“I was getting to that,” Neelab insisted, shooting me a look. She derived just as much pleasure from impressing my father as I did. I pressed my lips together and nodded, a silent apology.

Boba reached into his vest pocket and extracted his silver pocket watch with the image of a horse’s head on the case. The watch was a gift from my mother, one she had hoped would inspire him to come home from his work at a reasonable hour. He pursed his lips and rapped his fingers on his desk.

“Let’s go,” Boba said, rising from his chair. “You two have just as much right as anyone else to see what’s left of the great kingdom.”

We followed my father down the narrow stairs that led to the kitchen. We walked past the cook and his two assistants. The sweet smell of chopped cilantro mixed with the sting of diced onions. One of the assistants wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve, then brought his knife back to the marble cutting board. My father greeted them all by name. They paused in their work and issued cheerful replies, the chef putting a hand over his heart in a show of respect.

“Through here, girls.”

On the opposite side of the kitchen was a narrow hallway that ended with a door. My father opened the door and pulled at a chain that hung from the ceiling. I hesitated. We had ventured all over the palace and its gardens, even entering areas forbidden to others when soldiers had their backs turned. But intrepid as we were, we had never been below the palace. It was uncomfortably dark and had far too many hidden corners.

“The basement lighting isn’t great, so watch your step.” He looked over his shoulder at me and touched my head. If he sensed my nervousness, he did not acknowledge it. I glanced back at Neelab, whose hand gripped the banister as she strained to see ahead.

“You go first,” she whispered awkwardly. “Since it was your idea.”

Neelab was a year older than me, but she was not nearly as bold. Sensing a chance to outdo her, I pulled my shoulders back and followed Boba.

We couldn’t see much under the weak light of a single bulb. We descended the plank steps slowly. Each footfall elicited a creak of protest. At the bottom of the stairs, the expansive basement was cordoned off into sections with heavy braided ropes and folding dividers. To the left were stacks of cardboard boxes. A few feet away, enormous aluminum cooking pots and frying pans were haphazardly arranged on a metal rack. I spotted two old Russian radios on an end table. To my right, stacks of framed paintings leaned against the wall, along with mirrors and a few rolled-up carpets. I stayed close to my father and kept an eye on the lopsided boxes, which seemed ready to shape-shift in the thin light.