Victoria didn’t seem in the least bit concerned that their escorts would watch them like hawks.
“Maybe the coachman will drive past the lunatic asylum,” she whispered conspiratorially to Grace, after they had taken their places in the carriage and were waiting for the others to join them.
“What do you want to see there? A depressing building surrounded by a high fence?”
“That may be what it means to you, but you never know what young women have been falsely committed there because their villainous husbands are after their inheritance.”
Grace couldn’t conceal her grin. “You’ve been reading one of your penny dreadfuls again, haven’t you?”
“Me?” Victoria feigned a look of innocence—unsuccessfully. “I wouldn’t read anything of the sort! You know what Father thinks of that kind of literature.”
“That’s never kept you from reading them before. Do you hide them in a secret compartment in your suitcase lid?”
A mischievous smile crept over Victoria’s lips. “You know about that?”
Grace nodded.
“And you haven’t told Papa about it?”
“You’re my sister, or have you forgotten that? Sisters don’t betray one another.”
Victoria grasped her arm and snuggled up to her. “Thank you, darling sister! If you like, I’ll lend you a few of them.”
“I hardly think I’ll be interested in the adventures of Lord Ruthven, but thanks for the offer.”
Miss Giles and Mr. Wilkes now climbed aboard the carriage and they set off.
The coachman, a native in the service of the hotel, was skilled at negotiating the crowds of people, rickshaws, and ox-carts. Only once, when confronted with a group of elephants in the road, did they come to a halt.
“What magnificent giants!” Victoria marvelled at the beasts with their colourful blankets and pagoda-like structures perched on their backs.
“Elephants on way to temple,” announced the coachman in broken English. “They holy. We must wait.”
As the procession of elephants took a while to pass, Miss Giles began to fear for her complexion in the blazing sunlight.
“We’re all going to burn dreadfully if we have to stay here much longer. Miss Grace, pull your hat down a little further over your face. And the same applies to you, Miss Victoria.”
The two young women obeyed, but Victoria flashed a grimace towards her governess as Miss Giles was looking fearfully out to the side, where a little boy was holding out a carved figurine towards her.
The Cinnamon Gardens were more of a district than an actual garden. A number of houses were dotted among the trees of the plantation and around its edge. In the centre was a large mansion, surrounded by gardens with white sand where the cinnamon trees grew.
“If we’re lucky we can go on a tour,” Victoria said in delight. “That’s what it says in the guidebook, anyway.”
Miss Giles looked woefully at the path that wound between the trees, as if she already knew how dreadfully her ankle boots were going to hurt.
“I’m sure it’s possible to get a guide to come with us in the coach,” said Mr. Wilkes, immediately setting off in search of someone who knew their way around.
Grace noticed that Victoria was staring into space, brooding. She had spent all morning with her nose in the guidebook. Like a character in an old fairy tale, she clearly couldn’t get enough of what she wanted.
“You’re here. You’ve got your Cinnamon Garden,” Grace said, pointing to the trees that looked so unlike cinnamon. “Why are you pulling such a long face?”
“I’m not pulling a long face!” Victoria objected. “I’m just thinking.”
“What about?”
“This and that.”
“It’s not good for a young lady simply to let her thoughts wander aimlessly,” Miss Giles felt obliged to chip in.
Grace had an inkling of why her sister was out of sorts. Contrary to her hopes, the coach had not come past the lunatic asylum—which she herself was quite glad about, as the stories being told around London about such places were completely ghastly.
After a while, Mr. Wilkes succeeded in tracking someone down who was prepared to guide them through the plantation. The small, rather stocky young man, whose skin was the colour of hazelnuts, told them as soon as he got into the coach that they would have to walk some of the way, as the paths between the trees were too narrow to allow the coach to pass.
He also told them, in almost incomprehensible English, the history of the plantation, which had existed since the times of the Dutch settlers and had finally reached its prime under the English. When they finally came to a halt as the paths became too narrow to continue, Miss Giles only got out unwillingly, despite the fact that it was not particularly far to the cinnamon trees and the walk promised to be far more interesting than driving past the rather dull-looking house.
How I’d love to be back in London, Grace thought, a bored expression on her face. She not only mourned the debut that she’d never experience, but also the coming season’s balls. She would sorely miss nibbling pastries and confectionery and dancing quadrilles. Instead, here she was, being driven through the searing heat to see how they cultivated cinnamon—which she liked, granted, but was indifferent to how it was produced.
Lost in her own thoughts, she watched the workers peeling the bark from the cinnamon trees, passing it on to be rolled and then tied into bundles to await collection by the side of the path. The bundles were at various stages of drying out. While some looked more like shrivelled wood, others already looked like the cinnamon sticks their cook kept in a sealed glass jar.
“We should take Papa some of these cinnamon cigars,” Victoria suggested.
“Do you really think he’ll want to smoke them?”
“He smokes those dreadful cigars his friends send him from Sumatra,” Victoria countered like a precocious child. “Why not cinnamon cigars? They must smell a lot better.”
“Fair enough. We can buy him some as far as I’m concerned,” Grace said. “I’ll buy a few cinnamon sticks, too, in case there aren’t any on Uncle Richard’s plantation. I dread to think when we’ll next see a shop once we’re there.”
They went to a small stall where they bought a few packs of cinnamon and some cinnamon cigars, but instead of returning to the carriage with Grace, Victoria walked a few paces to one side before coming to a standstill.
“Victoria!” Grace called after her, but was eventually compelled to follow her.
“Look over there!” Victoria pointed towards the houses beyond the bushes that marked the edge of the plantation. A confusion of voices drifted towards them. A narrow beaten path wound its way through the tangle of frangipani bushes. “How do you fancy an adventure?”
“Are you suggesting we should go over there?” Grace looked over at Mr. Wilkes and Miss Giles, who were still standing by the cinnamon stick stall, talking to the stallholder.
“Why not? I was mistaken when I thought the Cinnamon Garden would be an exciting place. As you can see, it’s a crashing bore. But down there,” she indicated the roofs from where the tumult arose, “it’s vibrating with life. On the way here, in the carriage, I really wanted to get out and mingle with the crowd. Maybe we can find the temple where the elephants were being led.”
“But Miss Giles and Mr. Wilkes have been told not to let us go off alone.”
“They won’t even notice we’ve gone.”
Without another glance at their guardians, Victoria ran towards the little path.
“But . . .” Grace hesitated. All it would take was a cry from her to bring the butler and the governess running, and then Victoria would be dragged back to the coach where she would sulk about the adventure she’d missed out on.
Yet Grace couldn’t bring herself to betray her sister. Victoria had already disappeared into the bushes, so she hitched up her skirt and ran after her as fast as she could.
“So you do want to come with me!” Victoria said triumphan
tly, brushing away twigs and tendrils that blocked their way.
“Only to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
Victoria smiled quietly to herself. Things really would have come to a pass if she couldn’t get her elder sister to throw off the shackles of adulthood for a while. In earlier days Grace had always been ready to join in the fun rather than worrying about clothes and parties all the time. They had hidden under rose bushes in the garden or the laurel hedges of the park and told each other stories. But then their mother had begun to prepare Grace to be a young lady. From that moment on, it was a whirl of dances, afternoon teas, and trying on dresses. Victoria shuddered at the thought of all that, which would doubtlessly await her, too, once she reached sixteen. So she wanted to enjoy the last of her childhood to the fullest—and remind Grace how things had once been.
The fact that Grace was now following her through the undergrowth, and risking trouble, too, filled her with hope.
“We’re only going to stay a few minutes, though, then make sure we get back safely,” Grace hissed in her ear.
A moment later Grace was regretting having given in. The flood of people had closed in behind them and was now sweeping them down the street like a river in full flow. It would be practically impossible to get back quickly.
By the time they finally emerged into a side alley, the cinnamon plantation was far behind them. It was now clear to Grace that they hadn’t arrived here by accident. Her sly little sister had planned it all down to the last detail.
“Come on!” Victoria cried, grabbing her hand and pulling her forward. “It must be around here somewhere!”
“You mean the temple?”
“No, something much more exciting!”
“Something you read about in the travel guide?” Grace asked, worried.
“No, on a leaflet lying on the windowsill in the dining room.”
“What did it say?”
Grace recalled the tattered pamphlet and now regretted not having looked at it while she had the chance.
“I’ll tell you later. For now, don’t make me have to drag you along, you stubborn mule.”
Grace felt completely out of place among the natives in their saris and sarongs. Sweat ran beneath her corset and down her back, and her skin felt as though it was burning from more than the sun’s rays. The looks of astonishment the two English girls attracted at the way they were dressed pricked her like needles.
Suddenly, her sister stopped by a rather dilapidated building. The plaster was flaking off in large chunks, and a shutter hung crooked on its hinges. Instead of curtains, colourful cloths were strung up at the windows, and near the entrance Grace saw a brightly painted statue of a male figure with many arms. Beneath the porch made from woven palm leaves sat a young man in colourful robes with two bright-red stripes on his brow like those she had seen on men around the harbour. He stared at the two young women with a look that was penetrating, bordering on demonic.
“You English?” he asked eventually. “You want know fate?”
“But of course!” Victoria cried out in delight. “Grace, this is a palm-leaf library! Hundreds of these leaves are supposed to be kept here with the destinies of people written on them. That’s what the leaflet said!”
So that’s why Victoria didn’t say anything—she knew I’d say no! Grace caught her hand and pulled her back. “It’s nothing but fakery, Victoria! Let’s go!”
“If it’s only fakery, we don’t have anything to fear.” Victoria put on her best pleading little girl’s face, which she knew her sister could never resist. “Please, Grace, let him predict our futures!”
“But he’s bound to try and rob us!” Grace objected, although she knew full well it would have no effect on her adventure-hungry sister.
“There are plenty of other people who could have robbed us if they’d wanted to, aren’t there? Even the pushy jewellers around the harbour haven’t done us any harm!”
Grace sighed. If she refused to give in, Victoria would be moaning and calling her a scaredy-cat all the way back.
“All right. What does it cost?” Grace asked. The man stared at her so penetratingly with his dark-brown eyes that it seemed he wanted to look into the depths of her soul. It’s probably all part of the trickery, she told herself, but nevertheless was the first to drop her gaze.
“Five rupees!” He emphasised his words by spreading the fingers of his right hand and holding it up before them.
Victoria nudged Grace in the side with her elbow. “Come on; don’t be a scaredy-cat. Two years ago you’d have been the one dragging me into a place like this.”
Was that true? Grace was no longer sure whether she had ever been as unruly as her sister. Her lessons in comportment and the duties expected of a lady had driven the pranks of her past into oblivion.
Grace handed the young man the money, which he deftly stowed beneath his robe. Then he rose and led them into a small room, where the blue paint was flaking from the walls. This apparent waiting room was completely empty, although noise could be heard from behind a brightly coloured curtain.
Grace felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. What if there was a band of rapists lurking behind there?
“You come.” The man pointed to Grace. Her hand flew to her breast in shock.
“Not both of us?”
The man shook his head. “One leaf, one person. You come first, then other miss.”
Grace looked at Victoria in panic. Her sister seemed a little disappointed that she wasn’t the first to be allowed behind the curtain; despite her avid consumption of florid Gothic novels, she seemed not to share Grace’s fears.
“You come!” the man said more forcefully, drawing the curtain aside. Bright daylight reached them down the short corridor behind it.
With a tight feeling in her stomach, Grace followed the man into the back room. She kept half an ear on the front room in the full expectation that she’d hear Victoria screaming as a slave trader took her captive. Back in London such a thing would certainly not be deemed unimaginable in a place like this.
I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought again. If Mother knew, she’d subject us to a whole week of lectures on proper behaviour from Miss Giles. On the way here, every glance, every foreign word, had felt like a threat. It would have been better to have stayed in the more respectable areas of Colombo.
Her inner sermon came to an end as she caught sight of a white-haired, brown-skinned man in a white tunic. Despite his considerable age, he was sitting in a strange position on a mat of palm leaves. Next to him was a small bowl from which a spiced aroma emanated.
As her companion spoke to the old man in their native tongue, Grace felt ashamed of her suspicion. The old man could easily have been her grandfather and obviously had no intention of pouncing on a young woman such as herself. On the ground next to him lay a number of long objects that reminded Grace of Chinese boxes, except these were substantially larger and adorned with strange characters.
“I ask you question, you answer,” the young man announced as he picked up a pen and a piece of paper.
Grace looked up in surprise and noticed the old man studying her. She gave him a brief nod, then the old man’s assistant—the man with the red marks on his forehead could not be anything else—began with the first questions. What her name was, who her parents were, where she came from, when she was born, and so on.
Grace gave her answers extremely unwillingly, since she still expected them to be deceiving her somehow. However, she soon decided against giving false answers, since if this really were an oracle of the future, that might have an evil effect on their prophecies. Not that she believed in it all, but she knew herself well enough to realise that a bad omen for the future would deprive her of sleep for days because she could never be sure if there was anything in it.
After he had noted down all her replies, the assistant vanished into another room, closing the door carefully as though he feared that something might be stolen fr
om behind it. Grace looked around uncertainly. The old man, who had not said a word the whole time, continued to bore into her with his eyes. To avoid his gaze Grace turned towards the curtain behind which Victoria was sitting in the waiting room. Everything was quiet there. Her sister was probably bored already, or wondering where Grace had got to . . .
A rustling caused her to look at the door opposite again. The assistant appeared with a narrow brown leaf that looked like a ruler.
“I find leaf for you,” he announced with a smile. “I give it Brahma for reading.”
The young man handed his master the leaf with a gracious bow. The old man finally turned his gaze from her and ran his finger down the dried palm leaf. After a while the first strange-sounding words came gushing from his mouth, simultaneously interpreted by the young assistant.
Grace followed the heavily accented words with difficulty.
“Father rich man . . . long journey . . . decision . . . storm change everything . . . wedding . . .”
After a while, Grace gave up trying to follow the words. She allowed the information, which she didn’t want anyway, to flow past her like water, until the young man finally said, “Your sixty-third year, you pass to next life. You still three lives till reach Nirvana.”
Could he be foretelling her death? She couldn’t make anything of the strange word at the end, but it sounded uncannily like the hereafter.
All at once her corset seemed to be stifling her breathing. The heat in the room became unbearable, and her limbs began to tremble. It was only by summoning all her self-control that she managed not to jump up and run from the room.
The old man fell silent, and the assistant finally finished his translation, then picked up a piece of paper on which he had rapidly copied the symbols from the leaf.
As he handed it to her, Grace’s throat felt as dry as though she had swallowed a mouthful of sand.
“Take this, miss, to remind and if more questions.”
Grace was sure she would never come to this place again. She had already more or less forgotten the assistant’s muttered words. And she was sure the things he had prophesied were mere nonsense.
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