"Many years ago I was a _devadasi_." Kamala sat, pillowless, on
the carpet, watching as Hawksworth ate. Her musicians, the flautist and
the drummer, knelt silently behind her. Nadir Sharif's servants stood
by, nervously attentive, pretending to ignore everyone but Hawksworth.
The white plaster walls of the lamp-lit room fairly flashed with
Kamala's diamonds. "Do you know what that is?"
Hawksworth shook his head, his mouth gorged with roast lamb. The room
was filled with its aroma. It was his first lamb since Burhanpur, and
he was ravenous.
"Does that mean yes?" Kamala's Turki was surprisingly good.