Page 32 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“Don’t you?” He regarded me calmly, his posture as straight as it had been since we were children, the square shoulders of a person who knew what he was about. “What else could it be?”

A thousand things rose in me, visions of the future bending and swirling—a painter, a mother, a wife,hiswife, perhaps, which would not be impossible, only difficult. “A mother?” I said quietly. “A wife?” For no reason I could name, tears stung the back of my eyes, and I looked away to hide my emotion.

“And only that? Leave painting behind forever?”

“No! Both, all.”

He measured me for a long moment, and I felt suddenly ridiculous. I regretted coming here with him, regretted the foolishness of my longings, regretted how stupid I had been to spin a possible future with Tanveer. I did not realize I’d been doing so, but it humiliated me that the thought had not even crossed his mind.

I flung his hand away and marched into the forest, breathing hard as the shadows moved over my head. I could not halt the tears that streamed down my cheeks, but I would not let him see.

My ears roared with my foolishness. At the pond, I halted, breathing hard. It had been several seasons since we’d come here. The beauty caught me, the glimmering water, the green and yellow ripples over the surface, the sound of the waterfall tumbling into it. All I wanted was to dive in.

I kicked off my shoes and sat down on a rock to peel away my stockings, reveling in the cool air on my toes, then shed the top layer of my clothing, a light muslin dress, and without looking at him, waded into the cool water. When it reached my hips, I plunged in wearing my shift, gasping at the immersion of cold, the fingers through my scalp. I broke the surface and looked back toward the shore. He stood on the bank.

“Shall I stay here?”

I shook my head, and watched as he placed the basket on the ground, and took off his sandals and his tunic, then his thin undershirt, and the layers covering his hair, which was tied high on his head.

He was no longer a boy, and his torso was defined by the muscles he built riding and playing polo, his shoulders strong and round, his belly lean. Clad in his shorts, he moved to the water and waded in, our eyes engaged every second of the journey.

He dived and surfaced near me. For long moments, we treaded water face to face. My foot brushed his shin. His hand brushed my arm. “Why are you so angry with me?” he asked.

“Not angry. Embarrassed.”

“What? Why?”

I moved until I could set my feet against the bottom of the pool. Sunlight warmed the top of my head, caught like stars in his eyelashes. “All I want is to look at your face forever.”

He swam closer. “That would never be enough for you.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

His smile was tender. “Because I knowyou.”

I looked away, again feeling tears rise in my eyes.

“Elsie.” He touched my outer arm. “What is it?”

“It’s so humiliating that you have not even considered the possibility of a future for us. I have fallen in love and thought you had, too”—the tears poured from my eyes, tripling,quadruplingmy humiliation—“and I find that I’m a foolish caricature of a swooning miss.”

“Is that what you think?” He captured me when I would have fled again, catching my legs with a hooked knee, my shoulders with his arm. Our chests met, and I still refused to look up, aching with emotions roaring through me like the waterfall behind us. And yet, his body was warm, his palm hard on my neck and ear. “Look at me,” he said very quietly.

When I raised my eyes, he wiped my tears with his fingers. “You are my life,” he said in Hindustani. “I love you, and you are the other half of me. Never doubt that.” His head moved slowly. “But marriage between us would be a terrible punishment for you.”

“I don’t believe that.” I lifted my arms, pressing myself into him. “It would not be a punishment because I would be married to you, who knows me, who would be my equal, and would allow me to be your equal.”

He closed his eyes. “That is a dream, Elsie.”

I pushed him away from me. “You are so ... arrogant!” I splashed away, struggling for the words. “You are not my father, or yours, and you are as young as me, so what makes you think you have the answers?”

“I do not think I have all the answers,” he said, hands on his hips. “I only knowthis.I will not subject you to the life I see the women in my world living.” He shook his head, fierce. “Do you think you couldbe happy dressing for court and managing the affairs of the women? You would hate it.” His eyes were suddenly too bright, his voice raw as he continued, “Do not think it is because I would not give all I am to make it so. I can barely countenance the dream, it is so painful to know we cannot achieve it. But Elsie, you are my soul. I vow it.”

In his words I heard his truth, and I swam toward him, wrapping my arms and then my legs around him as I kissed him. “I know,” I whispered, tasting his lips, pressing kisses to his cheeks, his chin. I spoke in Hindustani, to please him, “You are my soul. My world. My heart.”

He wrapped me in his embrace, hard, and we kissed as if the act would hold the sun in its orbit, deep, deep, our bodies aching to become one thing.

Which we found a way to do, backing out of the water, shedding the last of the garments between us, until we were skin to skin, sliding and tangling, hands and lips exploring, and it was exactly why we had come here, to be alone and explore each other completely. When he was over me, in me, he grasped my face, and I held his gaze, and so in the oldest way we became one flesh, at least for a little while. I had seen his face a thousand ways, but forever I would remember the expression when we had finished and he paused, still buried in my body, and whispered in Urdu, “Tum meri jan, meri zindagi ho.”You are my soul, my life.