
There were no pipes or wells or pumps nearby. No grates, no sewers … no water. Bone-dry.
“Could you tell me what happened that made Major Dryden think Lucknow is being targeted?” she asked Crosby.
Frowning, the man scratched under his chin. “We usually have a guard around the tower, as you can see. They caught a few loiterers trying to get inside. Ran off before the guards were able to catch them, but no one knows how they got into the clearing in the first place.”
Daphne pointed upward. “There are roofs just there. They could have rappelled down.”
Crosby’s mouth twisted into a sneer as he eyed the guards. “I’m sure they would have spotted something as obvious as that. Then again, they could have been drunk or asleep for all I know.”
Anger flared inside her, but she tamped it down. This man wasn’t worth a reaction. “Have there been any more sightings of trespassers?”
“I’ll ask.” He left her near the tower’s entrance, flanked on either side by sepoys. Partha stood on her right, his eyes slightly swollen, perhaps from lack of sleep. Kept awake by the heat and nerves, it had taken Daphne a few hours to nod off the night before.
Partha caught her staring. “Yes, Miss Richards?”
“I was wondering if you were all right. You seem unwell.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. Before he could respond, the tower entrance opened and two Indian men dressed in rough-spun white tunics and carrying bags over their shoulders walked out, stepping into the slippers they’d left outside.
“Yeh kyaa hai?” one of them asked.
Partha replied, but Daphne only caught the word tower.
They switched to English. “The tower has already been inspected.”
Partha nodded in Daphne’s direction. “She needs to inspect it as well.”
The Indian clock mechanics narrowed their eyes, and she fought the urge to fidget. She met their gazes directly, but knew at once she’d made a mistake. They began to mutter in Hindi, too fast for her to follow.
“This is Major Dryden’s order,” Partha snapped at them. “We are looking at the tower, nothing more.”
“She cannot go in by herself,” one of the mechanics said. “We must go with her.”
“Major Dryden’s orders,” Partha repeated firmly, placing a hand on his rifle. “She is to go in alone.”
The mechanics muttered more until one rudely pointed at her. “Take off your shoes before entering,” he commanded. “This is a sacred place. You bring bad luck already.”
“What’s all this?” Crosby had returned. “What’s the holdup?”
“I was just going inside,” Daphne said. She knelt to undo the laces of her boots. The mechanics eyed her for another moment, then wandered to one side.
“You don’t need to take off your blasted shoes,” Crosby snapped. “Just get inside and do whatever it is you’re supposed to.”
“I’d like to be respectful, sir.” She carefully placed her boots beside the door and stood. When she met Partha’s eye, he gave her the hint of an appreciative smile. She gave him one in return.
Once she was across the threshold, she closed the door behind her. Angry mechanics or no, she wanted to be alone.
Except that she wasn’t alone.
And that was the whole point.
Up a short flight of stairs, she stopped on a wooden platform with a guardrail. It was part of a square-shaped walkway around the open space in which the pendulum swung lazily through the air, stirring the small hairs on her forehead as it passed.
Sunshine filtered through the glass clock face, illuminating the cables and pulleys and rope that extended far up into the rafters. Daphne took a flight of stairs leading to a higher platform, which gave her access to the iron-cast gears and cogs that turned in perfect synchronicity, powering the clock.
And Lucknow’s time.
Although the tower was not what she’d call aesthetically impressive, she still felt the familiar awe of its presence sweeping over her body, up her arms, down her back. It aged her, reminding her of her past even as it planted her firmly in the here and now, even as the world evolved around her, without her. Putting a hand on the clockwork, her eyes watered until she had to close them.
“Something is happening,” she said quietly, to herself or the clock, she wasn’t sure. “I need to know what.”
Daphne took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “Please, will you come out? I would like to speak with you. I’m worried that your tower is in danger, and if it is, I need to find a way to stop it. If you know anything, I’d like to help. Please, may I speak to you?”
Daphne tried to ignore the peculiarity of her words as she spoke them. As far as she was aware, she had only seen two spirits: Colton and the little girl in Dover. Before last year, she’d thought that clock spirits were nothing more than legend. Even after the disaster in Maldon, Daphne had never even considered that a spirit had been involved. Not until she had gotten tangled up in the drama of Danny Hart, anyway.
She allowed some of her power to trickle into the clockwork, checking the movement of the gears, the flow of time around the tower, whether or not any part was catching. All seemed well here. Time’s fibers crisscrossed each other in pristine order, not a single thread out of place.
“I promise I won’t hurt you,” Daphne tried again. “I only wish to speak with you. Just for a moment.”
Another minute passed, and then another. She sighed. At least she’d tried.
Turning back to the entrance, she jumped back with a small gasp. A young man stood at the top of the stairs leading down to the platform. He looked Indian, but his hair was a hazy silver, his skin bronze. Amber-yellow eyes stared at her, bright and wary. He wore a long white tunic with baggy trousers, and he was barefoot.
Although his features were not golden—maybe the type of metal used for the clockwork had something to do with that—his eyes were the same shade as Colton’s and those of the spirit in the Dover tower.
Daphne licked dry lips, wondering what to say. She supposed there was only one thing to say. “Hello.”
The spirit cocked his head to one side. “Kyaa mein aapki madad kar satkaa hoon?”
Of course the clock spirit spoke Hindi. Daphne racked her brain for the proper phrase, hoping she didn’t mangle it.
“Do you speak English?”
He looked vaguely confused, then raised his hand in a so-so gesture, bobbing his head side to side. “English … little.”
“Fascinating.” She would have to tell Danny about this as soon as they were back in Agra. “What’s your name?”
“Narayan. Aap kahaan sey hain?” Where are you from?
“I’m from England. I’m here to look at your tower and—” But he seemed confused again, unable to follow her English. She began tapping her fingers against her thigh. “My name is Daphne. I am a ghadi wallah.” He nodded. “Is your clock …” Since she didn’t know how to express it in Hindi or Urdu, she used her hands to convey something breaking apart. “Trouble?”
Narayan shook his head. He rambled in Hindi, but she only caught a few words: time, city, and clock mechanics.
“Nothing is wrong here? You haven’t seen anything?” She pointed to her eyes, then to the clock face above.
“Nahi.”
Daphne swore softly. If the clock spirit hadn’t seen anything suspicious, then what was she doing here? Crosby had mentioned people skulking about the tower, but if they hadn’t actually done anything to the tower, what was the point?
“I …” Narayan paused, thinking hard as he chose his words. “I see, here?” He touched his forehead.
“You saw something? In—your head?” He nodded. “What does that mean?” He began to speak in Hindi again, but she waved her arms. “No, stop! Bas. I’m sorry, but I can’t understand you.”
She made an aggravated noise and walked in a circle. Narayan watched her, as if fascinated by her behavior. She wished she had a translator, but the only ones allowed inside were the ghadi wallahs, and there was no way in hell she would ask for their help, not after how they’d treated her.
If they knew what she was … No, that might only make it worse.
Desperate, she tried to talk to Narayan again, but their words passed without meeting. Daphne finally had to admit defeat.
“I want to know what you mean, though, about seeing things in your head.”
Narayan asked another question she didn’t understand. Frustrated, he pointed down at the floorboards, then at the door. At first she thought he was ordering her to leave, but then he said, “You here, come back?”
Her lips relaxed into a smile. “Yes, I can come back tomorrow, if you like. Subah ko? In the morning?” He nodded eagerly. She wondered just how lonely he was here, reluctant to speak to the other clock mechanics, with no windows but the clock face to look out from.
“I’ll come back,” she promised. “You can teach me more Hindi.”
He seemed pleased, but she couldn’t help but be disappointed. Aside from seeing strange people in the clearing, there was nothing to indicate an attack was coming.
If that’s true, she thought, then why was I brought here?
With arrangements made—her head spun at the idea of having a tutoring session with a clock spirit—Daphne left the tower and carefully retied her boots. Crosby descended on her within seconds.
“And? What happened? What did you find?”
“Nothing,” she said truthfully as she stood. “If someone’s planning on bombing the tower, they haven’t acted yet. I would like to come back tomorrow, though, just to be certain.”
“Yes, all right. Best to be sure.”
They returned to the billet. Crosby instructed her to ask Partha if she needed anything, as he would be in meetings the rest of the afternoon.
She did want something—a way to learn more Hindi. She didn’t trust the soldiers enough to bring them inside the tower, but she needed to know what Narayan was saying. A wasp of unexpected anger stung her. If only she’d learned from her father … though he hadn’t known much of the language either, come to think of it.
Maybe there was an Urdu or Hindi dictionary nearby. She tried walking through the billet, but Partha kept at her heels. He reminded her of an old toy she’d had as a child, a yellow wooden duck attached to a string. She’d clutch the string and the duck would roll along behind her, following her every step.
“You don’t have to come with me everywhere,” she eventually said. “You should go rest. Have some tea.”
Partha looked skeptical, but said that he would have someone posted to her door until he returned. Daphne rolled her eyes when he was gone. Finally, a moment to herself.
Maybe Akash would know where to find a dictionary. She asked a few servants if they knew where he was staying, but they shook their heads, eyes lowered, before they hurried on with their chores. Down another hallway, she nearly ran smack into a dark-haired Englishman in uniform. He gripped her arm to steady her.
“Here, love, I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s no matter.” His hand lingered too long on her arm, and she glanced at it distastefully. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Where you off to, love? Looking for some lunch?”
“I already ate,” she lied.
“All right, be on your way, then. You ever want to play cards, my room’s thirty-one on the first floor.” He winked.
Making a mental note to never go near room thirty-one on the first floor, Daphne hurried up the stairs to her own room. Just as Partha had promised, another sepoy stood guard at her door, and let her in with a silent nod.
Once she was alone, she rubbed her arm and scratched vigorously at the spot the man had touched. She had learned to ignore the leers men gave her in London, the occasional grope on the streets. She’d been taught it was only men being men, that they couldn’t help their urges. That she was only something nice for them to look at, to feel, as if that were her only purpose in this world.
She ripped off her bodice and looked for one with longer sleeves. Changed, she sat on the edge of her bed and yearned for another cigarette. Or tea. Better yet, sherry. But she was afraid to ask anything of the sepoy outside. She didn’t want her door unguarded for even a second.
If only she could be doing something useful, anything to take her mind off these churning thoughts. But Crosby wouldn’t dare let her out by herself.
She decided, suddenly, that she didn’t need Akash’s help after all. Or that of any of the soldiers. She would figure this problem out on her own.
Daphne squandered the day pacing her room and writing a long letter to her mother that she didn’t plan to send. It would take nearly a month to deliver, and her mother would have difficulty reading it in any case. Still, it helped to steady her hand and her mind. She jotted down her thoughts, laying them before her as if they were pieces of a puzzle she had yet to solve.
Night fell and her restlessness returned. She wanted to visit Narayan again. She wanted to understand what was going on with the towers.
To blazes with it.
Daphne carefully opened the door to find that Partha had returned to his post.
“I’m going to take a turn around the billet,” she lied. “No need to follow.”
But as she walked down the hall, he did follow. She sped up her pace, and he lengthened his stride.
“Miss Richards, where are you going?” he finally asked. “I must tell the lieutenant—”
“Just for a walk, as I told you.”
“I will still have to inform—”
She yelled in frustration, then took off running. Partha’s boots pounded behind her. Startled soldiers turned their heads, and one of them laughed. Daphne rounded a corner sharply, barreling down the stairway toward the exit.
“Miss Richards!”
The night embraced her. She inhaled a lungful of cooler air and kept up her pace, running, running, directionless but lured by the pull of the clock tower.
“Miss Richards!” Partha grabbed her elbow and swung her around. She struggled, but he was far stronger. “Stop, please. Lieutenant Crosby will have my head if I do not keep you in the billet.”
“I need to go to the tower,” she growled.
“Why? Is it in danger? Do you know something?”
“No, I …” How could she explain it? How could she tell this man that in a place where she felt unwelcome, unappreciated, unprotected, she had only one comfort: the clock tower, and the complexity of its time? It was written on her bones. They ached.
“If there is no pressing need, I must bring you back,” Partha said.
“Please,” she whispered, half-ashamed when her eyes filled with tears. “Please, may I see it? Make sure it’s all right?”
He wavered. There was something complicated in his expression, in the way his fingers twitched. He looked over his shoulder at the billet’s glowing windows.
“Only if you cover up,” he said at last. “Wait here.”
She stayed in an alcove until he returned with a long muslin scarf, the sort that Sikh women wore. He helped her wrap it around her head, covering her fair hair.
They walked to the tower in silence. Daphne’s legs were thankful for the exercise, her heart beating a slow, insistent rhythm. She wasn’t sure why Partha had agreed to her request, unless he had reason to escape the billet himself. She’d noticed that he seemed distant, even lost at times.
“How long have you been in the army?” she asked him.
He lifted his gaze from the ground. “Five years.”
“How did you come to join?”
Partha looked around, as if he didn’t want anyone overhearing. There were only a few people on the streets in this quarter, including a couple men relieving themselves against a brick wall.
“My father was in the army,” he finally said.
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure how to politely ask more.
He sensed the question, though, and answered anyway. “He took part in what the British call the Mutiny.” He made a face at the term. “Unfortunately, he was caught and executed. The group of rebels he was part of were strapped to the front of cannons that were then fired.”
A dark feeling stole across her chest, making her shudder.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I shouldn’t speak of such a thing.”
“No, it’s all right. I’m sorry for your loss. It’s … terrible, what happened.” The words were inadequate, but he nodded. “I’m sure Her Majesty becoming Queen-Empress doesn’t help.”
His face fell into that complicated look again, but he didn’t respond.
“Are you going to the celebration in Delhi? Will you be helping guard the tower there?”
“No, Major Dryden does not want to spare many of his men. You and Mr. Hart are not to go under any circumstances. It might be dangerous.”
She was about to ask more about the tower guard when they rounded a corner and saw a few British soldiers standing under a statue. As they got closer, she realized it was a depiction of the Queen. Her arm was held before her, a large jewel cradled on her stone palm.
The statue must be new, no doubt to celebrate the upcoming coronation. It seemed oddly out of place. Almost garish. Without realizing it, Daphne made a face.
The street was lit with torches, so Daphne could plainly see the faces of Lucknow citizens glaring up at the statue and the soldiers standing beneath it. The street felt like the string of a violin, taut and ready to sound. Partha sensed it, too, and put his hand protectively near Daphne’s elbow. The soldiers laughed at something, ignoring the incensed crowd.
Then one man stepped forward and threw a head of rotting cabbage at the statue. “Down with the Queen!” he yelled. “Down with the British!”
One of the soldiers grabbed his rifle. “What was that, now? I can barely hear you under that swill you call words.”
The Indian man was small and stick-thin. He clenched his hands as the British soldier, large and broad-shouldered, stalked toward him.
“I asked you to repeat yourself,” the soldier demanded.
The Indian spat Hindi at him, then literally spat—right at the soldier’s feet. Before Daphne could blink, the soldier had knocked the man to the ground and pushed a boot to his neck. He aimed his rifle at the man’s face.
“Say it again,” the soldier snarled. “I dare you.”
Some of the Indians put their heads down, walking faster. Others had stopped to watch. Now they roused as one, muttering and yelling and finding other things to throw: a shoe, a rock, a piece of garbage. The other two soldiers drew their guns, trading worried looks. They were clearly outnumbered.
The soldier pinning down the Indian man fired a warning shot in the air. The whole street fell deadly silent.
“Run to your homes, or whatever piss-stained alley you use for your beds,” he ordered, “unless you want a hot bullet for your supper.”
The Indians retreated slowly, malice flaming in their eyes. One man seemed to look in their direction, and Daphne stiffened, but he only gave a grim smile before he lost himself in the crowd.
The soldier let the skinny man up, and he scrambled away as fast as he could. The soldier aimed his rifle as if to shoot him in the back, thought better of it, and shouldered it again.
Partha had dragged Daphne into the shadows, away from the commotion. When he gently tugged her arm, she realized she was shaking. “We must go back to the billet,” he whispered. “Please. It’s not safe.”
A riot had almost broken out. Either the Indians would have been shot, or they would have torn the British soldiers limb from limb.
And she would have been helpless to stop it.
“Miss Richards, please.”
The fingers on her arm trembled. She looked into Partha’s eyes. They were wide, frightened, but shone with the same fervor of the crowd, a current of hatred under subservience.
At least they had something in common, then.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He swallowed and swung his head from side to side. “Do not worry yourself. But we must go. Now.”
The clock tower. Was it all right? Had this been a distraction to attack it? As they walked back in the direction they’d come, she focused on the energy of Lucknow’s time and found it unchanged. Narayan Tower was still functioning.
“Please do not tell the lieutenant,” Partha said.
“I won’t. You have my word.” But even if she never spoke of this to another soul, it would still play through her mind in grim horror, searing a brand that she would carry forever.