Tara turned her attention to the window. They’d left the city behind and Tara stared at the barren landscape as the flat-topped hills of Manmad passed by, the occasional bullock cart loaded up with tall grasses or hay coming into view, always driven by men in white dhotis and turbans wrapped around their heads to shield them from the red-brown dust and the heat. Shortly, more trees came into view, their green tops clearly drawing what water they could from the land, and then, soon, a round lake with children splashing in a small waterfall, mothers washing clothes along the banks. Farther on, a village and a stone well and women filling earthenware jugs with water. Tara loved traveling by train so she could see the countryside and the stark contrast to Hyderabad’s booming population. Her papa said that by next year’s 1920 census, he expected Hyderabadi residents to number over half a million, an almost inconceivable number to Tara, who preferred the green mountains and relative quiet of Shimla. Though her nanni complained that since the British had made Shimla their summer capital in 1864, there was no longer any true peace—only debauchery and the loud voices of drunken British hooligans polluting the quiet night air in the foothills.

Tara’s mind drifted to the brown-haired soldier on the platform with the kind eyes. She smiled, almost sheepishly, despite herself. But the grin quickly faded from her lips when she thought of her book.

“Oh no,” she muttered out loud to herself. “My Rumi poems.” She quickly but quietly searched her red satchel for the book. No luck. She clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry. The book was from her late nana’s personal collection of books. What would her nanni say? How could she be so careless and lose something so dear? Hadn’t her mother warned her to be careful with it? Her grandfather, like her, had been a great lover of poetry, and Rumi had been his favorite. Tara fell back against the bunk with a soft thud.

Why had she allowed herself to be distracted by a soldier? Why had this boy been so distracting?

. . . the boy, who, at that very moment, she spied through the small rectangular window on the door to her coupe as he walked by.

Without thinking, Tara rose and quietly stepped toward the door. She placed her fingers on the handle, then glanced back at her nanni, who snorted lightly—she could easily sleep for hours. Tara then took a deep breath and slid the door open, crossed through to the interior hallway, and gently slid the door closed.

“Pardon,” she whispered. But the soldier did not hear. She cleared her throat and said, louder this time, “Pardon?”

He turned around. A smile spread across his face the moment their eyes met.

“I’ve been walking these halls, hoping to find you,” he said.