She went to the locked door and pressed her ear to it. Someone was talking outside, but she couldn’t make out the words.

This was all so positively medieval—they didn’t live in some village in a feudal area. They were educated people. Her mother had a master’s degree in history. Shoban planned to get a PhD in women’s studies. How could she get a degree in women’s studies and be locked in a room so her father could force her into marriage? How was this happening?

The only solution she could think of was speaking to Bram. Yes, that was it. Bram would understand. He’d always been perfectly nice to her. When he’d visited her last month, he’d made her laugh and laugh with the stories of all the ways his parents and older brothers had tried to get him to toe the line.

Oh Lord, was that why he had visited? Because he had somehow decided that she was interested in him?

Her ear was still pressed to the door. The voices faded. Pulling away, she searched the room. There had to be a way. There was always a way. Her eyes fell on the ornate phone sitting on a console table. It had to have long-distance calling on it. This was a palace, after all. When she picked up the phone it made a strange long beeping sound. Pressing zero connected her to an operator.

“Hello, what number please?” the operator said, throwing Shoban.

“I wanted to make a call,” she said, and the woman on the other end took a second to process that. Evidently not many people were stupid enough to say that to her.

“Yes, what number, please?” she repeated, her tone even more deliberately flat than the first time she’d said it.

“It’s . . . it’s an international call. To . . . umm . . . the UK.”

“Yes, ma’am, what is the number?”

Omar’s number hovered on Shoban’s lips. The menace in her father’s eyes when he threatened Omar’s family flashed before her. What would happen if Daddy found out she had called Omar?

She touched her cheek. Her father had never hit her before. The flat-palmed slap stung afresh at the memory, making rage rise inside her. This was not like any of her previous rebellions. She had to keep her head for this one. This was war.

“Sorry, I can’t find the number. I’ll call back,” she said, and replaced the handset.

Just in time, because the door swung open and Flora entered with a trolley. “I was just bringing you tea, Tai-saheb,” she said, and looked discreetly away while Shoban wiped her eyes.

“Thanks. I do need some tea.” She settled herself in the wing chair, legs neatly crossed, and smiled at Flora as she poured. “Listen, do you know where Prince Bram is?”