She looked around the beautiful room as the noise level rose sharply, the guests chattering as noisily as a flock of bright birds in a palm tree.

“Maybe in a bit,” she said. Her eyes swept over the exotic crowd, but then her anticipation faded, and she took a little step back.

I looked to see what had caused her to shy away—the maharaja himself, his eyes on us, working his way through the crowd. When he reached us, I found that I was between him and the girl, although I couldn’t say whether she had moved to seek shelter, or I to provide it.

“I hope you’ll join us, we have any number of games set up in the hall. Billiards, darts, cards.”

“We were just saying that we felt tired, but thank you.”

His eyes smiled at Sunny past my shoulder. “I hope you enjoyed today,” he said.

“Oh yes,” she said, a polite child again. “Very much, thank you.”

“Tomorrow you must see my zoo. And you, Miss Russell. Have I made a convert of you to the art of pig sticking?”

“It was extraordinary,” I admitted. All evening—in the bath, sipping my wine, watching the twirling dancers—I had found myself reliving that moment when, on the ground with the pig’s tusk touching my boot, the world had come rushing back in on me. I met his gaze and said, “I’ve never felt anything quite like it.”

His eyes held mine, and a look of—what? understanding? memory?—came into them. “The exhilaration of survival.” He said it so softly I didn’t think it was meant for me to hear. It was as if I had reminded him of something long forgotten.

And then he blinked, and the moment passed. “So I take it to mean that you will join us again.”

“I don’t know about that,” I told him. “I should think the sensation becomes less astonishing with repetition. It may be a thing that should be done once, and treasured for its uniqueness.”

I wished him a good night, and steered Sunny through the crowd of guests and servants to the door. She paused to look back in, half wistful, and we both saw the maharaja watching us.

On the stairway, she said to me, “He doesn’t seem entirely happy.”

“The maharaja? No, he doesn’t, does he?”

“But you’d think, with all this . . .” She gestured at the stones, the garden beyond, the world created for this one man’s pleasure.

I didn’t answer. I thought the maharaja had, in fact, looked at me with envy. And how else, if a man had arranged his entire life with the goal of excitement? He had conquered every danger he had set himself against—racing cars, aeroplanes, casino tables, dangerous game animals fought with sparse weapons; what thrills were there left to seek?

Chapter Eighteen