"It's rare here. Most Indians think everything they have and everything they do is absolutely perfect, exactly the way it is. They might take something foreign and use it, or copy it but they always have to appear disdainful of anything not Indian."
"You're right. I'm always being told everything here is better." He reached for her. "Sometimes it's even true."
"Won't you let me tell you the rest?" She took his hand and held it. "I also think you have more concern for those around you than most Indians do. You respect the dignity of others, regardless of their station, something you'll seldom see here, particularly among the high castes. And there's a kindness about you too. I feel it when you're with me." She laughed again. "You know, it's a tragic thing about Muslim men. They claim to honor women; they write poems to their beauty; but I don't think they could ever truly love a woman. They believe she's a willful thing whom it's their duty to contain."
She paused, then continued. "But you're so very different. It's hard to comprehend you sometimes. You love your European music, but now I think you're starting to understand and love the music of India. I even heard you're learning the sitar. You're sensitive to all beauty, almost the way Samad is. It makes me feel very comfortable with you. But you're also a lot like Prince Jadar. You're not afraid of risks. You guide your own destiny. Instead of just accepting whatever happens, the way most Indians do." She smiled and traced her fingers down his chest. "That part makes you very exciting."
She hesitated again. "And do you know what I like least about you? It's the feringhi clothes you wear."
He burst into laughter. "Tell me why."
"They're so . . . undignified. When I first saw you, that night you came to Mukarrab Khan's palace, I couldn't believe you could be anyone of importance. Then the next morning, at the observatory, you looked like a nobleman. Tonight, you're dressed like a feringhi again."
"I like boots and a leather jerkin. When I'm wearing a fancy doublet and hose, then I feel I have to be false, false as the clothes. And when I dress like a Moghul, I always wonder if people think I'm trying to be something I'm not."
"All right." She smiled resignedly. "But perhaps sometime tonight you'll at least take off your leather jerkin. I would enjoy seeing you."
He looked at her in wonderment. "I still don't understand you at all. You once said you thought I was powerful. But you seem to be pretty powerful yourself. Nobody I know could force Mukarrab Khan or Nadir Sharif to do anything. Yet you made the governor divorce you, and then you made the prime minister deceive half of Agra to arrange this. You're so many different things."