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  Constance flexed forward, her heart picking up its speed. “Go on.”

  “There is no temple in Ranumaran. ‘Hidden temple’ is a story.”

  “You mean, like a legend? A myth?”

  He shook his head. “Not one of our stories. One of yours. An Englishman story. There is a cave in Ranumaran. I believe this is your hidden temple. They say an Englishman come every day for years, to the cave. Nobody know what he do. He come, he go again after an hour. The locals say, he must pray. It is Englishman’s temple. He say he goes there for faith.” Here Nissanka smiled. “Your mother’s name?”

  “Yes. Faith.” Constance’s mind tried to make sense of this. Her mother lived in a cave? And who was the Englishman who came to see her? Her captor? Did he bring her food and water?

  “I am sorry I have nothing but story to tell you. No fact. But he has not been seen for some years now.”

  She shook her head. It didn’t matter. The important thing was that she had another clue to go on. “This cave, how do I get there?”

  Nissanka scratched his head. “As for how you get there from here, I don’t know. I go up with an elephant. You could sail. You see Ranumaran just after Sun Peak.”

  “But once I’m in Ranumaran,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound impatient, “how do I find the cave?”

  He smiled, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “You follow my map.”

  Constance opened the paper, scanned it quickly, then folded it once more. “I am in your debt, Nissanka. This means a lot to me.”

  “I hope you find your mother.”

  She returned to the villa with the map tucked up her sleeve for safety. She crossed the entrance hall—swarming now with servants hired for the evening—then headed for the stairs, when she looked up and saw Alexandre.

  At first, she almost didn’t recognize him. He had been groomed so severely. His hair was tied back with a velvet ribbon; he wore a dark-grey waistcoat, a white cravat, black pants with shining boots to his knees, and over the top an embroidered frock coat in yellow and gold. She stopped, agape. He didn’t see her, too busy fiddling with a button on his waistcoat. After a moment, he hurried on his way.

  It was strange. As much as she thought he looked unspeakably handsome in his fine clothes, she still preferred him as he ordinarily was. Natural, comfortable, a wildflower rather than one grown in a pot on the sill. She shook her head, telling herself to put an end to these thoughts. He had made it clear he entertained no such thoughts of her.

  The laughing crowd made its way through the garden in moonlight and towards the dancing room. Brightly burning lanterns hung all about, lighting the room to gold. The colored streamers danced. At Orlanda’s begging, Mr. Howlett had paid for a fence to be hastily erected on the sea side of the room to block the breeze. But still the sea air enveloped them, fresh and salty. The clavichord stood in the corner nearest the garden, and chairs and small tables had been arranged all around, creating a large round dance floor in the middle.

  Constance followed along last. The dinner had been tiresome. She’d been stuck between Orlanda and a carrot-haired Dutch trader’s son named Victor. Victor had become fixated on her, trapping her in long, dull conversations about elephant routes, his strong accent making him hard to understand. Orlanda, for her part, had spoken of nothing but how handsome Alexandre looked, how she was sure he was admiring her dress—in truth, there was very little to admire as it was flimsy and almost see-through—and how her father would certainly approve of him as a son-in-law after seeing him behave so gentleman-like. Their two voices seemed to batter Constance from either side. She watched Alexandre going through the motions of waiting the table, so unschooled in the movements that he seemed almost clumsy, and then decided she could watch him no more.

  The dancing room was a welcome change from the oppressive heat indoors, but Constance knew she would probably have to spend the evening fighting off Victor’s attentions and Orlanda’s silly declarations of love. She took a seat by herself, near the clavichord, and hitched her gloves up over her forearms again. She watched the crowd as they gathered, talking and laughing. Most spoke English, though a pocket of Dutch seamen had formed resolutely apart from the rest on the corner closest to the beach, and the two French guests stood together, gazing forlornly at the party swirling around them.

  Mrs. Howlett shuffled out, a sheaf of music under her arm. Orlanda approached, impatient and hopeful all at once, and helped her mother to get comfortable at the clavichord. Mrs. Howlett warmed her fingers on a scale, then played the opening chords of the first minuet. Orlanda, as the host’s daughter, took her place as the first dancer, with an elderly Dutch gentleman—rumored to be related to Danish royalty—as her partner. Soon, other couples were joining them for the quadrille. Constance was not surprised when Victor appeared before her, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

  “Miss Blackchurch?”

  She wanted to moan, “I don’t feel like dancing.” But she didn’t, because that would have been rude. Instead, she offered him her arm and they were off.

  The thing about the quadrille was that it took so long. Victor returned to his favorite topic of conversation, and Constance took the opportunity to direct her gaze to the refreshment table. There was Alexandre, standing with his noble back erect, gazing directly at her.

  She smiled. He didn’t return her smile. In fact, he was almost scowling. Then she was whirled around again, facing the other way for the next figure. When the dance turned again, he was pouring tea for the French couple, talking to them. She had the odd feeling that she had displeased him somehow. She became aware that Victor had stopped speaking and realized she had been asked a question.

  “I’m sorry? I didn’t hear you properly over the music,” she said.

  “I said, have you ever ridden an elephant?”

  “No,” she said.

  “You really should experience it while you are here.”

  Elephants. Nissanka had suggested that was one way to get to Ranumaran. “Where does one go to find an elephant for travel?” she asked.

  He began to explain, and for the first time in the evening she was interested in him, as he promised her use of one of his own personal elephants—apparently he had a number of them—should she ever need to take a journey on land. After the dance, they retired to sit, still talking. Victor asked her if she wanted lemonade, then headed to the refreshment table to fetch it.

  Alexandre was still looking in her direction, still without a smile on his lips. She suspected he might be jealous. She was both thrilled and saddened by the thought. Thrilled because it meant he did feel something for her, but saddened because she knew that even though Alexandre was much more noble and intelligent than her dancing partner, her father would still rather see her married to Victor. Something was wrong with the world when fathers would rather their daughters were with the right man than with a good man.

  The night wore on. Constance only managed to be apart from Victor for brief periods, pleading that she should dance with somebody else or risk idle gossip. Orlanda danced with everybody at least once and flirted outrageously with the ship’s officers, her eyes always turned to Alexandre to gauge his reaction. Father’s first officer, Maitland, seemed absolutely smitten with Orlanda, though she barely gave him a second glance. Mrs. Howlett began to flag, her fingers fumbling into the cracks between the keys, her tempos speeding and slowing, forcing the dancers to do the same. Alexandre stonily served refreshments, nowhere near as friendly and polished as the native servants in their brightly colored wraps. Father played cards behind the refreshment table while Mr. Howlett smoked cigars and took the occasional turn about the room to supervise. Sometimes, when being whirled about in a dance with other couples, Constance would catch a glimpse of the sky, a breath of the salt air, the sound of the sea in the distance, and it would all seem so strange. An English country dance, on the edge of the beach in a faraway place. It was almost magical. If only her dance partner was Alexandre, and no
t the tedious Victor.

  “I simply can’t dance again,” Constance said to him, as he urged her to stand up with him once more.

  “Well, then we shall have some tea. Come.”

  Constance eyed the refreshments table. Alexandre in his fine clothes. “I’d rather just sit—”

  “No. I insist. You’ve clung to the corner of the room all evening. Please accompany me. I know my father would like to meet you.” He offered his arm, and she could do nothing but take it and approach Alexandre as though she belonged to Victor.

  “Two cups of tea, boy,” Victor said to Alexandre.

  Alexandre, unsmiling, not meeting her eyes, lifted the milk jug and made to pour.

  “No, no. The milk doesn’t go in first. You’ll scald it. Really, boy, where did you learn your manners?” Victor turned to see if Constance was admiring his exercise of authority. She was horrified into silence and didn’t know where to look. “Rather a surly fellow, isn’t he?” Victor said, as though Alexandre wasn’t there to hear it.

  Constance finally turned her eyes to Alexandre, whose cheeks had flushed. He wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  “Hey, fellow,” Victor said, leaning on the table with his fists. “Would it hurt you to smile at the lady?”

  Constance didn’t know if what happened next was an accident. Alexandre was bumped from behind by one of the other servants, his elbow jolted forward, and scalding tea splashed from the spout of the pot over Victor’s left wrist and forearm. The next few minutes blurred as Constance watched helplessly. Victor shouted in pain; immediately a dozen people were crowded around them, offering various remedies for burns. Mr. Howlett arrived, barking at Alexandre for his clumsiness. Alexandre shrugged out of the frock coat, handed it over wordlessly and stalked off towards the beach. Howlett, the coat under his arm, dragged Victor up towards the house, promising that Chandrika had a salve that could take the sting out of anything. Constance was afraid she would cry, so she extricated herself from the crowd and ran headlong into Orlanda, who was on the verge of chasing Alexandre down to the beach. Constance seized her, held her still.

  “What happened? Where’s he going?” Orlanda cried.

  Constance explained, and Orlanda’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Alexandre. Proud, fiery Alexandre! What have you done?” She made little fists with her hands. “Father will be most displeased; Father will never let him anywhere near me again!”

  Constance put an arm around her friend’s shoulders, thinking exactly the same thing.

  Chapter 14

  Constance was somewhere in the space between sleep and wakefulness, when she heard a soft sound. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she held her breath a moment in the dark, but didn’t hear it again. She remembered the events at the dance that evening, and her heart sank all over again. She turned on her side and closed her eyes, chasing sleep.

  The sound again.

  This time she rose. It had come from her window, a soft click. Another. She opened the window and looked down.

  Alexandre stood directly below her window, poised to throw up another shell. His hair caught the moonlight; the sea breeze tugged at his clothes. The sea, oblivious to the quiet sleepiness of the world, was loud and vigorous. He saw her and beckoned silently with both hands. He wanted her to come down.

  Constance pinched the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist. No, she wasn’t dreaming; this was real. Alexandre really waited beneath her window for her. To join him would be entirely scandalous, especially after the incident at the ball, just a few hours ago.

  Constance quickly pulled on a dress, leaving her hair unbound and her shoes in the corner of the room. The house was silent, dark. She held the banister as she felt her way down the stairs toe by toe, holding her breath until she shut herself in the library. The French doors squeaked on their hinges softly. She paused, bracing herself. Nobody woke. Nobody came. Heart thundering, she slipped outside.

  Alexandre was waiting for her in the dancing room, back in his own clothes. The streamers were sagging and tattered; the chairs and tables had all been stacked into the centre of the room. The smell of cigar smoke had been washed away by the sea air. Constance approached Alexandre, her feet prickling with excitement.

  He held out his right hand to her, at the level of his shoulder. Curious, she took it. Without a word, he swung her arm gently and began the steps of the first minuet that had been played that evening. Delighted, she joined him. Their bare feet were silent on the flagstones. Alexandre knew the whole figure, and she wondered if he had learned it merely by watching it that evening. Constance laughed. No music, no lights, no gloves, no shoes, no complicated hairstyles and fancy clothes. Just the two of them and the sea air, spinning through the dance. His body seemed so close, his warm hands so strong. . . .

  The dance came to its end, and he dropped her hand and stood back.

  She caught her breath. “When did you learn to do that?”

  “When I was a small boy, I knew a woman who was only three feet high. She taught me to dance. All other partners were too tall for her.”

  She considered him in the dark. “So you are more cultured than Orlanda gave you credit for?”

  He scowled. “Why would I care to be cultured, when that boorish Dutch fellow should be considered a shining example of culture? He is a rude pig.”

  “Is that why you poured hot tea on him?”

  The edges of a smile touched his mouth. “That was an accident. Though it pleased me greatly.”

  A long moment of silence stretched out. Constance reluctantly said, “I should get back.”

  Alexandre shook his head. “No. Come with me for a walk on the beach. It’s a beautiful night.”

  “Alexandre?”

  “Everything will change tomorrow, Constance,” he said quickly. “Howlett will poison your father’s opinion of me. I will be forced off La Reine des Perles, he will withdraw his offer of my passage back to France, and I won’t see you again. Say you’ll come with me.”

  Constance’s heart caught in her throat. Was he right? Perhaps. And if it were true, if she were never to see him again after tonight, she didn’t want to regret forever that she didn’t walk with him. She wasn’t afraid of the opinions of others; she wasn’t even afraid of her father’s anger. She was only afraid of losing a secret moment that would never come again.

  “I will come with you,” she said.

  The sand took on a grey-blue sheen in the soft moonlight. They walked in silence a while, leaving the villa behind them around the curve of the headland. In time, only the jungle, the sand and the ocean existed, and they were the last two souls on the edge of the world. Alexandre took her hand in his, and while she was afraid she might faint, she didn’t. Every muscle in her body ached with the effort of trying to hang on to this sensation as tightly as she could. Away from the harbor, the ocean roared on, as it had since the world began.

  Finally, they came to sit on the warm sand, and Constance tried to reassure Alexandre that the situation wasn’t as dire as he thought.

  “Father is a reasonable man,” she said. “He’ll understand it was an accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident when I stormed off because Howlett shouted at me.”

  “French pride,” Constance teased.

  He smiled at her, then dropped his voice. “I never act like that, Constance. Never. I have been shouted at by worse men than William Howlett, and usually I just endure it. Hardship schools you to endure anything. An irate rich man is of little concern to me.”

  “Then why?” she said.

  “Because tonight it mattered. Because you were watching. I didn’t want you to think me so low, that . . .” He trailed off.

  Tears pricked her eyes. “I do not think you low. You are so noble and so . . .” Words failed her. Her heart hammered with the thrill of love as much as the excitement of being so far outside the rules.

  He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. “In truth, I think I was jealous too. Seei
ng you with that Dutchman, in his arms.” He turned to look at her in the soft dark. “Do you think me a fool, Miss Blackchurch? To have grown to care who a lady well above my station dances with?”

  “Not at all, Monsieur Sans-Nom,” she said in return.

  “The world is very different here, is it not? The English rules don’t seem to fit.” He ran his hands through his hair, making a noise of exasperation. “There is no hope for me, Constance. You will likely marry a man better bred than me, and there’s little we can do about it. But this fact changes nothing. I still feel the way I feel. . . .”

  “How do you feel?” she prompted.

  He turned his face to her, considering her. His eyes were black, deep as the ocean. “I feel . . . love.”

  A warm sensation fluttered over her skin. Her mouth moved to speak, but she could not. He leaned forward, resting his palm in the sand. She leaned in to him, slowly. His mouth closed over hers. She let her eyes drift shut. His lips were hot, slightly salty. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and she wondered if it might be possible to die from a kiss. She thought it would be a nice way to go.

  In time, he drew back, fixing her gaze in his. “You are so beautiful,” he said quietly, the ocean threatening to obliterate his words entirely. “Whatever shall I do without you, Constance?”

  Right then, if he had asked her to run away with him, she would have said yes. She would have said yes to any suggestion, no matter how unreasonable or improper. But he didn’t suggest any such thing to her.

  Instead, he said, “It is impossible to believe that only a month ago I could get along fine without you, but now the prospect of returning to that way of being is awful to me.”

  “Is it really so hopeless?” she said, knowing it was a foolish thing to say.

  He didn’t answer. The sea beat its ceaseless rhythm. Melancholy washed through her. She remembered she hadn’t even told him about the map, the cave that Nissanka had spoken of. What was the point? If things went as badly as he thought, then she would have to continue her search without him.