"I think you should not drink so much. I drink nothing. Look at me." She pushed back the hair from both sides of her forehead. Her face was flawless. "You know most Muslims despise their women after thirty, usually before, but many young officers still ask to visit me. Can you guess how old I am?"
"A woman only asks that if she thinks she looks younger than she is."
"I'm over fifty." She examined him directly, invitingly. "How much over you must only speculate."
"I don't want to. I'm still trying to figure out what exactly happened tonight." He studied her. "But whatever it was, I'm not sure I care anymore."
Hawksworth shoved aside his plates of lamb and rice pilaf and watched as the servants began hastily clearing the carpet.
In the quiet that followed he reached behind him to his chest, opened the latch, and took out his lute. Kamala watched with curiosity.
"What instrument is that?"
"Someone in Surat once called it an English sitar."
Kamala laughed. "It's far too plain for that. But it does have a simple beauty. Will you play it for me?"
"For you, and for me." Hawksworth strummed a chord. The white plaster walls echoed back the wave of notes, a choir of thin voices. "It brings back my sea legs when I'm ashore."