Page 5 of A Thousand Painted Hours

Until then, I had not seen the children, who sat in poorly hidden boredom on a settee nearby the open doors to the courtyard. The girl was a little older than me, I thought, already getting long legged. Her black hair was tied back in a braid, the same as mine, and she viewed me with a haughty gaze, beneath her notice.

In contrast, her brother jumped to his feet. He was nowhere near as compelling as his sister. His nose was prominent, his brows quiteheavy, but his eyes were friendlier than hers. He peered at the drawing I carried. “Did you draw this?” he exclaimed.

“Who else?” I said, but instead of taking offense, he smiled.

“Let me see, Elsie,” my mother said, and I gave it up to her.

She took her time, and I moved from foot to foot, worried that I would not please her, that she would give me the most desultory of smiles and hand it back to me as she so often did, but today she said quietly, “Elsie, this is quite the best thing you’ve done so far. Well done, you.”

“May I?” asked the maharani.

I nodded. She, too, gave grave consideration to my creation, then handed it back to me. “It is lovely, my dear.”

“Elsie,” my mother said, “take the children to the playroom, and you may have your lunch there.”

“I’d rather stay,” the girl said. “I’ve brought my embroidery.”

“All right,” her mother said, and then to my mother: “She dislikes children’s games.”

“I was such a girl myself.”

I led Tanveer to the playroom, another room off the same courtyard, but because it seemed so plainly watched, I’d discovered the servants and adults paid me no mind here, amid the games and toys. A breeze lifted the curtains, cooling the space, and the open doors looked toward the mountains towering in the distance.

Tanveer kept his hands behind his back as he inspected the space. He wore a white tunic over loose trousers, his hair gathered in a knot on top of his head and covered with a thin cloth, as was the custom for such boy children.

“I hope you are not a bossy boy,” I said.

A smile flashed over his face, transforming his sober expression. “I hopeyouare not as bossy as my sister.”

It made me laugh. “How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“So am I! I just had my birthday.”

“Why aren’t you in England?”

“My mother refused to send me.”

He measured me, hands still tucked behind him, like a little old man. “It is unusual.”

I sat at the low table, scattered with paper and drawing utensils. “I’m glad. I don’t want to leave India.” He continued to stand, surveying the room, the windows, the tools. “Sit down. Do you like to draw?”

He sat across from me, his hands flat on the table, as he considered the tools. “I have, at times, yes.”

It was a serious answer, very precise, and I inclined my head. “Are you a prince if you’re the maharani’s son?”

“I am a prince, but not heir,” he said, again so specific. “My brother will be maharaja.”

“Do you ride on elephants?”

“Sometimes.” He pulled a sheet of paper toward him, and picked up a small block of charcoal. A silver bracelet on his right wrist clacked against the table, an adornment I had often noticed Sikh men wore. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Yes.” I grinned. “And I often get into trouble over it. My father says I am too nosy by half.”

On the paper, he drew a curve, and then a small tube, and feet, and then a big tube, and ears.

“An elephant!” I cried.