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“Contracts and receipts that were altered.”

“And I suppose you know who did what in all this? You have evidence?”

“Convincing enough to take to the maharani.”

She divides the deck of cards in two and shuffles them, a thing she must have done a thousand times before. “But you don’t have any proof that Samir authorized any of it, do you?”

I hesitate. “The doctored receipts were submitted by Singh-Sharma. Samir is ultimately responsible for the actions of his company.”

She divides the deck in half again and puts them on the table. With a manicured fingernail, she taps one stack. “On the one hand,” she says, “the head of Palace Facilities is responsible for the projects initiated by the palace.” Now she taps the other deck. “On the other hand, the head of the construction company bears full responsibility.”

She stares at me. “Who’s to say Samir can’t prove that Mr. Agarwal made bad decisions? Decisions that resulted in the injuries incurred by all those people? Why would you think you get to decide this matter?”

“Why not let the courts decide? We should ask the maharani to leave the matter to the legal system.”

Her pained expression tells me she thinks I’m a simpleton. One too dull to understand her logic.

“That isn’t how these things are done. The settlement’s been made. Samir’s company will pay for reconstruction, plus materials. The palace has agreed to pay the costs for injuries incurred.” She moves both piles of cards together, shuffling them and merging them into a single deck. “If it’s a good reference Manu is looking for, I’ll talk to Latika. I’m sure she would have no objections. It’s out of your hands.” Her dark eyes regard me. “Your interference is neither needed nor wanted.”

I decide to take a different approach. “Is Ravi happy working for his father?”

The change of subject jars her just enough to still her hands. “What business is that of yours?” She gently sets the deck back on the table.

“It’s what I would have asked Samir if he’d come to this meeting.” Then it hits me:Did Samir send his wife to confront me? Is he that much of a coward?

“Ravi has a great life and a great future,” she says. “Once Samir retires, he’ll take over the company.”

“Samir is healthy. What if he decides not to retire? At least not soon? Would Ravi enjoy workingunderhis father for a few more years? Or decades?”

Parvati crosses her arms over her chest.

I continue. “Ravi’s lived abroad. He’s known a lot of freedom. Now he’s back, virtually living with his family again, working on whatever projects his father gives him. Have you ever asked him if this is the life he wants?”

She looks at me with a grimace. “We aren’t nomads. We don’t wander, looking for a way to make a living, begging help from other people. We’re not at the mercy of anyara-garra-nathu-kara. Not like your lot.” She spits this last bit out; she might as well have called us good-for-nothings.

When I saw her last, she came to this house—myhouse—to offer me a bribe. I could have taken the money she was offering if I swore to her I’d never sleep with Samir again. I had no intention of repeating that mistake, and I refused the money—money that I needed, money that might have saved my ruined business.Back then, who was begging who, Parvati?

But I say nothing. I know this woman well. Parvati has the right to be high-handed just so long as she hides behind a curtain of wealth and privilege. I’ve seen her as few others have—when she was powerless—confronted with the sad reality of the philanderer she married and the reckless son she bore. She didn’t have the will to criticize me then.

But I’m not here to open old wounds. The only thing I want is that Manu and Kanta survive this scandal unscathed.

Now Parvati leans across the table, close enough for me to smell the betel nut she’s fond of chewing. Her eyes are blazing. “Wehave important destinies.Weare the ones who make or break this country. My family has responsibilities to make sure people like you have food to eat, a roof over your head. Now you’ll leave my family alone, or you’ll have bigger things to deal with—more significant than whether Manu Agarwal is about to lose his job. And you won’t go spreading lies about my son.”

She pushes her chair back from the table and stands up. “Lock the door behind you.”

With a final scowl at me, she leaves. Through the room’s front window, I watch her driver hold the back door of the Bentley open for her, then get behind the wheel and ease the car out onto the street.

As I take atongato the Agarwals’, I ponder Parvati’s certainty; the might, and right, to be imperious is hers, and hers alone. An attitude I thought I had become inured to years ago.

Once I’m inside the Agarwals’ house, Kanta hands me a cup of tea and a lavender-scented envelope. She says, “Hand delivered from the palace.”

I recognize the elaborate handwriting and slide the envelope’s flap open.

Dear Mrs. Shastri (or should I say Mrs. Kumar?):

I was so pleased to hear about your marriage to Shimla’s eminent physician, Dr. Jay Kumar. How lovely it must be to enjoy cool breezes while we, in Jaipur, swelter.

Latika told me that you came to see her. Am I not worthy of a visit, too, my dear? I am old and not as agile as I used to be. Truth be told, the Parisian doctors tell me I have cancer of the uterus. (Ironic, isn’t it? Considering my husband wouldn’t allow me to make use of my uterus even once!)