“Hello,” she said gravely, and offered her hand. “I’m Sarah Jane. I’ve just come. I’m from Africa.”
He took it, and bowed over it. “I am Agansing,” he told her, just as gravely. “I am from India. I am a Gurkha.”
As it happened, there had been enough British military visitors passing through the Congo and taking advantage of the mission’s medical facilities and hospitality that Sarah knew what a Gurkha was. In fact, she had seen some, and her Papa had told her about them; that they were exceedingly brave, exceedingly good warriors, and so trusted they had their very own regiment. She blinked. “Why are you here?” she asked boldly, because while many, many Gurkhas were in service to the Empire, once they retired, they always went home to the hills in Nepal rather than coming to England.
“I have no family, except Mem’sab and Sahib,” Agansing said, without taking offense. “My family perished in a mudslide when I was younger than you, and I never had other family except my regiment and my sworn brother, Sahib Harton. When Sahib was to muster out, he offered me a home and work. It is also so with Selim and Karamjit, who are his sworn brothers as well. Karamjit is a Sikh. We three guard Sahib, Mem’sab, and you children, though I am usually with Sahib at his warehouse.”
Selim, she knew from the name alone, was likely to be a Moslem, and her eyes went round. Many Indians came to Africa to become storekeepers and the like in the cities, and Sarah knew very well how unlikely it was that a Gurkha, a Moslem, a Sikh, and the other Hindu and Buddhist servants that she also knew were here would coexist amicably in the same household.
Agansing smiled at her surprise, and then smiled over her head. “Karamjit, my friend,” he said. “Little Missy Sarah is come to us from Africa, and we surprise her.”
Sarah turned; another surprise, because she could almost always tell when someone had come up behind her and she had not sensed—anything! There was a very tall, very dark man in a turban standing there regarding her with grave eyes. “Welcome, Missy Sarah,” he said, holding out his hand. She shook it. “We are a surprising tribe here, I do think. Though you will not meet with Agansing and Selim often, you will see me. My duties keep me mostly here.”
Though she could sense nothing from them, she had the feeling, a feeling so strong that she had never felt anything like it except in the presence of the shaman M’dela who had given her Grey, that she could trust these men with anything. And she gave Karamjit one of her rare smiles. “We need guarding, Mr.Karamjit?” she asked.
He nodded. “The leopards and tigers that prowl outside our gates are of the two-footed kind,” he told her solemnly, “and the more dangerous for that. So you must not venture out of the garden, except with another grown person.”
She nodded then hesitated, and looked from one to the other, for she knew, without knowing how she knew, that both these men had knowledge that she needed. “Can you—” she hesitated, then ventured it all. “Can you help me be quiet in my mind like you are?” she begged. “Mem’sab gives me lessons, but you’re better than she is, because you’re so quiet you aren’t even there. And I know I need to be better.”
The men exchanged a glance, and it was Karamjit who answered.
“I will, if it suits Mem’sab. If I do, you will pledge me the obedience that I gave to my master, for the teaching is not easy, and needs much patience.”
And she knew at that moment that she had gained the respect and the friendship of both these men. “I promise,” she swore.
She went and told Mem’sab what she had done at once, of course, in order to gain that permission, and as she had suspected, Mem’sab entirely approved. “Karamjit and Agansing both know meditation techniques that I never learned,” she said to Sarah.
“And if you have the patience at your young age to learn them, they will be very good for you. You can use the conservatory; it’s quiet, and you can tell Karamjit I have given you permission to do so, and thank him for agreeing to teach you.”
That was an astonishing privilege, as children were not allowed in the conservatory, or “hothouse,” as one of the boys called it, without an adult. This was in part because all the conservatory walls were glass, and children and glass walls usually do not coexist well. And in part it was because the adults used it as a refuge, since children were allowed to come and go in virtually every other room of the school, so having one place where there was some peace from childish racket was a necessary thing.
As Sarah now knew the school had not originally been built for such a function; it had been converted from an enormous house and grounds that had once belonged to some very wealthy Georgian merchant (or so Mem’sab said) but which had been abandoned when the London neighborhood in which it stood began to deteriorate. Now it was a very bad neighborhood indeed, which was why Mem’sab and Sahib had been able to afford such an enormous place when they looked for a building to use as their school.
The bad neighborhood was one of the reasons why it was not a “first-class” school. “First-class” schools were situated outside of cities, far from bad neighborhoods, bad air, and the dangers and temptations of a metropolis. But the people who sent their children here, like Sarah’s own parents, had very particular reasons for choosing it. Mostly, they only wanted their children to be cherished—but there were several other children here who also had what Mem’sab referred to as “Talents.”
Now, Sarah had been just old enough, and just sensitive enough before she left, that she knew very well her parents shared M’dela’s Magic, though she could not herself duplicate it. And she knew that though she did not have that sort of power, she had always been able to talk to Grey in her head, and she could often see the thoughts of other people—and these were things her parents could not do. As Mummy had told her, now that she was here, the people at the school were going be able to help her sort these things she could do out. Apparently other people knew that Mem’sab and Sahib could do this, too, and probably those people felt that being sorted out was the most important thing that their children could learn.
So, “Thank you, Mem’sab,” she said sincerely, dimly sensing that Karamjit did not often offer his services in this business of being sorted out, and that though this would be a great deal of work, the reward was likely to be very high if she mastered what he could teach. And that she had gained a very, very valuable teacher, perhaps one of the most valuable she was ever likely to have as long as she lived.
She went back to the kitchen where Karamjit was still waiting. “Mem’sab says to thank you that you will teach me, and that we can use the conservatory,” she told him.
One dark eyebrow rose, but that was the only way in which Karamjit showed that he found the second statement remarkable. “Mem’sab is wise,” he replied, and paused. “You have a question.”
“Why are you quieter in your mind than Mem’sab?” she asked.
He pondered that for a moment, while Vashti, one of the cooks, pretended to ignore them both out of politeness for what was a private conversation.
“Mem’sab believes that it is because of the way I was taught,” he said finally. “This is only in part true. It is because of what I was taught. Mem’sab has not learned this, because she cannot, not because of ignorance. It is—it is exactly that reason that you cannot learn what your parents do. Mem’sab is not even truly aware that I do this thing—that I become not there to all inner senses, unless I wish to be there. Thusly—”
And suddenly, to her astonishment, she sensed him, just as she could sense anyone else. Then, just as suddenly, he was gone again except, of course, that he was still sitting right there.
“You and I are alike in this, Missy Sarah,” Karamjit continued. “Just as Agansing and Selim and I are. It is uncommon. Sometimes it means that one is to be a kind of warrior, though not always.”
She thought that over. “I don’t feel like a warrior,” she said truthfully.
He shrugged. “One need not have this to be a warrior. Sometimes it is a protection. Nevertheless. Th
is is why Mem’sab cannot teach you. You must be very diligent, and very patient. It is a skill that takes years to learn and a lifetime to master, so you must not expect to be proficient any time soon.”
She nodded. “Like being a doctor.”
He smiled. “Very like. Now. Here is your first lesson in patience. I will undertake to begin your teaching only after I feel that you have settled well into the school. I will choose the time.”
She sighed, a little disappointed, but knowing better than to argue—because M’dela had schooled her in much the same way.
And since that was clearly Karamjit’s way of saying “you can go now,” she excused herself.
Besides, it was teatime.
***
Sarah was used to being taught in a very large class; she had been learning her letters along with the rest of the African children whose parents thought it wise to learn the foreigners’ ways. Unlike some missions, there was neither bribery nor coercion involved in getting the African children to come to school, but Sarah’s parents had pointed out that whether the natives liked it or not, the foreigners had the guns, the soldiers, and the big ships to bring more of both; that they were unlikely to be rid of them, and it would be a good thing to not have to rely on translators who might lie, and might come from another tribe altogether. And that it would be an even better thing to be able to read treaties and agreements for themselves, and not depend on someone else to say what was in such things. And it was the tribal chief who had thought it over, and decreed that those who were apt to the teaching should come. There had been nearly thirty people in Sarah’s class, and only one teacher. There were only six in this class, and she had three different teachers. To her mind, this was quite astonishing.
A tall thin woman, Miss Payne, taught Reading, Penmanship, Grammar, and Literature. She looked as if she was the sort who would be very cross all the time, but in fact, she was quiet and reserved, and when she got excited, her cheeks went quite pink, but there were no other signs of her state. Other than that, she was evidently someone Mem’sab trusted, and she always seemed to know when one of her students was having difficulties, because she always came right to the desk to help him or her out.
Professor Hawthorne, an old man who spoke very slowly and with great passion about mathematics, was in charge of teaching that subject, and Geometry as well. He did not have anything like the patience of Miss Payne, and if he thought a pupil was being lazy, he was able to deliver quite a tongue-lashing. “The ability to understand mathematics,” he would say with vehemence, “is the only thing that distinguishes Man from the lesser animals!”
Sarah decided that she was not going to tell him that Grey could count.
Madame Jeanette taught French, Latin, and History. She spoke French with a Parisian accent, which she was quite proud of. She was also extremely pretty and young, and there were rumors among the boys that she had been a ballet dancer at the Paris Opera, or perhaps a cancan girl at the Moulin Rouge. Sarah thought that the boys would be quite disappointed if they learned the truth—a truth that Sarah had inadvertently “overheard” when Madame Jeanette was thinking very hard one day. The truth was simply that she was extremely well-educated, but that her family had fallen on hard times, and she had to go be a schoolteacher or a governess. After several wretched postings, a friend had directed her to England and Mem’sab. Mem’sab and Sahib placed no restrictions on her movements, did not spy upon her, did not forbid her to have beaus, and encouraged her to spend all the time she liked at the British Museum outside of lessons. The tiny difference in pay was far outweighed by the enormous difference in freedom, to her mind. And lately, there was a handsome young barrister who kept taking the carrel next to hers in the Reading Room…
There were four other teachers, not counting the nursery teachers, but Sarah wasn’t taking any classes from any of them.
Madame Jeanette was perfectly normal, but Professor Hawthorne and Miss Payne had—something—about them. Sarah didn’t know just what it was yet, but she had the feeling there was a great deal more to both of them than appeared on the surface.
The other five children in her class were very nice, but—well, Sarah was just used to spending a great deal of time in the company of adults, or people who acted like adults, and it didn’t seem to her as if she had much in common with the others. They invited her to play in their games, but they seemed relieved when she declined. She was a great deal more attracted to some of the older children, but they ignored the younger ones, and she couldn’t think of a good way to get their attention.
So, for the first month, she spent most of her free time alone, in the kitchen with the cooks and their helpers, or with Karamjit. Often she simply followed Karamjit on his rounds. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when he wasn’t busy, he would talk to her as if she were a grown person, telling her about his home in India, asking her about Africa. And sometimes, he would drop little nuggets of information about the school, the teachers, and how it had all come to be.
It was all quite interesting, and during the daytime, enough to keep her from being at all lonely.
But at night—at night, she wished (for she wouldn’t call it “praying,” which she instinctively knew should be reserved for very special needs) for two things.
A friend, a real friend, another girl by preference.
And Grey.
2
NAN—that was her only name, for no one had told her of any other—lurked anxiously about the back gate of the Big House. She was new to this neighborhood, for her slatternly mother had lost yet another job in a gin mill and they had been forced to move all the way across Whitechapel, and this part of London was as foreign to Nan as the wilds of Australia. She had been told by more than one of the children hereabouts that if she hung about the back gate after tea, a strange man with a towel wrapped about his head would come out with a basket of food and give it out to any child who happened to be there.
Now, there were not as many children willing to accept this offering as might have been expected, even in this poor neighborhood. They were afraid of the man, afraid of his piercing, black eyes, his swarthy skin, and his way of walking like a great hunting cat. Some suspected poison in the food, others murmured that he and the woman of the house were foreigners, and intended to kill English children with terrible curses on the food they offered. But Nan was faint with hunger; she hadn’t eaten in two days, and was willing to dare poison, curses, and anything else for a bit of bread.
Furthermore, Nan had a secret defense; under duress, she could often sense the intent and even dimly hear the thoughts of others. That was how she avoided her mother when it was most dangerous to approach her, as well as avoiding other dangers in the streets themselves. Nan was certain that if this man had any ill intentions, she would know it.
Still, as teatime and twilight both approached, she hung back a little from the wrought-iron gate, beginning to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to see what, if anything, her mother brought home. If she’d found a job—or a “gen’lmun”—there might be a farthing or two to spare for food before Aggie spent the rest on gin. Behind the high, grimy wall, the Big House loomed dark and ominous against the smoky, lowering sky, and the strange, carved creatures sitting atop every pillar in the wall and every corner of the House fair gave Nan the shivers whenever she looked at them. There were no two alike, and most of them were beasts out of a rummy’s worst deliriums. The only one that Nan could see that looked at all normal was a big, gray bird with a fat body and a hooked beak that sat on top of the right-hand gatepost of the back gate.
Nan had no way to tell time, but as she waited, growing colder and hungrier—and more nervous—with each passing moment, she began to think for certain that the other children had been having her on. Teatime was surely long over; the tale they’d told her was nothing more than that, something to gull the newcomer with. It was getting dark, there were no other children waiting, and after dark it was dangerous even for a child like Nan, wise
in the ways of the evil streets, to be abroad. Disappointed, and with her stomach a knot of pain, Nan began to turn away from the gate.
“I think that there is no one here, Missy Sa’b,” said a low, deep voice, heavily accented, sounding disappointed. Nan hastily turned back, and peering through the gloom, she barely made out a tall, dark form with a smaller one beside it.
“No, Karamjit—look there!” replied the voice of a young girl, and the smaller form pointed at Nan. A little girl ran up to the gate, and waved through the bars. “Hello! I’m Sarah—what’s your name? Would you like some tea bread? We’ve plenty!”
The girl’s voice, also strangely accented, had none of the imperiousness that Nan would have expected coming from the child of a “toff.” She sounded only friendly and helpful, and that, more than anything, was what drew Nan back to the wrought-iron gate.
“Indeed, Missy Sarah speaks the truth,” the man said; and as Nan drew nearer, she saw that the other children had not exaggerated when they described him. His head was wrapped around in a cloth; he wore a long, high-collared coat of some bright stuff, and white trousers that were tucked into glossy boots. He was as fiercely erect as the iron gate itself; lean and angular as a hunting tiger, with skin so dark she could scarcely make out his features, and eyes that glittered at her like beads of black glass.
But strangest, and perhaps most ominous of all, Nan could sense nothing from the dark man. He might not even have been there; there was a blank wall where his thoughts should have been.
The little girl beside him was perfectly ordinary by comparison; a bright little Jenny-wren of a thing, not pretty, but sweet, with a trusting smile that went straight to Nan’s heart. Nan had a motherly side to her; the younger children of whatever neighborhood she lived in tended to flock to her, look up to her, and follow her lead. She, in her turn, tried to keep them out of trouble, and whenever there was extra to go around she fed them out of her own scant stocks.
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