Laila cleared her throat. She took the audience through her process—how she acquired her materials, how she welded them together, why she’d chosen to work with metals. “There’s something primitive, something empowering about them. Ages ago, metals comprised the first tools, the first weapons in civilization. I wanted to pay homage to the confluence of their ambition and their function, to the relationship between strength and beauty.” She talked about how origami became the inspiration for her form, the means to implement her vision. “I’ve loved origami since I was a child. It’s playful, functional, yet mysterious.” Her explanation was devoid of a more personal connection. She didn’t mention a brother.

Shan’s heart sank. Perhaps this wasn’t the right Laila.

The applause afterward was hearty, prolonged. Laila appeared surprised by it, bowed twice. She stepped off the stage quickly, walked briskly back through the aisle. It was only when she reached the end that Shan realized she was leaving the room, skipping out, it appeared, on the reception.

“I’ll be back,” Shan told Chandani.

She hopped up, adjusted the pallu of her sari, scooted down the aisle, wove between the guests now rising from their seats. In the hallway, she looked right, then left, caught a glimpse of the back of Laila before she disappeared around the corner. Shan caught up and followed her into the women’s restroom.

The soft glow of sconces lit pale green walls. White hand towels trimmed with lace lay next to each basin. Laila leaned over one, splashed water over her face. She dabbed her face with a towel, nodded to Shan when she saw her.

“Are you okay?” Shan asked.

“I’m fine. It’s just stage fright, I suppose.” She laughed. “It’s a little late in life for me to learn how to speak in front of a crowd.”

Laila folded the towel, tossed it in a bin. She leaned against the wall.

“I thought you did very well,” Shan said. “I was so moved by your exhibit, especially ‘Continental Drift.’ That was my favorite. I almost couldn’t tell whether the room was moving or the cranes were.”

Laila sat down on a small stool, kicked off her heels. “Thank you,” she said. “That was the idea. You’re American, is it?”

“Yes, I am. I guess that’s pretty obvious.”

“Hmm.”

“I was just wondering,” Shan began, “whether you’re related to an Amir Rahim. He was originally from Delhi and moved to Lahore sometime in the summer of 1947.”

Laila’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“He’s my grandfather.”

“Oh, you have the wrong person then, dear.”

“Amir Rahim is my father’s father. And Deepa Khanna is my grandmother.”

Laila’s eyes widened. “Deepa? Your grandmother is Deepa?”

“Yes she is.”