Someone screamed in the darkness. It struck Danny like a lightning storm, but a barrier stood between him and whoever was in trouble, gray and impenetrable and terribly familiar.
Who was crying for him? Danny banged his fist on the barrier and shouted back. He told them to wait, that he was coming, that he would save them.
“That’s a laugh,” drawled a voice above his head. He turned to find the man with dark-tinted goggles leveling a gun at his head. “You can’t even save yourself.”
Danny surged out of the dream in a sweat, the echo of a gunshot still ringing in his ears. His legs were tangled in the sheet; he had thrown the rest of the bedding off during the night. He’d squirmed out of his nightshirt as well, and was now lying only in his drawers. The arched window, open the whole night, had done nothing to lessen the heat in the room.
He heard the scream again and sat up. He untangled himself from the sheet and hurried to the window. But the more he heard the cry, the more he realized it didn’t sound human.
Danny leaned out and looked down the street. A bright blue bird, about as big as a pheasant, was strutting around in a pen. As it shuddered, its impressive plumage lifted from the ground into the air. A bloody peacock. Right on cue, the bird made its shrill cry, as if it knew Danny was watching and laughed for having tricked him.
Grumpy, Danny dressed, leaving his shirt untucked. He examined himself in the mirror. His hair was a rumpled mess and the skin under his eyes was dark and puffy. Danny thumbed the scar on his chin. He looked tired. Haunted.
As he tugged a comb through his hair, he wondered who had been on the other side of that barrier in his dream, that person he couldn’t reach. He immediately thought of Colton, and the resulting dread stole his breath away. Compelled by longing and something darker, he took Colton’s picture from his pocket.
Looking at it was both painful and sweet. Over the last few weeks, Danny had taken to drawing inward, finding solace in his memories. As if, by standing still enough, he could feel Colton’s lips on the hollow of his throat, on the curves of his closed eyes. He would have given away all he owned for the sensation of Colton’s thumb trailing a path over his jaw, or the sound of his voice conjuring his name from the air.
He missed his touch like a sky misses a firework, a spark as brilliant as it is brief.
Feeling a little foolish, Danny put his lips to the charcoal ones on the page. Lord, he was losing it.
A knock sounded at the door. He quickly stuffed the picture in his pocket as it opened to reveal Meena frowning in the doorway.
“I thought you would look better come morning, but I don’t think that is the case.” She pushed the door open farther to reveal the breakfast tray she was holding. “I’ve already eaten, but I saved you some food.”
“Oh, thank you.” He took the tray from her, placing it on the bed. There was fruit, a thicker bread than the chapatis he’d grown used to, and hard-boiled eggs. He reached for the tea first. It was not chai, but a full-bodied English blend, and he nearly moaned in appreciation.
“How do you feel?” Meena sat on a chair beside the low wooden table where his water pitcher had been placed the night before.
“I’ve certainly been better.” He downed the rest of his tea. “What about you? You were hit rather hard.”
She touched her puffy lower lip. “Not as hard as you were.” The medic had insisted that Danny had a slight concussion. Meena had watched over him until she had started dozing on the very chair she sat on now, at which point Danny had kicked her out and fallen into bed.
He touched the spot where the man on the train had smacked him. It was still sore, and he had the remnants of a headache.
He could see a question forming in Meena’s eyes, but she was interrupted by another knock. Captain Harris greeted them when he opened the door.
“Good morning. I wanted to see how you were holding up.”
“Well enough,” Danny said.
“I’m glad to hear it. I still need to file an incident report for the major, so I need to go over the attack with you again.”
Meena left nothing out, not even the use of her gun. Harris’s fingers twitched, but he otherwise masked his surprise well. “At least if this man tries to attack us next time, we’ll know a little more about how he operates.”
“Do you think there’ll be a next time?” Danny asked, not bothering to hide the trepidation in his voice.
“It seems this man wants you for some reason.”
Danny’s earlier revelation coiled around his throat, constricting it. How much could he divulge? What if he was wrong?
“He’s hurt, though,” Meena pointed out. “It may be a while until he strikes again.”
“Maybe.” Harris gathered his notes. “Anyway, you two are due at the tower. Shall we leave in half an hour?”
Meena stood. “May I make a request, Captain?”
“Of course.”
“I would like to visit the temple first. I must perform puja.”
“That can certainly be arranged.”
She left to prepare, leaving Danny to frown quizzically at Harris.
“Puja?”
“A Hindu prayer ritual,” the captain explained. “Normally, they perform it with a household icon. The Hindu sepoys have their own icons. Partha keeps his in his room.” Harris froze, his grip tightening on his pen.
Danny fiddled with a piece of bread, dropping crumbs on the floor. “I meant what I said earlier, Captain. I’m not going to tell anyone. You have my word.”
Harris managed a small, tight smile. “I believe you, Mr. Hart.” He hesitated. “Partha and I … we’ve been worried, of course. About someone finding out. But if that someone is you, I don’t think we need worry.”
Danny briefly thought about his conversation with Meena and decided not to remind the captain that she, too, knew his secret. “I’m glad, though. That you found each other.”
There it was: a small flash of happiness, a glint of gold at the bottom of a riverbed. Harris looked at the floor, but the corners of his lips were still turned up. Danny also knew that slow walk to joy, how it turned his heart heavy and light in turns.
“I don’t know how long it can go on,” Harris said, “but I plan to stay in India. With him.” He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. “And you, Mr. Hart? Is there a certain someone?”
Now it was Danny’s turn to examine the floor. “Yes.”
“And it would be undesirable for someone to find you two together?”
Danny nodded.
Harris sighed. “It’s a strange world, Mr. Hart. I’ll always fight for the promise of an easier tomorrow. Right or wrong, selfish or not, this is what we want.” He nodded to himself. “And that’s enough. Whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes,” Danny agreed, touching the cog in his pocket.
The tonga stopped in front of a stone temple that bustled with colorfully dressed men and women in saris that ranged from canary yellow to cornflower blue. The street was clogged with worshippers and shoppers who flitted among the carts strategically placed around the temple.
Meena hopped down and gestured for Danny to follow.
Danny turned to Captain Harris. “Will you be coming with us, Captain?”
“I wish I could.” Harris glanced sidelong at the escort of mostly British soldiers, some already sweating under their hats. “But I don’t want to cause a scene. You’re not a soldier, so they’ll be kinder toward you.”
Since the captain seemed intent on waiting outside, Danny trailed after Meena. She’d changed into a freshly laundered sari of dark green before leaving her room. Even her hair was washed and had been wetly tied into its usual braid.
“I didn’t bring any offerings, so we’ll have to buy some,” Meena explained. “Have you taken a bath?”
“Er … No. Was I meant to?”
She flipped her hand. “No matter, you’re a foreigner. Now you know for next time. Are you at least wearing clean clothes?”
“Yes.” His clothes had been laundered just before leaving the cantonment.
Meena steered him toward a fruit vendor who insisted that they buy his mangos. She bartered with the merchant, their voices rising until they came to some sort of agreement. She reached for her money, but Danny stopped her.
“I want to pay,” he said, “since this is my first time visiting your gods and all.”
She gave him a funny look, but allowed him to pay for a couple pieces of coconut and, just to make the man stop shoving them under his nose, a mango. The vendor thanked them, bowing his head a few times before turning to the next customer.
“Are you planning to offer the mango, or eat it?” Meena asked.
Danny slid it into his pocket with a sigh. “I suppose I’ll eat it later. I’ve never had mango before. Think I’ll like it?”
“They’re my favorite fruit. You’ll love it.”
They joined the queue leading up the stairs. Danny heard giggling and realized the women were laughing at him.
Meena grinned. “You’re in the wrong line. Go over there.” She pointed to a line a few feet away made up of only men. Face burning, he made himself walk slowly to the end.
“What are these for, anyway?” he asked, holding up the piece of coconut Meena had given him. It was sticky and warm from lying in the sun.
“An offering to the gods. We don’t have time to visit all five, so we’re only praying to Shiva today.”
“Who’s that?”
The lines moved, and they moved with them. “Shiva,” Meena explained, “is the Supreme God. He is the creator, the destroyer, and preserver of all, though other gods may play these roles as well, depending on which temple you visit.”
“Sounds like a stressful job.”
She glanced at him, unimpressed. “He is All. It’s simply his nature to be these things.”
“But how can someone be both a creator and a destroyer?”
“He dances.”
Danny tried not to laugh, but it came out as a muffled snort. Meena scowled.
“He dances the tandava,” she said, “which started the cycle of creation. When he dances it again, it will destroy the universe he’s built.”
“But why? Why ruin everything you’ve created?”
“Because everything that is born must eventually die,” she said simply.
When they reached the main chamber, Meena took off her slippers. The other men and women were doing the same, lining their shoes up neatly across the stone floor. Danny pulled off his boots and padded into the chamber in his stockinged feet.
The chamber was wide and drafty, lined with stone statues. Adorning the walls were murals in faded ink of gods and goddesses he couldn’t name. One of them rode a tiger.
Beyond the lines, Danny could see an inner chamber where a stone idol sat upon a dais. His hair was long, his eyes closed, and his lips were turned up in a benevolent smile. This must be Shiva, the creator/destroyer.
Bit cheeky for a bloke who’ll blow up the universe, Danny thought. The idol sat in a meditation pose—a rather uncomfortable-looking bending of the legs—with hands held open in his lap. Two snakes were wrapped around his biceps, and a larger one had wound itself around the god’s neck. His hair was piled atop his head like a hill, a crescent moon-shaped disc sticking out from one side. Beads hung from his neck, resting on his bare chest.
An old priest dressed in an orange robe sat outside the inner chamber. Though bald, the hair near his ears was wispy and white. His shriveled lips curled into his mouth, making his chin jut out. At Meena’s instruction, Danny handed the priest his piece of coconut. The priest pressed his thumb into a copper bowl of vermilion and crooked a finger at him. Danny leaned down, allowing the man to draw a line between his brows with the red powder.
Then the priest handed him four cashews. Since Danny hadn’t expected to be given anything, he said, “Thank you.” A few people turned to glare at him. The priest opened one eye, looked at Danny, then lowered his eyelid. Danny thought he caught a tremor of a smile pass over the man’s inverted lips.
Sufficiently mortified for the day, Danny stuck as close to Meena as he could. When they approached the idol of Shiva, she nudged him.
“Do this,” she whispered, putting her hands together in prayer. She bowed over her hands toward the idol. Danny followed her instruction as others kneeled on the floor and bowed to the god while they chanted in Hindi.
Meena signaled with her eyes, showing Danny where to stand while she joined the devotees. Her voice rose strong and sure as she chanted Shiva’s name and the prayer that filled the inner chamber where the idol sat, smiling at his followers. There was something oddly peaceful about him, although Danny had to imagine that a god who could end the world came with a temper.
Briefly, he thought of Aetas—and of Chronos, waking enraged from his sleep to slay Aetas for what he’d done. That had nearly been the end of the world. Maybe Shiva had danced then, and made the earth tremble.
The earth was trembling now. Perhaps Shiva was beginning to dance again.
When Meena was finished, she gestured that they could leave. Outside, they put their shoes back on.
“You can eat the prasad now,” she said, and popped her own cashews into her mouth. Danny followed her example.
“What were you saying back in Khurja, about the ash … ah … something about the Indian Gaian gods?”
“The ashta vasus?”
“Yes, those. Does India have its own story about how Aet—I mean, how Agni died?”
“Not specifically, no. The story goes that all of the vasus were caught stealing a cow from Vashishta, a sage, who cursed them to be born again as mortals. They asked the goddess Ganga to be their mother, and to relieve them of their mortality as soon as possible. So Ganga Devi gave birth and drowned the vasus to free them of mortal life, so that they could return to the heavens. Only Dyaus survived in his incarnation, trapped as a mortal.”
“Where I come from, there are several stories of how Aetas died. No one can agree on how exactly it happened. I was curious if any of your stories lined up with ours.”
She shook her head, her braid swaying. “I don’t think so. But the vasus are still important. They’re still in everything we see and touch. Shiva,” she said, nodding back at the temple behind her, “keeps the cycles and the elements moving. Now come on, Captain Harris must be burning under the sun.”
Danny followed her down the stairs and into the road. He looked around and was surprised by how many beggars had congregated at the temple. They sat slumped against the walls or nearby trees, dressed in rags or loincloths, some with fabric wrapped around their heads, all of them barefoot. Danny slowed to a stop.
“Leave them, Danny,” Meena said.
He saw a man walk up to a beggar and hand him a banana. The beggar thanked him. Down the street, another beggar sat with a child propped against his chest, his dark eyes bloodshot.
“Danny,” Meena warned, but he ignored her, approaching the beggar with the child. The child noticed him first and looked up.
Without a word, Danny handed them the mango from his pocket. The beggar looked him over, then took it carefully. He put his hands together in the same way Danny had in the temple, the mango between his palms, and bowed his head.
Flustered, Danny turned back to Meena. She was giving him that funny look again.
“Captain Harris,” he reminded her, walking past. She followed without a word. When he caught a glimpse of her face, she was smiling slightly.
The clock tower stood in the very heart of Meerut. Danny had not known what to expect, as the only tower he’d seen in India so far was the one in Khurja, and that had been a pile of rubble.
The Meerut tower was about as tall as Colton’s in Enfield. It was constructed mostly of limestone, though the clock face was made of a beautiful green glass. Meena told him the face glowed emerald at night.
“Hopefully we can witness it,” Captain Harris said as they were helped out of the tonga by a groom. “I hear the guards don’t let anyone except mechanics near once the sun goes down. Understandable, considering what happened to Khurja and Rath. Major Dryden’s orders were passed down from Viceroy Lytton himself.”
“Orders to guard the towers?” Danny asked.
Harris nodded. “They weren’t always this protected, but now the viceroy wants every Indian clock tower manned by soldiers. Seems a bit strange, though, doesn’t it? To protect the towers even though time’s still running in Rath and Khurja? Makes you wonder what the point really is.” He noticed Danny and Meena staring at him. “I meant no offense.”
“Many have been saying the same in Agra,” Meena said as they walked to the tower. “It is unnatural. But then again, people are redefining what they consider unnatural.”
Time running itself, Danny thought, is not natural at all.
Sepoys stopped them before they reached the entrance. One guard with eyebrows nearly as thick as his mustache eyed Danny and Meena before asking, “Why are these children here?”
“These children,” Harris said, “are clock mechanics sent by Major Dryden.”
The sepoy’s tall partner, who wore a turban, said something in Urdu. The other replied with a displeased hum.
“The other ghadi wallahs were here this morning,” he told them. “They were not happy to learn they were excluded from this … assessment.”
“They’re not affiliated with the army,” Harris said. “These mechanics are. If you’ll excuse us?”
Harris led Danny and Meena to the tower. The sepoy called after them, “Make sure they take off their shoes!”
“I know that,” Meena growled. “Do they think I am a new ghadi wallah?”
“How long have you been one, anyway?” Danny asked as he once again unlaced his boots.
“About two years. And you?”
“Uh …” He looked away. “A little less than that. You’re nineteen?”
“Sixteen.”
Danny coughed in surprise, though the thought was immediately driven from his mind as they walked into the tower. He breathed in the musty air, feeling the power in the building all around them. Time spread outward from this one point, dominating all of Meerut and its people, covering the city in a tightly woven tapestry.
“Captain Harris said there’s been no water around the tower,” Meena whispered as they walked up a flight of stone steps. “But they saw someone on the roof a few nights ago.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the person jumped. If that’s the case, no body was found.”
At the top of the stairs, a thin wooden railing divided them from the stem of the pendulum. Danny looked down and saw it far below, swinging back and forth. The gear train sat beneath the clock face, smoothly whirring.
He thought about Colton’s tower, and the familiar embrace of time that welcomed him whenever he walked inside. Time did not feel the same here. In Meerut, in this tower, time was colder—harder. Perhaps it was only Danny’s connection with Colton that made Enfield feel different. He felt discouraged, like he wasn’t wanted here.
Meena walked down a short flight of stairs to get to the clockwork underneath the gear train. “I do not sense anything wrong,” she murmured, her voice echoing above the loud ticktocks. She touched a finger to the bronze central cog, which turned steadily in the framework of the clock’s skeleton. Danny thought of it severing, of time instead being a hollow, airy thing he couldn’t grasp.
“I don’t, either.” Danny walked around the higher platform, looking through the green glass of the face. Meerut appeared warped on the other side. There was a small door next to the face, but no scaffolding. Just as well; he wouldn’t want to go outside, especially with all those soldiers watching his every move. But then how had this mysterious person gotten to the roof?
In his mind, he saw a flash of silver: the metallic rope the man with tinted goggles had used.
Danny took a deep breath. “There’s only one person who would know for sure.”
“There is? Who?”
Danny looked up at the rafters with a flutter of anticipation before he cleared his throat. “Hello? Can you please come out? Er, maazirat … chahta … hoon?”
“What are you doing?” Meena asked warily.
“Hello? Salaam? Namaste? We would like to speak to you, if only for a moment.”
Meena bounded up the steps, making the bangles on her wrists clatter. “Have you gone mad? There’s no one here!”
“There is.” He took the small cog from his pocket. Though it didn’t hold much sway here, he held it up and poured some of his own power into the metal. Nothing stirred, not like it did when he was in Enfield.
Meena lowered his arm to look at the small cog. “Where did you get this? Danny, please tell me what’s going on. You’re not making sense.”
“I’m trying to talk to the spirit of the tower.”
Her face hardened. “What?”
“They can tell us if anyone strange has been at the tower.”
“Danny—” She checked her tone, then began again. Slowly, calmly, as she would talk to a child. “There are no clock spirits.”
“Yes, there are.”
“No, there aren’t.”
“You believe in Shiva and the vasus, but not clock spirits?”
Meena’s mouth twisted.
“Hello?” Danny called again. “Please show this young woman you exist.”
“Danny, enough! I want to leave. Let’s just talk about what we’ve seen—”
“Hold on.” He walked around the platform and hurried down the stairs, toward the clockwork. He removed the bandage around his wrist. A soft scab had formed over the cut where Goggles had nicked him, which Danny now painfully scratched off, letting a dark bead of blood well on his wrist.
Holding his breath, he pressed a drop of blood to the central cog.
Time pulsed and lifted all around him, a feeling so similar to falling that he nearly threw up. It was almost like Khurja, almost that same sharpness, but not quite. Intoxicated with the power, Danny tried to reach for the time fibers. To pull them and morph them into a different shape.
A scream tore through the air, and Danny was yanked away from the clockwork. He nearly toppled over the railing into the pendulum pit below. He held onto the railing and gaped as a middle-aged woman wiped his blood off the central cog.
She spun around and glared at him, swearing in a different dialect than Urdu. Her golden hair was tied back into a loose bun, her body round, her face puffy around the cheeks. Her skin was a dark tan, more bronze than brown, and her eyes were amber. She wore a faded yellow sari.
“I’m sorry!” Danny tried to say around her yelling. “I’m sorry—maaf kijiye!”
She stopped at last, her jaw clenched. Danny righted himself and wiped the last speck of blood from the cog. He shuddered to his toes, and the world shuddered around him.
“I wanted you to come out,” he said. “It was the only thing I could think of.”
She huffed and looked up at Meena. The girl stared down at them, mouth agape, the whites of her eyes more visible than her dark irises.
“Meena? Please come down,” Danny called to her. “I don’t speak her language very well.”
“Who … Who is she?” Meena croaked.
“The spirit of the tower.” Then, because he couldn’t resist: “I told you they existed.”