Beatrice liked the Indian sun, so often complained about, she revelled in its clear heat. It was a simple type of heat, the kind that didn't darken skin nor beat harshly. Rather, it encased you in a warm cacoon of delicious warmth. True, it did get a bit overbearing in the summer months- but that was what her home was built for. The December sun, however, was perfect. It was balmy without being scorching and a gentle breeze accompanied the brilliant symphony across the sky.

Miss. Knightley was content- her father was away so she had the run of their expansive home. An oasis in the otherwise bustling Bombay, the manicured green fields stretching on for miles around. The poor and dirty denizens hidden in the distance. Reminders of that confused part of her heritage shrouded along with them.

Beatrice was stretched upon a chaise lounge she had instructed the dark skinned servants to carry out to the Chinese style pagoda on the grounds, it was washed white and so was she. Her skin, though fair, hinted toward the golden rather than the pinky undertones of her father. Her eyes too were dark, not brown, but a pure bottomless black. Nor did she have fair or auburn hair (a subject of envy for her as a schoolgirl, attending grammar school with her peers). Rather her dark dark hair fell down in a straight silky sheet, thick and near waist length. It spread like a dark halo around her head as she contemplated her Austen novel, wondering dimly what would happen if an Indian gentleman wandered into Emma's perfect world.

Of course, there was no such thing as Indian gentlemen. Not unless they were Englishmen masquerading as such. She felt a twinge of annoyance of her own way of thinking. She sat up slowly, her dark hair coalescing into faintly glowing dark mass behind, accentuating the long lines of her neck.

The grounds were populated with the bustle of servants and djinn alike. Though the latter were unseen by (seemingly all) but her. They looked common enough, but with strang editions. Some had wings, others were completely reptilian with milky scales.

The trick, of course, was to not stare directly at them.

Mukti eyed her brother with more than a touch of amusement. She was toying with the end of her sash, drawing it across her face to obscure it, and then dropping it back down to join the rest of her emerald sari. It was a motion that a girl might practice in front of her mirror, a technique she might perfect to use on a suitor when teasing them. Insert a bat of the eyelashes here, flash a grin there... The difference in this instance, however, was that said brother was straightening himself up in the mirror instead, ensuring that his blouse was tucked neatly into his waistcoat and that his unruly black hair never strayed into his eyes.

"I can see you making faces behind my back," Ravi said impatiently, smoothing the wrinkles on his jacket before tugging it on and buttoning it up.

"You are too serious," Mukti chided. "You treat every business meeting like your first. You have been working for Mr. Knightley for eight months already. I do not think he will fire you today for appearing slightly disheveled."

"But he will if I'm late," Ravi retorted, "I am on the verge... Thanks to you."

Mukti pouted her lips, drawing her knees up and sitting in a decidedly less-than-ladylike fashion. However, she said nothing more. A few harsh words from her older brother and the eighteen-year-old would fall silent like the dead. Instead, she directed her attention to the window, which took up a great deal of the far wall. Like in many Indian homes, the rooms remained open as relief during the summer months. The winter, though mild, carried in a gentle breeze which would have tousled Mukti's hair if it were not for her long brown braid. Brown like her skin. In stark contrast, her eyes were a light green.

Ravi shared the same eyes. Since their parents' death from disease some years ago he had taken it upon himself to support the both of them. He had not managed to hold a job for too long, on account of discrimination, until Mr. Knightley. And it was Mr. Knightley who had instated a sort of respect for the British Empire in Ravi that not even his feisty, contrary little sister could erase. Ravi liked his Western clothing. He liked electricity, machines, pocket watches, and English women.

"I'll be back before dinner," he said after a while, pausing once more to brush a long, dark curl behind his ear. "Promise me you won't break anything in town today. Your tactlessness gets expensive."

Mukti's only response to the twenty-four-year-old male was to fling a silk pillow at him and madly dash for the door.

"Get back to work, aye!" roared the truculent Captain, his many moustaches quivered as he surveyed the slight figure before him. "And eat somethin' lad. You look as skinny as the locals!" He guffawed, his voice sticky with phlegm, as he heaved his own expansive stomach away to inspect the crates of furs.
Oliver Partridge, however, smiled at the thought of all the cheeky retorts that sprung to mind as the Captain's rippling backside squeezed itself among the crew. But he'd tolerate the abuse, he'd suffered far worse. Pride was no issue for him, insults and slaps alike slid off him like so much oil.
Instead he intertwined his fingers and placed them behind his head (his bucket and mop forgotten at his feet), he had gold in his pocket and new world to explore. It was high time to make a swift exit into a lawless land that would see him become a Raja.

He ducked around his, now old, ship-mates winding a path down the shipyard into the hustle and bustle of Bombay. He had seen pictures drawn of the natives but they looked nothing like the exaggerated features in illustrations. He marveled at their dark skin that came with so many dizzying hues. Men and women alike varied from the creamiest fair golden complexion to deep rich brown that offset dazzling white teeth. Their eyes and noses and lips- everything about them seemed so finely sculpted so human.

He felt, at once, very conscious of himself here. A feeling he was not used too. His own skin, despite many hours in the sun, remained stubbornly and disturbingly white. His eyes hazel- and his own darkly flaming red hair hidden partially beneath his cap. He also stood a good head above the majority of the crowd; he felt displaced. There was no overwhelming feeling of superiority over these people, he felt the foreigner.

"How strange." He dug his fingers into his pocket, fetching a small beaten pocketwatch upon which a map of England was carved. He flipped it open, a bare face with four limp hands met him.

The captain looked over from overseeing the off-shipping of the cargo, the lad (Oliver was his name?) stood a ways off. He wasn't exactly hard to spot, what with the unnaturally flaming scarlet of his hair. Before he could roar for him to come back, the boy turned slightly and for- no, it wasn't possible.

But for the faintest moment his eyes burnt gold and when the Captain blinked, he had disappeared. Whether into thin air or into the throng, he had no idea.

*

Beatrice had left her pagoda sanctuary, her feet trembled slightly as she walked. A Djinn was walking by her- they would do that. Walk and then vanish, they were few and far between they seemed many to Beatrice, however. This Djinn was a tall pale man with golden eyes and pointed teeth, he strode purposefully down the grounds. She shivered in anticipation of her crossing into him. She had seen other servants just pass through them, unknowingly. Not aware- and the Djinn were not aware of them. They could see them yes- but they didn't matter.

Her skin bristled as he approached, they were seconds apart from each other but then she turned too scared to walk into something so real.

The Djinn's hand snapped out and wrapped it's long fingers around her forearm digging into her flesh. He looked directly at her and she looked away, as disinterested as possible her arm hanging limp in his firm grasp. He sniffed deeply once- then twice. Let go- and vanished.

She gasped for breath, inspecting her skin for bruises. Hoping that what had happened had been a waking dream. It wasn't, four large angry imprints were embedded into her skin. She inhaled sharply and drew herself up. Her dress, made of simple fabrics billowed behind her. It flowed from just below her bust in rich purple, the creamy underdress underneath peeking through. Though the dress had a slightly deep neck and short sleeves it felt a little too hot. Her lace glaces stuck to her fingers and she angrily plucked them off.

Retreating inside the house (where no Djinn appeared) she sat in the cool comfort of the study. Her hair was coiled half back. A practical style, womanly enough to please the idiots but out of her way she could go about her business. Rather, her father's business.

Ravi and his sister lived on the outskirts of Bombay, in an old neighborhood hinting at the times before the city had been under British rule. Most of the houses were lost in a bit of scrubby yard, and just beyond them lay rural fields and dusty roads. That being said, he took the same lengthy trip into town he did everyday--partially walking and partially hitchhiking with whatever means of transportation he could find--until the roads transitioned from unkempt to cobbled at the center of town.

Most days he would meet the other business men at the mill, in a room with large windows that breathed unlike the majority of the working rooms. But on this particular day, the young Indian man had been invited specifically to Mr. Knightley's abode to discuss matters that... Well, truth be told, he had no idea what was in store. All he knew was that this meeting was unlike the rest. The majority of the guests he assumed to be from London, and as such were not native Indian citizens like himself. For that, Ravi felt more than a little flattered.

Indeed, when he came the entrance of his employer's extensive estate, Ravi had to stop himself to breathe. He had not seen such enormous wealth in all his life. He would have likened the place to a palace, though it was unlike any palace he had ever seen. The house was English in style, several stories with glass windows... Gardens, also well-trimmed and kept, with rows of flowers and rose bushes here and there. Consulting his pocket watch, the young man started at the time. He picked up the pace, lengthening his strides, and accosted a servant coming from the front door.

"Excuse me, but Mr. Knightley sent for me... I am to attend a meeting to-day and I admit I haven't the faintest idea where I am meant to go," Ravi said as politely as he could, despite the irritability brewing underneath a cool exterior.

The female servant, Indian with less-than-pristine English, eventually slipped into their native tongue. She went on to point Ravi in the direction of the study, where she thought her master to be. Not the case, in this instance, but how was Ravi to know? He thanked the slight woman curtly, and fell into a brisk walk up the stairs. After making a sharp turn down an aforementioned hallway, he paced a couple of times in front of the study, agonizing over whether he should knock or simply burst on in considering the proximity to the beginning of the meeting.

Well, he settled on simply clasping the handle of the door and throwing it ajar out of impatience and, admittedly, a bout of indecision. Unfortunately, his green gaze was not met with the aged face of Mr. Knightley, but instead a lovely young woman of decidedly mixed ancestry. Ravi paled with embarrassment. At least, as much as a olive-skinned person could, given the circumstances.

~~

Mukti simply had no idea what to do with herself. After a wandering aimlessly through the market, giving eyes at a young man here and there, she threw herself down in a pile of fabric with a huff of frustration. Or boredom. What had the point been, after all, wearing such pretty clothes today and not having anything exciting to do? Even the men had been sub-par. She was naturally confident and outspoken, and bothered whomever she pleased. But if there was nobody worth bothering, how could she?

"Ravi is off at a nice party with intelligent people, and here I am brooding in a pile of laundry," she pouted. Though those people are English, her mind added after a moment, and I want nothing to do with them.

When she was a little girl, Ravi and Mukti had not lived in Bombay. In fact, they'd lived in a small, non-discript village on the edge of the jungle. She used to like to go in there when none of her other family members were paying attention. There were strange sounds, colors, creatures... And outcrops of stone carved from civilizations past. Ruins, she thought, of some magical land that she had never had the luxury of knowing. She liked to pretend in those days that Rama would come to visit her and fall in love with her instead of Sita. Or, that at the very least, he would know of some other young god who was not married.. And would be very happy to carry off her off to be his human bride. She would be dressed in a gorgeous red sari with gold embroidery, henna running up and down her hands and arms.

Alas, nothing had happened. She lived with her brother, her parents stolen by sickness. Everyday Mukti wandered in the hopes that she would find some hint of magic or adventure in these ever-growing streets... From a mystical stranger. She knew of sorcerers and spirits that roamed Bombay at nightfall. She had even heard rumors that the mystics of India and the wizards of England were at war with each other behind the bustle of industry and science. But Mukti had not experienced any of these things herself firsthand. She only wished.

"What's the use," she muttered, picking herself up from the floor even though her mood remained as low as ever. "Nothing ever happens. Even if I were to shout from the rooftops that I'd fight for India's freedom, if only someone would teach me a spell or two, nothing will come from it."

Beatrice smiled broadly at the young man standing before her in the doorway looking decidedly nervous. She arose from her father's expansive armchair slowly. Her eyes twinkling a little madly, the full effect of her pale gown was not lost in the gleaming sunlight filtering through the window. She swiftly observed the man before her, he was tall and rather finely dressed- in English clothing. His back perhaps a little too straight. Her covert observance was halted when she reached his face, his eyes were a striking shade.

"Your name is Ravi, right?" she said in cool Hindi tones. Outside, she heard someone beginning to pound on a dhol. The beat familiar and pounding reverberated softly around the enclosure and into the room. Beatrice picked up a letter from her father laying on the desk, the ink still damp in some spots.

"Father, ah, Mr. Knightley, has gone on some business to the Orient- Mesopotamia, I believe." she stated, "he has taken Mr. Cordsworth with him as well, so I've been left in their stead."

"You'll find me a very competent employer, Ravi."

She smiled a little, her canines perhaps a tad too sharp. That unconscious magic behind her eyes flaring to life in the slightest of ways, it was barely contained.

Of course she knew who Ravi was. She had seen him always by her Father, quiet and stoic. Serious, always serious. He had never spared a glance toward her, seemingly too immersed in this British way of life.

*

Oliver gasped as he appeared quite suddenly atop a pile of fabric. Actually, he was a good five feet above said pile of fabric, and plummeted down in the thankfully soft landing spot. His grunt of pain went unnoticed in the throng, even by the fabric merchant whose wares had now the imprint of his lanky body. He winced as he stood up, noticing for the first time a young woman standing nearby.
Her gait was unlike the others. Her back was proud and straight, a defiant fist curled atop a hip.

Nothing ever happens. Even if I were to shout from the rooftops that I'd fight for India's freedom, if only someone would teach me a spell or two, nothing will come from it."

Oliver shook his head slightly. What she had said was undoubtedly foreign, spoken in a lilting language. But he had been able to understand every word. He frowned looking down at the silver stopwatch still clutched in his palm, still not yielding any of its secrets. So, still holding it, he responded cautiously.

"I could 'elp you with that, miss." his eyes widened he understood what he said- but the language pouring out of his mouth was certainly not English. "Oy, where's my English gone?"

He got to his feet (tall as ever), his red head brushing the canopy above their heads. He tapped the young girl on the shoulder.

"Do you know what language I'm speaking?" he spoke haltingly, unsure of the syllables pouring out of his mouth. Also, forlornly remembering the language lessons taught aboard the ship he had sailed upon to get here. The ones he had quickly dismissed in favour of going to sleep early.

For the first time in her life, it appeared that Mukti had jumped to conclusions. Like any other day, she had expected boredom and disappointment. However, it occurred to her, as soon as she felt the touch of a hand on her shoulder (causing her to give a yelp and wheel around, almost tripping backwards over a series of nearby crates) that she had... For once... Been mistaken. As far as the boredom was concerned. Disappointment, though, came surging up from the pit of her stomach. It threatened to break out in the form of a wail. While she agreed that the very tall (it could have been that she was simply short) redheaded man standing before her was quite becoming, her prejudices against the English prevented her from immediately welcoming his presence.

Mukti eyed the man with disdain, backing up against the closest building wall and watching his movements warily. She fought her irritability, swallowing the wail of disapproval, and made an effort to speak. It took a few moments, as her words caught in her throat. She found it queer that he had spoken in her native tongue, asking bizarre questions like "Where has my English gone?" and "What language am I speaking?" How could he not know what language he spoke, he was speaking it at this very second! Obviously he would have had to learn it at some point! Ridiculous. But then again, foreigners often were.

"What do you mean 'what language am I speaking?'" Mukti snapped impatiently, her words coming out quickly once she had managed to push them out. "We are speaking Marathi. You are in Maharashtra, you know..."

It occurred to her, after this, that the man had said something before to her. And it had come directly after her indignant statement to no one in particular. What had he said? She hesitated, remembering. "I could 'elp you with that, miss." Mukti swallowed, her green eyes wide as tea saucers as she regarded the stranger. Had he meant what she assumed he meant...? This was happening far too quickly.

"Wh-What did you mean there, with... Helping me...?" she asked finally, turning the end of her sash between and around her nervous hands.

~~

What had possessed Ravi to ignore the existence of his employer's daughter? Not only were they exceedingly close in age, all things considered, but Miss Beatrice was lovely... Ravi knew she had been here and there at previous gatherings, but it occurred to him that he had never actually looked directly at her. Perhaps he had been too busy. Perhaps he had been distracted with something else. But, for whatever reason, Ravi regretted it now. If not for her radiance, then due to the circumstances... How could he have guessed that, at such short notice, Mr. Knightley and his secretary slash personal assistant Mr. Cordsworth would take leave of him and leave Beatrice in their stead?

Ravi felt nauseous suddently, coupled with a shyness uncharacteristic of himself. Other than his sister, he had little to no formal interaction with females. Yes, at parties he could joke after a few shots of whiskey. He could flirt. But then those women had always flirted back, being in a similar state as he. Without the influence of alcohol, Ravi felt he could not match up to whatever standards he had held himself to in the past. He had simply been too much of a workaholic, and had not courted anyone seriously as a consequence. Leave it to fate that he be put in this position...

Ravi cleared his throat, trying to forget for a moment that Miss Beatrice was female, and proceeded with business as planned. "V-Very well, Miss Knightley. The new mill is in tip-top shape and fully staffed. I have managed it to the highest standard... Yesterday we received the prototypes for some textile designs, which I am happy to look over with you sometime this week should you wish it..."

Noticing the woman's unwavering gaze on his face, Ravi faltered for a moment, averting his own vivid eyes to a shelf to the left. It was entirely filled up with unknown volumes. He could not read their titles from this distance. "I expect you have some questions for me, regarding my work. M-May I sit down? I am afraid standing for any length of time becomes uncomfortable for me." Among other things, his mind added wryly.

Oliver marvelled at the girls words. This type of speaking was like seeing two transparent images overlaid upon each other. Marvellous, Marathi. He took out his pocket watch and flicked it open, one of the four hands was pointed north and trembling slightly; pulsating with an odd little glow that could be mistaken for a reflection.
The pocketwatch, that must be it.
He looked up at the young girl before him and smiled broadly. She was a different sort of beautiful, unusual and exotic. So used to soft and fair English damsels he was quite taken aback by her uniqueness, even in a sea of similar brown faces. Where the English coveted rounded shapes and delicate features the lines of her face were sharp. The gleamed brilliantly in the sun, her eyes too were beautiful. One might even think they were the eyes of-
No, no. Couldn't be.

"Helping you? Ah!" he said (a little too theatrically perhaps), "well you were asking about-"
He paused and looked both ways before whispering,
"spells?"

He always was a flirt, as bold with any pretty woman that crossed his path no matter rank or class. Yet he was snubbed more often than not. He was no Casanova, but he could lure in the ladies when he needed to. Of course, he didn't quite know how one went about flirting in this part of the world. But it was the only way he knew how to interact with young women.

"Do you need a little magic in your life, love?"

He was not being glib, underneath the flirtation there was a serious question here. Her green eyes were not usual, not usual at all. Perhaps it was the way she was born, or perhaps it was something more afoot here. However the best way to know was to simply ask.

*


Beatrice pursed her lips at his word; her sharply defined cupids bow wrinkling. She did not notice Ravi's discomfort, oblivious to his nervousness she waved a hand for him to be seated in the cushy red overstuffed armchair. She turned to the window, staring outside the expansive lawn, right toward the white fence that bordered the property. She let out a small sigh, then turned to a servant who had come in with a little trolley of two tall glasses of diluted rose grenadine.

"Kamaljit, please get me a suit."

Kamaljit lowered his eyes and bowed once, his white turban trembling precariously on his head, before straightening and marching off.

"Ravi-ji," she said using the affectionate term in a way both teasing and serious, "I do have some questions of your work."

Kamaljit returned with a brightly coloured bundle of cloth in his arms. She took it from him gratefully dismissing him after he inquired if she needed servants to help her put the clothing on. Stepping behind a bamboo screen in the corner of the room, short enough so her face could be seen but everything else covered, she slipped out of her dress and began putting on the other dress.

"What do you know of Bombay, Ravi?"

She paused as she slid on the wide-legged linen trousers that stopped just shy of her ankle.

"Because, I think it would be altogether a very necessary endevour if-"

she slipped on a pair of of golden khusa and stepped out with a flourish.

"you take me to see our lovely city the proper way."


Of course, her plea was overlaid with frippery and pleading but she was serious. Her father had left for two months, she had the run of the place. No Mr. Cordsworth to keep her in line either. A chance like this mustn't be wasted nor allowed to slip away. She was on a mission.


{if you care to know what the heck she put on it was this xD http://www.desistylecheck.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/4288.jpg}

(( Omg, how pretty! *q* I would so wear that outfit, too! I tried to look for a picture that reminded me of Mukti with her green sari, but I couldn't find a good match. Not enough women with their hair in a braid.. XD After that I proceeded to watch music videos from Bollywood movies, because the pictures put me in the mood~ ))

Ravi took no time in seating himself in the grand chair. He sunk into the cushions as soon as his weight was shifted onto the object, and had to catch himself with the armrests to keep from falling too far and making a fool of himself. He made an attempt to keep his eyes off of the striking women with Indian features and pale skin, to no avail... He nodded politely at the turban-topped servant when he briskly entered and departed the room, but soon his attention sped back to the young lady.

She had, perhaps due to knowledge over the power she had over men, opted to change her attire in his presence...With only a bamboo screen to obscure her slender figure. He could see her head peeking over the top as she spoke. Ravi lowered his eyes to his hands, resting in his lap. They shook slightly, so he clenched them as tightly as he could to prevent them from doing so.

"Ravi-ji." The girl's sing-song voice and teasing tone made Ravi go rigid before he was able to recollect himself. By the Lord, he would never survive this ordeal! Little did he know that Beatrice intended to make the situation far worse in a matter of seconds.

He had to stop and think for a moment, at the mention of Bombay and his knowledge of it. Ravi blinked a couple of times with confusion, his pale irises bright in the sunlit study. "Y-Yes, Miss Knightley... I think... I think that my knowledge of the area is sufficient. After all, I was raised in a nearby village. And, I have been in Bombay for about eight years myself."

He was curious, to say the least, about Beatrice's experience with the city. And India in particular. Surely her mother was Indian? Had she spent the majority of her life in England, or did she call Bombay her home as well?

Ravi had scarcely lifted the glass of grenadine to his lips when Beatrice announced her true intentions when she meant to "question him", causing him to sputter and almost spit the concoction out onto his sleeve.(Or, alternatively, it could have been how ravishing she looked in her more traditional Indian dress.) He stopped himself, averting the travesty, and regarded her with blatant skepticism. Yes, he could see it now. Mr. Knightley had left his daughter unattended, handful that she was, and she now sought to be Ravi's tormentor. And, seeing as she acted as his employer in Mr. Knightley's stead, Ravi had little choice in the matter.

"Very well," Ravi replied faintly, his brow creasing with woeful something-or-other. He stood slowly, straightening his coat. "Though I am afraid I cannot provide acceptable transportation for a lady... You may have to send for a carriage or..." The young man trailed off, unsure of what sort of amenities Miss Beatrice did have at her disposal.

~~

Mukti's bafflement returned. She watched him fiddle with the contraption in his hands, wondering what the odd glow was she saw coming off the item. At first she thought it was light glinting off the surface of the glass. But on closer inspection, she realised that something else had caused the eerie sparkle entirely. Before she could comment, however, the man answered her question. In fact, she was almost appalled at his forward tone. Despite his evident confusion, the copper-haired stranger recovered quickly enough to send a little flirtation in her direction. She huffed suddenly, puffing out her chest and glaring. She would have welcomed the attention, most days, if not for his ethnicity.

"Even if I were interested in magic, it isn't any of your business," she retorted.

Mukti folded her hands over her chest, her green sash slipping a ways down her olive shoulder. She did not seem to notice. Instead, her brilliant eyes slid up and down the man's figure, evaluating his appearance. He wore western clothing, not unlike her brother, and a cap. Unlike Ravi, though, his clothing was not so fine. Mukti would even stoop to describe it as "common" and "grubby". She sensed that up till recently, the young stranger had participated in some hard manual labor. Or attempted to at any rate. He was not the most muscular individual in the world, even with the grime on his skin and the wear on his garments.

She straightened her back, her head held defiantly. "I would like to inform you that I hate foreigners--the English especially. As you might assume, it will be difficult for you to change my mind."

Still... She could not help feeling a little drawn to him, with his exotic hair color and winning smile. 'Be careful,' a voice deep inside urged her. Mukti proceeded to ignore it. This man had mentioned spells. Magic. He might be leading her on, yes. He might have less-than-admirable intentions for her, yes. But Mukti had waited far too long for something like this to happen. Besides, she could take care of herself! If push came to shove, even though he was far taller than her, Mukti could subdue the foreigner. She knew where to kick a man and bring him down for several minutes (after having had plenty of opportunities to practice on her brother).

"...Though I might be persuaded," she added after a time. Her eyes moved back up to the stranger's face, no longer lingering on his raiment. "Convince me that I can trust you, and I will be happy to listen.You can start by offering your name. And your real name, if you please."

Oliver clapped his hands excitedly together, clasping them tight seemingly oblivious of the girls clear disdain for Englishmen. His eyes flickered appreciatively at the exposed skin, that alluring golden hue was for more brilliant than the others. Surely. He forced his eyes to meet hers and said,

"Name's Oliver Partridge." He grinned as he said his name he recognized the flow of English coming from his mouth.

He glanced about him, the area they were in well populated. He twisted his mouth in consternation then suddenly drew closer to her. He extended his hand slightly, palm upward, his fingers barely brushing the fabric wound around her. He stared directly into her piercing eyes- eyes he had been told to look out for.

"I shall tell you what I mean by magic- but we must go to a more private place than this."

His fingers twitched and a little green flame danced upon his finger, it changed colours quickly- all blurring into a white light that rapidly dissipated. No more than hookah smoke on the thick air.

"and you must also tell me your real name too."

**

Beatrice's décolletage shone, the bones prominent beneath her skin. She stroked it idly as she thought for a moment listening to Ravi's words. She liked the sound of his voice, deep and stately. His words well thought out, nothing at all like the high pitched squealing of servants who talked in foreign dialects far too fast.

She laughed suddenly at the mention of the carriage. She walked toward him,

"A carriage? I want to be as inconspicuous as possible. I am not above any means of transportation." Her fingers trailed the back of his armchair and she leaned in behind him.

"Why, you could even carry me on your back." She laughed again at the thought but then turned serious. Her darkly hued lips pulled down in a taut line of concentration.

"Perhaps a bike, I think a donkey would be in all honestly far too undignified. Unless you'd like to dress like a beggar." she grinned her canines sharp and pointed gleaming.

"Come now, you act the part of the Englishman. But surely your heart pumps Indian blood? You must know of all the little routes and ways one can see the real Bombay."

She stood before him (keeping still was never a great skill of hers) and bent down slightly, the deep neck of her kameez drooping slightly.

"And any business that is conducted between us until the time of your employers arrival shall remain completely confidential."

Beatrice straightened,

"Unless of course you leave. Then I'll be sure to see to it that you never work for us again."

Ravi was painfully aware of the woman's fingertips caressing the back of his armchair. It was though the sensation had passed entirely through the thick fabric and stuffing of the chair, even through his suit, and kissed itself across his bare skin. Wishful thinking, perhaps, or the enhancement of his nerves. Either way, the young Indian knew better than to argue or refuse his new employer. With a deep sigh of resignation, he allowed Miss Beatrice to finish her "convincing" and sweet-talking even though his discomfort caused him to only half listen.

By the time she had positioned herself in front of him to lean forward alarmingly close to his face, Ravi had all but relented to being her Bombayan guide. He fidgeted with his hands, clasping each other tightly within his own lap, and averted his green gaze momentarily.

"B-Believe me, Miss Knightley, I have no intention of losing this job... If your desire is to see the real Bombay, I am happy to comply."

A small voice in Ravi's skull proposed that he might have actually been too complaint in this instance. But, either he could embrace this fiasco as an opportunity to spend time with a beautiful (albeit quirky) woman, or he could abhor every minute of his wasted time. Given the choices, Ravi was quick to accept the former. Remember, you're getting paid for this no matter what horrors Miss Beatrice has in store for you, he reminded himself.

Ravi cleared his throat, fixing his own collar absentmindedly when the neck of Beatrice's kameez drooped, and stood suddenly. He was careful to do so after she had straightened her back, as to avoid knocking her over. Nevertheless, his motion had most likely been unexpected and he thought he might have noticed the faintest twitch from her as a consequence. He shrugged it off. Be calm, his mind added. You must learn not to be so jumpy around her.

"If you want the genuine Bombay experience, then I suggest we explore by foot. If, of course, you feel up to all the walking, Miss Knightley." There may have been a trace of sarcasm in the last statement, but it was faint at best. Ravi subconsciously hinted at Beatrice's privileged upbringing.

After another quiet guttural sound, he offered the crook of his arm to the woman. He could at least escort her from the premises in a gentlemanly fashion, even if she did insist on behaving like the locals after departed through the front gates.

~~

Mukti noticed the raking of "Oliver"'s eyes over her exposed shoulder. At first, she indulged a surge of disdain for his inability to keep his attraction to himself. But almost immediately afterward, the pit of her stomach gave an uncomfortable turn... Followed by a queer feeling she did not remember having had before in her life. Predictably, she ignored said feeling and continued to regard the man with an open scowl. Which, of course, he was met with the moment he found himself able to tear his golden gaze away from her skin.

"Are you having fun, Mr. Partridge? Please keep your eyes at the level of mine, if you would be so kind."

This time, she drew her scarf back up to its previous position over her shoulder and left arm, satisfied by the sensation of its cover. Now, Mukti had never been one to be ashamed of her physical assets by any means. But, for some strange reason, her cheeks burned at the thought of this particular stranger looking at her in such a way. She tried to bury the notion deep underneath her awareness.
It didn't help when he reached out and touched her sari. Ever so slightly, moving infuriatingly close to her... Mukti flinched subtly, but, she refused to comment on it and give Oliver the satisfaction.

"Oh, yes, because the first thing you do to win a woman's trust is to invite her to go somewhere private with you." Like her brother, Mukti found it difficult to lay off the sarcasm whenever she saw fit. "Lucky for you that I--"

She froze. A small, emerald flame flickered upon the tip of the Englishman's finger. The Englishman who had magically become fluent in Marathi, according to his behaviour. The flame burst rapidly into white light, which dissipated into the vaguest trace of smoke. Her eyes returned to the wide saucers they had been with Oliver's first appearance.

"...My name is Mukti. Mukti Hirve. There is an abandoned warehouse I know of near the Oshiwara... Follow me."