"You are home, Sahib." The servants were waiting, beaming and immaculate in fresh muslin dhotis, as Hawksworth pushed open the doors of his compound. It was nearing midnight. "Your house is honored tonight with a special evening."
"What are you planning? My farewell?"
The servants examined him uncomprehending as he pushed past the portiere of the doorway.
The room was heavy with sandalwood incense. In the lamplight he recognized Kamala's musicians: the gray-haired flautist in a long lungi wrap and bare to the waist, the drummer smiling widely in a plain white shirt and brown dhoti. Although he had not seen them for days, they paused only briefly to acknowledge him. The drummer was absorbed in tuning his instrument, using a small hammer to tap blocks of wood wedged beneath the leather thongs securing the drumhead. As he adjusted the tension on the thongs, he periodically tested the drum's pitch against a note from the flute.
Kamala was nowhere to be seen. Hawksworth stared about the room quizzically, then turned to the musicians. They responded with a puzzled shrug and motioned toward a rear door.
"She summoned them here tonight, Sahib. She did not tell them why. No one has seen her all day. It is very worrying." The servant shuffled uneasily. "Has the Sahib heard the stories in the bazaar?"
"What stories?"
From behind the curtains came the sudden tinkling of tiny bells. The musicians smiled in recognition.
As the servants edged toward the curtained doorway to look, Hawksworth extracted a half-empty bottle of brandy from his chest and threw himself down against a bolster.
What's this all about? Why can't I be alone for once? Tonight of all nights she does this.