Page 119 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

So she bore left and walked a couple of blocks, but then walked back down, thinking she’d missed it. Heart beating threadily, as if waiting to fail, she looked around carefully. No bookstore that she could see.

A market stall stood on the corner, and a woman waved flies away from her produce. Veronica approached. “Do you speak English?”

The woman bobbled her head. No? Yes? Not an answer. She kept moving, trying two more stores without success. In a radio store, a man typed on a computer, and he did speak English. “Do you know where a bookshop is, called the Arabian Sea?” Veronica asked.

“Ah. Yes. People miss it because it is upstairs.” He took her to the doorway and pointed down the block a little. “The red door. It will take you there.” He eyed her kindly. “Would you like a bottle of water, madam?”

“I don’t have any money.”

“No charge.”

“Yes,” she said, “very much.”

He fetched her a small bottle from a cooler near his feet. She thanked him in English, then asked, “What isthank youin your language?”

“Shukria,” he said, and made a gesture of prayer hands.

Veronica returned it. “Shukria.” So close to the Arabic. When she had time, she would look up where the languages coalesced.

Buoyed by his kindness, she crossed the street, hoping she didn’t look too disheveled.

On the door was a sign in Hindi she assumed must be for the shop. She opened it to find a dark, narrow set of stairs. A little intimidating, but she made her way to the top. The stairs opened into a light-drenched room filled with books. Music played from somewhere, and a handful of customers were browsing. No one looked up as she crossed to the main counter, where a young woman with long, glistening hair cross-referenced two charts. She caught sight of Veronica, and she looked concerned for a moment, then covered her lapse with a poised expression. “Hello,” she said. “May I be of assistance?”

Veronica touched her mouth, tasted the blood still welling slightly. “Sorry, I had a little fall. I’m looking for Zoish Irani. Is she here?”

The young woman measured her for a long moment. “Who may I say is here?”

“My name is Veronica Barrington,” she said. “But she won’t know me. I’m here about Café Guli in Mumbai.”

One exquisite brow arched. “I will speak to her. Wait here.”

Veronica turned to take in the room. Shelves of golden wood held books both used and new, from what she could see, and in several scripts. The room smelled of scholarship and possibility.

“Good afternoon,” said a voice behind her.

Veronica turned to find a woman in her fifties with enormous dark eyes and a deep bust. Her hair was swept into a chignon. She very much resembled her niece in Paris. “Hello,” Veronica said. “I would offer my hand, but I had a fall, and they are not very clean.”

“I see. Come with me.”

Veronica followed her into a small hallway, and she showed her a lavatory. “I’ll be waiting in the back, over there,” she said.

In the mirror, Veronica saw that she wasn’t particularly fit for a conversation. Blood had smeared along her cheek, and she had a fat lip and a bump on her forehead. Using water from the tap and her hands, she rinsed her face off and patted it dry, then finger combed her hairinto place. For a moment, she was struck with how different she looked from the Veronica she’d left behind. She had little makeup on, but it was fine to see her face just as her face. It maybe made her eyes bluer. Her hair, freed of being straightened every day, waved and curled randomly, and her bangs were far too long, swept to the side.

She looked like her mother.

She also looked like herself.

“Hello,” she said. “Nice to see you.”

Then she headed out into the other room to see if she could finally get the story of Rachel.

Zoish sat at a round wooden table in a small area next to a counter with a hot plate. “Would you care for chai?” she asked.

“How kind,” she said. “But you might want to wait. I’ve come to talk to you about someone you might not want to talk about.”

“Oh?”

“I’m traveling with a young woman who is tracing her mother’s steps in India, Mumbai, really. She knew you.”