The Midnight Rose Read Online Free

tried to concentrate on the figures in front of him, but Anahita’s face kept floating into his vision. Surely his grandmother was right when she’d told him Anahita was deluded. And yet, there were things his great-grandmother had said when they were alone—things she couldn’t have known about him—which had unsettled him. Perhaps there was something in her story . . . maybe he would take the time to glance through it when he arrived back home.
    At Mumbai airport, even though it was past midnight, Bambi was there at Arrivals to greet him. The rest of the night was spent pleasantly in his apartment overlooking the Arabian Sea, enjoying her slim young body.
    The following morning, he was already late for his meeting, and as he packed his briefcase with the documents he needed, he removed the papers Anahita had given him.
    One day I will have time to read it , he thought as he shoved the manuscript into the bottom drawer of his desk and hurriedly left his apartment.
    One year later
    . . .  I remember. In the still of the night, the merest hint of a breeze was a blessed relief from the interminable dry heat of Jaipur. Often, the other ladies and children of the zenana and I climb up to the rooftops of the Moon Palace, and make our beds there. And as I lie there gazing up at the stars, I hear the sweet, pure sound of the singing. And I know then that someone I love is being taken from the earth and gently cradled upward . . .
    I awake with a start, and find myself in my bedroom in Darjeeling, not on the palace rooftops in Jaipur. It was a dream, I think, trying to comfort myself, disoriented, for the singing still continues in my ears. Yet I know for certain I am conscious.
    I try to recover my senses and realize what this means: if I’m in the present, someone I love is dying at this moment. As my heart rate increases, I close my eyes and scan my family, knowing that my second sight will tell me who it is.
    For once, I come up with a blank. It is strange, I think, as the gods have never been wrong before.
    But who . . . ?
    I close my eyes and breathe deeply, calmly, listening intently.
    And then I know. I know for certain what I’m being told.
    My son . . . my beloved son. I know it is he who is finally being taken upward.
    My eyes fill with tears and I gaze out of my window, looking up to the heavens for comfort. But it’s night and beyond my window is only blackness.
    There’s a gentle knock at my door and Keva enters, concern on her face.
    “Madam. I heard you weeping. Are you ill?” she asks as she crosses the room and stares down at me, taking my pulse at the same time.
    I shake my head silently, while she reaches for a handkerchief to dry the tears that have fallen down my face. “No,” I say, comforting her, “I’m not ill.”
    “Then what is it? Did you have a nightmare?”
    “No.” I look up at her, knowing she won’t understand. “My child has just died.”
    Keva stares at me in horror. “But how did you discover that Madam Muna is dead?”
    “It is not my daughter, Keva, but my son. The one I left behind in England many years ago. He was eighty-one,” I murmur. “At least he enjoyed a long life.”
    Again, Keva looks at me in confusion, and puts a hand to my forehead to see if I have a fever. “But, madam, your son died many years ago. I think that perhaps you were dreaming,” she says, as much to convince herself as me.
    “Perhaps,” I say kindly, not wishing to alarm her. “But nonetheless, I would like you to make a note of the time and the date. It’s a moment I don’t wish to forget. For you see, my waiting is over.” I smile weakly at her.
    She does as I request, noting the time alongside the day and date on a piece of paper and handing it to me.
    “I’ll be fine now, you may leave me.”
    “Yes, madam,” Keva replies uncertainly. “Are you sure you’re not ill?”
    “I’m sure. Good night, Keva.”
    When she leaves the room, I take a pen from my bedside