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1

Noises in the Night

Mary Lennox couldn’t sleep. A large ceiling fan spun slowly around and around, but it was too warm to get comfortable. Outside, in the dark Indian night, the sounds of insects chirping were drowned out by people shouting. The servants are being very noisy tonight, Mary thought. Why doesn’t Daddy tell them to be quiet? Sitting up in bed, she pushed her chin-length hair back behind her ears and picked up her rag doll.

“Jemima, can you sleep?” she whispered. Jemima stared back at her.

Mary liked to pretend that Jemima could understand everything she said because talking to Jemima and telling her stories helped Mary feel less lonely and bored. She didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and the servants—apart from her ayah, her Indian nanny—kept their distance. Mary wasn’t allowed to play outside much because the sun was very strong. Her father was too busy with his work to play games with her as much as she’d like and her mother . . . Mary chewed her lower lip. She knew her mother didn’t like her. At times, Mary even suspected that she hated her.

Well, I hate her too, Mary thought, scowling.

There was a scream from somewhere in the villa and then the sound of a crash and a door slamming. A wisp of fear curled in Mary’s tummy as she glanced at her bedroom door. What was going on?

She’d heard her father talking to his friends about how there was a lot of fighting in India at the moment. Mary didn’t really understand, but it sounded like the Indian people didn’t want the English to be in India anymore and wanted them to leave. Daddy and his friends had talked about fighting in the streets. But surely those streets were a long way away, in distant cities. The Indian servants who worked for the Lennox family did whatever they were told, so Mary couldn’t imagine them fighting. No, she was safe here. Nothing bad would happen to her.

Trying not to listen to the muffled bangs and crashes and shouts from outside her room, she stroked Jemima’s woolen hair. “Are you scared, Jemima?” she whispered. “Well, don’t be. It’s just grown-ups being grown-ups. Shall I tell you a story to make you feel better?”

Lighting a lantern, she got out of bed and took Jemima to a den she had made out of cushions and throws in the middle of her room. She began to recite one of her favorite stories, using shadow puppets to act it out as she spoke. It was a story her ayah had told her about a boy named Rama and a girl named Sita who loved each other, but then, one day, a demon kidnapped Sita and took her away. Ayah’s stories were always filled with gods and demons, magic and excitement.