“In some ways I do,” she admitted. “I’ve grown to love much about England, and I love my family. I am grateful every day that these good people made me a part of their family and brought me here. Otherwise . . .” She cleared her throat and sought for different words. “As I understand it, my situation would have been extremely dreadful following my parents’ deaths.”

Amala looked directly away from Henry and let out a little laugh that stemmed more from embarrassment than any kind of humor. “And again I am talking too much.”

“I want to hear you talk,” he said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked. I find it ironic that I don’t really . . . well, I’m very glad to be back in England, and I don’t ever intend to leave again. But I feel as if I left a part of myself behind in India; I will never be the same. Would it make me sound inane to admit that—after the years I lived there—a part of me feels . . . Indian?”

Amala looked at him, hoping to be able to discern whether or not he really meant it. She was surprised that even in the shadows she could see—as much as she could feel—his sincerity.

“How long were you there?” she asked.

He chuckled and she wondered why he might find the question humorous. He leaned his forearms on his thighs and threaded his fingers together before he turned his face toward her and said, “Nine years.” Amala let out a little gasp even before he put words to her own thoughts. “So, does that make us equally Indian? I may seem crazy, but somehow I feel like it does. If not for the color of our skin, would we not be? I hope that doesn’t sound offensive; that’s not how I intended it.”

“Not at all,” she said, wishing she could find words to explain how she felt so strangely drawn to him—as if they were equally Indian. Beyond her own family—who had also lived in India for many years—she had never spoken to anyone who understood that part of her. She had an awareness of many British people going back and forth to India, but she was not at all acquainted with any of them and had therefore felt that her memories of her homeland and the occasional strange longings she felt were something that she could only hold in her heart. Kat’s memories of India were not favorable; she hadn’t liked it there, which meant she didn’t want to talk about it. Her parents had some fond memories of India, but they had also been aware of the depravity and injustice taking place on many fronts, and the topic couldn’t be brought up without conversation inevitably veering toward such things.