Widad pinches me and I come to attention. We follow the milkman to the back entrance. The plan is to pretend we are housemaids; we have certainly dressed for the part in drab saris. Wigs and contact lenses make us less noticeable. The wig itches like I’m wearing a moth-ridden woolen coat on my head, but I endure. We are invisible to the humans but visible to the middle worlders. So the human servants won’t see us, while Baarish’s family will (hopefully) assume us new additions in their service. This is a risky strategy, and I’m not sure if we’re going to be able to pull this off, but there’s no harm in trying.

I keep Widad with me, and we attach ourselves to a group of maids carrying brooms and rags. The mansion has two wings and three floors. On the wall in the central living room is a large, rather complicated family portrait including everyone except Baarish’s lone granddaughter. Baarish’s sons and grandsons look very much like younger versions of him. We do not see Baarish, but his sons and grandsons are at home. They stalk around the house as if they own the world; they speak in loud voices and expect everyone else to cower. They sit with their legs spread wide. They command the servants, expecting immediate obedience, and punish those whom they consider subversive. Some maids they leer at, but others, who don’t meet their standards of beauty, are ignored. We are lucky to be among the latter.

Their wives and mothers do nothing to curb their behaviors. From what we observe of their interactions, they enable their husbands and sons. With feather dusters in our hands, Widad and I make our way through the mansion, attentive to anything that might help us with the Baarish problem.

Three hours later, our efforts pay off when we see Baarish’s youngest son walk into the house looking furtive. He is carrying a box in his hands, and, avoiding the rest of his family, he walks swiftly to a room on the ground floor in the left wing. I grab Widad’s hand and pull her outside onto the veranda wrapped around the house. The windows of all the rooms on the ground floor are open, so we walk along the veranda, hoping that luck is on our side. And it is.

So, we eavesdrop on the conversation Baarish’s son is having with his wife.

They speak of their daughter and Baarish’s only granddaughter, Tabassum Naaz. Hmm. She must be the one who saved Taraana, twice.

“How long does my daughter have to live in exile?” Baarish’s daughter-in-law asks, her voice low.

“It’s better for her to live in exile than be dead!” her husband replies in a whisper.

Wow. How exciting.

The woman suppresses a sob. “Can you be sure she’s safe in Istanbul? If your father catches her…”