This whole place must have been deserted for years. What a waste.
As he approached the weathered stone hut, he tried to dampen his own hopes.
How can there be anything left? Who knows how long it's been abandoned? And even if there are calculations—or maybe even books!—they're most likely written in Persian. Or Arabic.
He took hold of the rotting door, which left a layer of decaying wood on his hand, and wrenched it open wider, kicking a path for its base through the crusted mud. Then he slipped sideways through the opening.
A stifled, startled cry cut the dense air of the hut, and an oil lamp glowing in the black was smothered in a single movement. Then came a woman's voice.
"You're not allowed here. Servants are forbidden beyond the orchard." She had begun in Persian, then repeated herself in Hindi.
"Who are you?" Hawksworth, startled by the unknown languages, began in English and then switched to Turkish. "I thought . . ."
"The English feringhi." The voice suddenly found control, and its Turki was flawless. "You were in the courtyard this morning." She advanced slowly toward the shaft of light from the doorway. "What are you doing here? Khan Sahib could have you killed if the eunuchs discover you."
He watched as her face emerged from the shadows. Then his heart skipped.
It was Shirin.