“Decidedly.” Tara allowed herself a slight grin as she took in the soldier’s charming, toothy smile that reached his twinkly green eyes. “Then again, that’s the fate of every country subjected to British colonialism, isn’t it? We learn your language and you’re a disaster at learning ours.”

The soldier nodded. And to Tara’s alarm, he took a seat next to her on the bench. Tara looked around, but no one on the busy platform was paying much attention to their little corner. She inched over to put more space between them.

“That’s certainly the truth. And it’s what happened in Ireland, too. The Church uses English but me mam insists on Irish in the house.”

“Never lose your language,” Tara said, her dark brown eyes softening at the young man. She felt her cheeks warm as he gazed at her, a little longer than she was used to. He was a little peculiar, this soldier, who wore a khaki uniform but did not appear to be with any other troops or regiment.

“Memsahib?” The coolie drew Tara’s attention away and pointed toward the train. Time to board.

Tara stood up to meet her nanni, who was walking back toward her.

“Where are you traveling to?” the soldier asked.

Tara turned her head. She hesitated for a moment, but there was something about this boy with his kind green eyes that made her feel . . . comfortable. “Shimla. Our family summers there.”

“Perhaps we shall meet again, then?”

Tara laughed and shook her head. “Unlikely. Safe travels.”

“Tá tú go h-álainn,” the soldier said as Tara walked away, an impish grin spreading across his face.

Tara didn’t have time to ask him to translate, but the lilt of the words sounded lovely.

The steady click and clack and the sway of the train on the tracks had lulled Nanni to sleep within an hour of their leaving the station. But Tara was listless and the air in their first-class berth was stifling. Tara twirled the small pankha in her hand, sweaty palm wrapped around the bamboo rod that she spun with a delicate twist of her wrist, attempting to stir the still air in her private compartment. She always thought this hand fan looked a bit like a battle-axe, if axes were made of a burnt orange raw silk and detailed with vermilion embroidery and tiny mirrors. Tara stared at her nanni, lying across the narrow aisle between bunks. She had made sure to put the handrail up so her nanni wouldn’t roll off when there were sudden jolts, but her nanni was the heaviest sleeper she knew.