Scotland, the land of his fathers, cool and green, as familiar as his own bones. In his present state of turbulence, the idea of Falkirk shimmered like a distant beacon on a stormy night. Losing Georgina had left a huge hole in the middle of his spirit, but Falkirk could fill some of that emptiness. It gave him a place to go, and a reason to make the effort.
He turned and leaned against the window frame, arms folded across his chest. "I guess I'll be going back to Scotland."
"I hope you'll stay a few days before you start back," David said. "Lord knows when I'll see you again. It will be years before I'll be able to visit home."
Having decided to leave India, Ian would have liked nothing better than to do so immediately, but that was impossible. "Before I leave, I've an errand to perform in Baipur. When I'm done, I'll stop in Cambay on the way back to Bombay."
"What kind of errand?"
Ian thought of darkness and cold and despair, and the man who in worldly terms had been an enemy, but who had become as close as Ian's own shadow. "For a year I shared my cell with a Russian colonel, until he was executed. He kept a journal in a small Bible, and I promised that if possible, I'd send it to his closest relative, his niece. As of three or four years ago, the girl lived at Baipur. Since I'm this close, I'll take the journal in person rather than send it through official channels."
David's brows rose. "What on earth is a Russian girl doing living at an Indian district station?''
"The child's mother was the colonel's younger sister, Tatyana, and her father was a Russian cavalry officer." Ian explained. "After Tatyana's first husband died, she visited a Swiss spa to bury her grief and met a Company administrator called Kenneth Stephenson, who was on his way home to teach at the Company training college at Haileybury. They married and lived at Haileybury until Tatyana died five or six years ago."
"The Company must have loved having a Russian at the heart of their training college," David said, amused.
"According to Pyotr, his sister wasn't the least political, but she could charm any man in creation. After she died, Stephenson asked to be assigned to India again. He was made district collector in Baipur and his stepdaughter came out with him. Pyotr hadn't had any contact with his niece for some time, but there's a good chance she's still in Baipur."
"The political agent in Cambay will know," David said. "What's the girl's name, and how old is she?"
"Larissa Alexandrovna Karelian, but Pyotr always called her 'his little Lara,'" Ian replied, rolling the "r's." "He said she'd been an early baby and Larissa Alexandrovna seemed too long a name for such a tiny mite, so she became Lara. Pyotr had no children of his own, so his niece was special to him." Ian thought again. "I don't know how old the girl is, but from the way Pyotr talked, she must be thirteen or fourteen. Old enough to have the journal, and to know how her uncle died."
To himself, Ian admitted that it would be simpler if the girl were no longer within reach. Then he could send the journal, with a brief explanation, to a Russian embassy. But he owed Pyotr too much to take the easy way out, so he must visit the child himself.
Hesitantly David said, "Do you have a headache? You keep rubbing your forehead."
Ian's hand dropped. "I've had headaches ever since I lost the eye, but they've been diminishing. Maybe they'll stop altogether some day." Suddenly David's unspoken sympathy was more than Ian could bear, and he felt a crashing need to be alone. "If you'll excuse me, I'm ready to call it a night."
He walked to the table and finished the last of his brandy, then withdrew to his room with more speed than courtesy. There he stripped off his outer clothing and lay down on the bed clad only in a pair of lightweight drawers. But in spite of fatigue and brandy, sleep eluded him.
He had always assumed he would spend his life in the army, had never considered leaving until he heard himself say that he was going to resign his commission. Yet as soon as the words came out of his mouth, he had known he had no choice. Once the military life had suited him as water suited a fish, but no more.
Above his head, the huge fan called a punkah turned lazily, sending cooler air over his heated body. Outside on the veranda, a servant called a punkah wallah pulled the rope that caused the fan to rotate. Eventually the servant decided it was time for bed, and the long, fabric-covered blades of the punkah creaked to a halt, leaving the inside of the bungalow silent.
As the air went still, the yellow flame of the oil lamp lengthened. Ian found himself watching as if mesmerized. He had deliberately left the lamp lighted, for in Bokhara he had developed a distaste for darkness.