"Make her lie still, I want to put it in here," someone said. At once, Mariana felt a burning pain on one side of her nose. She gasped and struggled, feeling fingers poking into her ribs. The grip on her neck grew tighter. Gritting her teeth, she lay still.

"Give me the neem twig," ordered the same voice, and once again came the pain as something new and rough was thrust into the fresh wound.

The restraining hands were withdrawn. It was over. Mariana pulled up her legs and crouched, panting, on the bed, her back to a filigreed window, a hand protecting her injured nose. Furious at her tormentors, angry at her own helpless tears, she glared at the crowd of interested women that had collected in the doorway. The women did not speak. They looked at her, some holding their veils across their faces as if she were someone to fear. When they had stared long enough, they departed on silent, bare feet, glancing over their shoulders as they left her.

"DRINK this." A servant girl knelt beside her, a cup of red pomegranate juice in her hand. "You must not be afraid," the girl murmured. "You must be a beautiful bride. It is beautiful to wear the n'hut," she added wistfully.

"That's right, Reshma," agreed Moran from where she lay, stretched out on the white-sheeted fioor. "We will make her beautiful, is that not so?" She yawned and got to her feet as gracefully as a cat. "Let her rest until I return."

Mariana probed her nose with her fingertips. It was terribly sore, and something hard stuck out of the wound. Her upper lip tasted of blood. She had told Dittoo she would return at ten o'clock. It must be past that now. Why had she not brought her timepiece? Surely she would be missed at camp. Surely, sooner or later, the British party would learn that she had been taken away to the Citadel. What would happen then? Would they order a search party? Would there be outrage at her kidnapping? Sympathy?

She raised the cup to her lips, then choked on the juice. How could she have forgotten? They were coming here! The treaty was to be signed here, at the Citadel! She had only to survive until her rescue this afternoon.

She looked about the room. Its doorway, the curtain pulled aside, led onto a stone pa.s.sage. Outside, she could see a male hand and a white sleeve: a eunuch, posted there to prevent any attempt at escape. If her situation were different, she would want to know every detail of life in this tower, with its narrow, circular stair and its population of women and eunuchs.

There seemed to be plenty to do while she awaited her rescue. Moran rustled in and out, organizing women who carried pots of sweet-scented mud, bending to poke her fingers through a tray of seeds and pods that had been brought in for her inspection.

"Take these away," she snapped at the child who squatted silently beside the tray. "Do you think I cannot tell last year's reetas reetas when I see them?" when I see them?"

A fat woman arrived to ma.s.sage oil into Mariana's hair and scalp with padded fingers. As the woman worked, Mariana felt her eyes grow pleasantly heavy. When the servant had gone, she laid her clothwrapped head on the bolster and closed her eyes. Why not rest until Lord Auckland came and rescued her?

The thin mattress was quite comfortable, and a cool breeze entered through her window, shifting the air. She was nearly asleep when she heard a small sound at her bedside. The little servant girl they called Reshma sat doubled up on the fioor, all face and knees, waiting.

The girl tugged her stained veil over her hair and glanced behind her. "Memsahib," she whispered, "have you seen the child Saboor?"

Mariana's breath stopped. Saboor Saboor. How did this servant know when she had said nothing to give herself away? Why was the girl crying?

"No, I have not seen any child called Saboor," she replied curtly, before turning her face to the window.

WITH the eyes of the Governor-General, the Misses Eden, and Major Byrne upon him, Mr. Macnaghten drew himself up in his folding chair. "Miss Givens left camp at dawn," he announced stiffiy, "before I was awake. There was no time to send the Maharajah a message that she was ill."

He braced himself, waiting for Lord Auckland's response.

"Do you mean to say the girl vanished before anyone was awake?"

"She did," Miss Emily put in, "but not before she had written, asking to call on me after lunch. That is why I did not worry when she failed to appear at breakfast. Her servant reported at the time that she had a headache and would have breakfast in her tent."

"It is not surprising that she chose not to come to breakfast," Dr. Drummond contributed darkly from his basket chair.

Miss Emily's forehead creased. "It was only when she did not appear later that I sent to inquire, and discovered that she had gone off on an elephant at six o'clock this morning, promising to return straightaway, and that not a word had been heard of her since." Her hands tightened in her lap.

Lord Auckland tugged at his black brocade waistcoat. He looked unwell. "Where did she say she was going?"

Miss Emily pursed her lips. "Her servant said she intended to call upon the father of the man to whom she is 'engaged'-that magician, Shaikh Wallawallah."

"The Shaikh?" Lord Auckland snorted. "She wanted to call on a native Shaikh at six o'clock in the morning?"

"But the servant never believed it. He said that he tried to tell her the elephant had come not from the Shaikh but from the Maharajah, but she would not listen." Miss Emily sighed. "Apparently there were native women on the elephant who said they wanted to prepare her for her 'wedding'; but Mariana said that she was not not to be married, and that she would be back before ten o'clock." to be married, and that she would be back before ten o'clock."

"Could she have been kidnapped by someone else?" Miss f.a.n.n.y looked up from her tatting needles. "The elephant could have belonged to anyone, could it not?"

"No, Miss f.a.n.n.y," put in Major Byrne. "The elephant's escort was wearing chain mail. That eliminates everyone save the Maharajah. The girl was a fool to believe she was going to the Shaikh's house. She really might have-"

"Then that is where she is," interrupted Lord Auckland bluntly. He consulted his pocket watch. "We shall be leaving soon, and then we can discover for ourselves." He glared at Byrne and Macnaghten. "I cannot have female members of this party vanishing without warning."

"I fail to see," said the doctor, brushing a fiy from his coat, "why the girl has done it. She is well-bred, and reasonably good-looking. We all expected her to marry young Marks. Why has she developed this sudden pa.s.sion for native men?" He looked from face to face in the circle of chairs. "How did she do it, and when? How did the man manage to-"

A subaltern arrived and whispered to Major Byrne, who smiled broadly. "The elephants are ready," he told them. "The generals are on their way."

"The treaty!" Lord Auckland got to his feet. "The treaty at last!" He spread his arms. "Within a few weeks, we shall have control of Afghanistan, and of all Central Asia. What a proud time this is for England!"

TWO hours later, Lord Auckland sat perched on a golden chair in the Maharajah's fine little hall of mirrors. He cleared his throat. "Before we sign the doc.u.ments," he said, a trifie too loudly, nodding to Macnaghten to translate, "I must ask the whereabouts of a certain member of our party."

Drops of perspiration ran down Lord Auckland's face, from his gold tricorn to his chin. Dark patches had appeared under the arms of his heavy brocade coat. His skin was turning gray. At a sign from the Maharajah, two fan bearers slipped through the crowd and waved peac.o.c.k feather fans in Lord Auckland's direction.

Mr. Macnaghten's face, fiushing as he translated the question, turned still pinker at the Faqeer's reply.

"May I inquire as to which member of your party is missing?" The Faqeer's voice was bland.

"How I hate the man," Macnaghten murmured to Lord Auckland. "No one is missing, as you suggest, Faqeer Sahib," he said, raising his voice. "Rather, we wish to confirm the arrival of Miss Mariana Givens, our lady translator, who left our camp for the Citadel early this morning."

Perched on his golden throne, the Maharajah looked eagerly from face to face. Several of his sirdars smiled.

The Faqeer stroked his beard. "Then it would be well to discover for ourselves whether the young lady is gracing the Jasmine Tower with her presence." At a motion of his hand, a pear-shaped eunuch materialized before them. "Call one of the women servants," commanded the Faqeer.

"We shall soon be satisfied of Miss Givens's whereabouts," said Macnaghten, speaking in a normal tone to avoid giving the impression of secrecy, as the eunuch departed. "But my lord," he added, dropping his voice again as the Maharajah bent to speak to his Chief Minister, "as for our reclaiming the lady and forbidding this 'marriage' to go forward, I have grave doubts. I know nothing about native customs concerning women, but after listening to some of the Maharajah's more colorful remarks about them, I have drawn the conclusion that they are not the subject of polite conversation. Since ladies are not to be spoken of, I do not know how to broach the subject of canceling this wedding."

Lord Auckland's face had become the color of putty. "Well, Macnaghten," he replied bleakly, "you will have to think of something something."

Macnaghten blew a long breath into the silence. "There is still, of course, a very slight danger that he may not sign the treaty if we upset him."

The eunuch reappeared. He was followed at a distance by a small, slovenly-looking servant girl. "This," he declared, stopping in front of the throne and waving a contemptuous hand, "is Reshma."

"Ah, Reshma." The Faqeer spoke smoothly from his place at the Maharajah's feet, motioning the girl to come forward. "Come closer, child. Tell us if there is an English lady visiting the ladies' quarters."

The girl hesitated, fiddling with her shabby veil. "Yes, Huzoor," she said tremulously, "there is an English lady in the zenana zenana."

"Good. Send for her at once." Lord Auckland wiped his face as Macnaghten translated his command.

The girl, her eyes on her feet, did not respond.

"Speak, child," prompted the Faqeer. "You understand, do you not, that you are to call the English lady?"

"But I cannot bring her." The words rushed from Reshma's mouth. "She cannot be seen."

"What? What nonsense!" Frowning, Macnaghten spoke directly to the girl. "Tell her to come here at once!"

The girl's gaze remained fastened on the carpet in front of the Faqeer. "Huzoor," she whispered, "the lady is already wearing her yellow clothes. Her hair has been oiled. She cannot be seen. Soon they will put the ubtan ubtan on her skin." on her skin."

"What does it matter about her hair or her clothes?" said Macnaghten sharply. "What has this 'ubtan' got to do with it?"

"What is she saying?" The Maharajah's single eye was bright with interest. He leaned forward. "Tell the girl to speak up."

The girl was near tears. "Ubtan," she whispered, "is the spiced and perfumed oil they put on the bride's skin to make it soft and beautiful for the-"

"That will do." His face reddening, Macnaghten coughed noisily.

Beside him, Lord Auckland wiped his perspiring face again. "What is she saying? When is the girl coming?" His voice had taken on a querulous note.

Macnaghten breathed carefully. "She is, that is, Miss Givens is apparently unable to come at present." He avoided the eyes of the Maharajah and his Faqeer. "She is indisposed."

"What? Well, we'll send for Miss Givens later. Let us get on with the treaty."

The Maharajah's golden table was carried out and set down with ceremony. The Sikh courtiers closed ranks, and the British generals and senior officers in their dress uniforms stood at attention.

Lord Auckland's speech, although filled with compliments, was brief. Throughout it, he looked as if he were about to faint, but he did not. He lasted through the reading and translation of the two doc.u.ments, line by line, one in English, one in official Persian. He survived the Maharajah's speech, which was not a speech at all but a paean of elaborate praise aimed directly at him, to which he listened, smiling gravely, while the dark stains spread on his official dress clothes.

Macnaghten translated it all.

At last, taking a quill from the velvet cushion held out by a stifffaced officer, Lord Auckland signed the treaty. The Maharajah followed suit, embraces were exchanged, and it was over.

"My lord," murmured Macnaghten after edging the Governor General a little distance away from the crowd, "I have doubts as to our ability to retrieve Miss Givens from the Jasmine Tower this afternoon."

"Never mind the girl, Macnaghten," replied Lord Auckland, gripping his political secretary above the elbow with a trembling hand. "Take me away from here. I am going to be sick."

ROUSED by the smell of food, Mariana opened her eyes to find Reshma squatting beside her. On the fioor beside the girl rested a tray of bread, orange-and-yellow rice, and something strong-smelling that looked like a chicken stew.

"You should eat now," the girl murmured, lifting the tray.

The light had altered. Below the window, trees cast long shadows across a wide, dry moat. Mariana sat up. "My people, the British! Are they here? Have they come? I must speak to them!" Loosened from its cotton bindings, her hair lay in oily ropes on her shoulders.

Reshma blinked. "The British sahibs with their many soldiers and their strange-looking clothes?"

"Yes. Are they here?" Why did no one in this country answer a question directly?

"No, Bibi, they have gone. They came, but they have gone."

"Gone? How can they be gone? They must be here. They must be asking for me."

Reshma looked away. "They asked for you, but we told them you could not be seen. After that, they went away."

Mariana was on her feet. "What?" she shouted into Reshma's face. "You told them I was not to be seen, and then they went away and left me here left me here?"

The eunuch guard put his head around the door. The girl shrank away, an arm upraised. Mariana fiushed. "Do not fear, Reshma," she said wearily. "I do not strike people."

"Bibi, look at yourself." The girl's chin trembled. "You are a bride. A bride must stay in bed in her yellow clothes until the day of her wedding. You cannot even have your food upstairs with the other ladies. How could you go there, to be seen by men?"

"Has she eaten?" Moran pushed, talking, through the door, followed by a slant-eyed servant woman. "We will do her eyebrows and other hair now. Come," she ordered, signaling the second servant to approach.

Before Mariana could act, Moran had pushed her onto the bed again. Her head immobilized by Moran's beringed fingers, her body pinned bruisingly down by other hands, Mariana struggled uselessly once more, tears of rage and pain leaking from her eyes as the slanteyed woman pulled hair cruelly from her eyebrows with a cat's cradle of twisted string.

"Other brides do not behave like you," Moran snapped after Mariana had twisted out of her grip for the second time. "They know this work is for their beauty." She wiped her damp forehead as Mariana glared at her from the mattress. "They never complain." never complain."

Her heart thundering, Mariana gritted her teeth when the women examined the fine down on her arms. It was only when they untied the rope of her loose, gathered trousers and pulled them down that she screamed until her throat rasped and she could scream no longer. While Moran Bibi and several other women argued with her wails, telling her that it was necessary, that it was beautiful, the silent servant woman pressed a ball of something stiff and sticky against Mariana's tender skin, then tore it away. By evening, while a crowd of silent spectators watched from the doorway, the woman had pulled out every hair on Mariana's body, from her ankles to her chin.

An angled shaft of sunlight shone through the window and lay hot against her eyelids. Still half-asleep, Mariana turned from the window and pulled the satin quilt over her face.

The ship of her dreams had returned again the previous night, carrying her swiftly through ever thicker fog, as steadily as if it were indeed piloted by Noah himself.

Why dream of calm when she was in this state? Why not dream of clinging, terrified, to the ship's foremast while waves broke over the deck and loose rigging whipped through the air, and lightning clove the fog, revealing a ghostly, tattered sh.o.r.e?

Tonight. Her wedding was to be tonight-Christmas Night.

She opened her eyes and touched the side of her nose with its protruding sliver of wood.

She winced at the memory of tiny drops of blood welling up on her softest places where the hair had been torn away.

She was not a bride. She was a lamb being prepared for the slaughter, a spectacle to be gaped at, prodded, and commented upon. Yesterday after the servant raised Mariana's mustard-colored shirt, women and girls had crowded about the bed, staring.

"But," one woman had cried, as she stroked Mariana's midriff with painted fingers, "she needs no ubtan. Her skin is already white, and as soft as silk. No one in the Jasmine Tower has skin so white, so fine!"

"She has long legs, too," offered the woman with thin eyebrows.

Moran sniffed. "All very well," she had said, gesturing for Reshma to fetch another pot of paste, "but just look at the size of her feet."

Mariana fiung off her covers and sat upright. She would go mad if she did not keep her wits about her. If she were to evade this awful marriage, she must have a plan.

"You showed quick thinking in a crisis," her father had said to her once, after she saved Jeremy's life. If only her brain would work quickly this time....

Until now, resisting the queens had gained her nothing. She must save her strength and pretend to agree-allow them to pierce, pluck, oil, and dye her as much as they wished. Soon, perhaps this afternoon, there must be an end to this horrible preparation.

What then? How was she to get away before the wedding tonight? She could still see the eunuch squatting outside her door, but nonetheless, she must get away. She would would get away. No power on earth could force her to marry the Shaikh's son. She would marry a laughing, familiar Englishman, not some dusky-skinned native. get away. No power on earth could force her to marry the Shaikh's son. She would marry a laughing, familiar Englishman, not some dusky-skinned native.

What was he like, the Shaikh's son? Was he fat like the little girl who had carried Saboor up the stairs at the Shaikh's house? Was he raisin-faced, like his father? No, she would not think of it. It must never come to that. Her thoughts racing, she dropped her face into her perfumed hands.

"WIPE that mehndi mehndi from her face! You will give her brown patches!" Moran's irritated command reached Mariana from above as she lay on her back two hours later, her caked hair streaming over the end of her bed, her hands covered in a lacy design of drying mud. from her face! You will give her brown patches!" Moran's irritated command reached Mariana from above as she lay on her back two hours later, her caked hair streaming over the end of her bed, her hands covered in a lacy design of drying mud.

She had not argued over the scented mud in her hair, or over the other things-the delicate tracings of the same mud now drying on her hands and feet, the bucket of slimy, boiled seeds with which they had washed the oil from her hair.

"Bibi," said a small voice, when Moran had gone. "Look, I have brought your food." It was Reshma. She set a tray on the fioor and squatted beside it.