The formality of the address made Shoban want to laugh. The Rajes were royalty and still lived somewhat in the style of their ancestors. Shoban’s own family was only second cousins to the royal Gaikwads, and while Shoban was used to the pompousness at her uncle’s palace, her own mother had run a fairly laid-back household before she had died of cancer two years ago. Bram’s mother and Shoban’s mother had gone to boarding school together and been very fond of each other in that way adults claimed to be fond of one another based on childhood friendships.

They had rekindled their friendship only after Ma’s diagnosis. Until then Shoban hadn’t known the Rajes, only known of them. Throughout Ma’s illness Bram’s mother, who was one of the dearest people Shoban knew, visited her regularly, and after Ma passed away, the maharani had taken Shoban under her wing. Then last year she had coaxed Shoban to go with them to Switzerland because she’d believed it would help Shoban make her way out of her grief.

Maya Devi had been right. Switzerland was beautiful in exactly the kind of way that soothed grief, and Bram had kept Shoban entertained with his shenanigans.

“Did you want me to show you the way to the library?” Flora asked.

“I do know where the library is. Thank you very much, Flora.” Shoban took the wet wipes Flora handed her from a silver tray and cleaned her hands. She was about to run to the house but she didn’t want to appear ill-mannered, so she forced herself to walk.

“You’re sweaty, young lady.” Shoban was used to every conversation with her father starting with a criticism, and then pretty much staying in that general realm.

“I was playing cricket.”

As always, he acted as though she hadn’t said those words. If he had his way, Shoban would saunter around the house arranging flowers or painting watercolors or practicing the piano or doing something “ladylike.”

“With Bram?” he asked, proving that he had heard her.

“No, Bram is nowhere to be found.”

Her father outright smiled at that, and Shoban wondered if he’d been drinking in the daytime. When Ma was alive, his drinking had been restricted to one scotch before dinner. After her mother died, she had no idea what his routine was. She barely saw him a few times a month at the dinner table, where they tended to eat in silence.

“You’d better get used to keeping track of the young prince. I hear he’s not an easy one to rein in,” he said, still smiling in that way people did when a pet or a child made them proud. Shoban hadn’t seen him smile much since her mother’s death.

“Why would I—”

“Sit down.” He cut her off.