She sat. It was just the two of them in the library. The somberness of the place highlighted their usual awkwardness.

“How do you like the palace?”

“The Sagar Mahal? It’s beautiful. But I’ve seen it before.” She’d been here a few times. It was the very symbol of the Indian royal palace, and photographs of it were all over magazines and television. What was not to like?

“Is something wrong, Daddy?” she asked, because despite all her mother’s training to be seen and not heard in his presence, she had only so much patience for mysterious behavior.

He didn’t look angry, so it couldn’t be something she’d done. If Shoban recognized anything in the world, she recognized her father’s disapproval.

She was a great believer in knowing his moods, because information was power. If she knew what to expect she could work it to her advantage. Another thing her soft-spoken yet whip-sharp mother had taught her.

“I would say it’s the opposite of something being wrong.” A smile tugged at his mouth, making discomfort nudge at Shoban.

“Stop looking so worried. I have a feeling this is going to make you very happy.”

“Did you hear from Oxford?” she said excitedly.

He laughed. “Well, now even if you did hear from Oxford, I won’t be the one deciding if you go.”

What on earth could he possibly mean? She dabbed her sweating upper lip with the back of her hand.

“The Rajes have asked for your hand for Bram. This is—”

Her father was still speaking, but Shobi’s ears were ringing and she could only see his lips move.

“Asked for my hand?” she said. “What for?”

“Why, your hand in marriage, of course,” he snapped. “Are you feeling all right?”

Shoban jumped out of her chair. She was laughing. She had no idea why, but there was a maniacal panic in her chest and laughter was the only way to breathe around it.

Her father looked confused. She tried to tamp down her laughter. “Bram doesn’t want to marry me.”

Bram liked models and actresses, and wasn’t he going out with that tennis player from France? She was Shoban, plain old Shoban, with thick brows and oily skin and hips too wide. What interest would someone like Bram have in her?

“As a matter of fact, he does. This is his idea.”

The walls closed in on her. “I’m eighteen years old, I haven’t even thought about marriage.” What a liar she was. If Omar came to her door today, she would run out barefoot and marry him right then and there in the cotton kurta she was wearing. And he’d write a beautiful sonnet about the heartbreaking simplicity of it all, of her! Which explained why she would rather die than have this conversation. “I’m going to university this year.”