She traced the gondola’s edges with her fingertip, spotted ink bleeding through the bottom. She turned it over. There was a message. May your journey be calm and peaceful. Yours, Amir.

She sat cross-legged on the ground and flicked off a few grains of soil from the gondola. She read the inscription again.

Yours, Amir.

A warmth flooded her chest. She closed her eyes, imagined herself floating along in the gondola, her hair down, free from braids, whipping across her face in the wind, Amir sitting across from her in an English suit, a bow tie, cuff links like the man in the painting, his smile so wide his dimples fill his cheeks.

Bala’s voice roused her. “Deepa, bring in some curry leaves please.”

She slid the gondola in her pocket, plucked off a handful of leaves, and headed back inside.

CHAPTER TWO

Deepa tapped her pencil against the tabletop, slid her book closer to the candle. The flame disappeared as the wick charred to black, like the twilight eating away at the sun.

“Third outage in two hours,” Bala mumbled. She lifted the candle, poured the excess wax into a steel dish, sliced the top of the wick off with a knife. Sparks popped as she struck the matchbox. Once, twice. Light budded, yawning awake.

“Remind me to buy more candles at the market,” Bala said. She set the matches on the table, wiped her hands in her sari skirt. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Deepa put her pencil down, licked the froth off her chai. Flecks of ginger and cardamom seeds bobbed like fish in a pond. She took a small sip. As usual, slightly bitter. Bala never gave her enough sugar. Sugar would make her mind hold too many thoughts at once, Bala always said.

Deepa sat further back into her chair. She closed her book and instead thought about what she’d missed out on at the clinic over the past few days. One patient’s ulcers had been flaring up again. He was supposed to have another appointment today. What to do with a patient who refused to cut out spicy foods? Another’s right wrist would finally see daylight again after eight weeks in a cast. The croup had ignited like wildfire. The waiting area would be full of little bodies wilted over their mothers’ laps, barking coughs echoing through the hallway.

She would miss it all in exchange for a quiet, boring evening with Bala, memorizing chemistry formulas and crouching over schoolbooks instead of patient files. She drank down the rest of her tea. Granules of sugar coated her tongue.

A soft thump sounded from the patio. Deepa nearly fell out of her chair. Was it Hari? She looked around the room for a potential weapon. All she had was a ruler. Had he returned, this time, to their home? Was he out for revenge against her father?