It had been a while since Vansh had stopped to study the portraits or to think about his ancestors. Their presence was much more tangible in the Sagar Mahal. Here at the Anchorage, it was somewhat more muted, as though the spirits weren’t entirely committed to making the journey their descendants had made, and they were out of their depth in this new world.

“Thank you,” Vansh said simply. “I think this one was done by Diego Rivera. I’m told he traveled in secret to Sripore at my uncle’s request. I believe they were friends.”

If Sid had looked absorbed before, now he looked awestruck. An expression that felt as out of place on his face as Vansh’s ancestors would have felt here in California.

Sid twisted his body to meet Vansh’s eyes, obviously having a hard time looking away from the painting. “India told me your family ruled Sripore for a few generations before the British came.”

“Yes, they trace back to the fourteen hundreds. Most of it was a bloodbath, though. First the Moguls, then the Europeans. But this portrait is a modern one.” Vansh turned to the painting Sid was standing in front of.

A portrait of his father’s oldest brother, His Royal Highness Maheshwar Ramchandra Raje. Aji’s firstborn and Esha’s father. “That’s my oldest uncle, my aunt, and that’s their daughter, my cousin Esha.”

Sid continued to stare unblinkingly at the painting. His eyes were the kind of dark that was at once flat and bottomless. Vansh had rarely seen a man with less readable eyes. “Do they live in Sripore?”

“They died. In an air crash. Some thirty years ago.” Vansh had never met his aunt and uncle, but they’d always been a presence in his life, with their death anniversaries every summer in Sripore, and the pain in Aji’s and HRH’s eyes every time they reminisced. Then there was Esha . . .

“All three of them?” Sid asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“No, not my cousin. Esha, she’s . . . she’s very much alive. Thank God.” Like his grandmother, he had the urge to touch wood to ensure Esha’s long life.

“Esha,” Sid said as though it were the strangest name to give a person. Well, his sisters were named India and China, so his tone made Vansh smile. “I’m not sure,” Sid added, “but I think India has mentioned her.”

Vansh let out a laugh. “Yup, there’s a lot of us. It’s a lot to keep track of.”

Sid turned to him, his attention pulling away from the portrait for the first time. “That’s not what I meant. There are a lot of you—which had to have been fun growing up—but you’re all very unique and not at all difficult to remember.”