THOUGH SHE NOW had a certain degree of security, living in someone else’s house as a servant was a bitter pill for Shorbojoya to swallow. For all her poverty and hardships, she had always been independent—the sole mistress of her own household. Their house in Contentment might have been dilapidated, and the rooms in Kashi damp and dark, but she was no less a queen of those realms than the rich women upstairs were of this household. Her authority in both places had been absolute.

But here? Here she was the lowest of the low—the smallest cog in an enormous wheel. She had to watch her every step, mind her every word, constantly worry about leaving the slightest possible room for complaint . . . and not just with the masters. As the newest drone, she had to make sure she was on the good side of the senior servants and maids.

Never in her life had she had to work so much, for so little. The hours were unrelenting and the work back-breaking, but was there ever a word of appreciation? Of acknowledgement, even? No. On the rare occasion that a token of appreciation arrived from upstairs, it was casually tossed down as charity. One had to kneel to pick it up, or risk offending.

It was intolerable, this life. But what could she do? Where else could she go? Who could she seek shelter from? How else, apart from domestic work, would she be able to stay on her feet? Perhaps she was doomed to end up like Bamni Mashi, every hour of the rest of her life consumed by someone else’s kitchen.

What a dreadful thought. But she simply didn’t have anywhere else to go.

The wedding celebrations were still going on. Tonight was the night of the women’s dinner. Cars bearing female friends and relatives had been pulling up at the back gate all evening. The broad marble staircase just inside the main entrance at the back—the one that led directly to the inner wings—had been lined with a thick blue floral carpet. The staircase and verandas of the women’s wing were lit like day with gas lamps. Two glittering gas chandeliers warmed the stair landing and the middle of the veranda. The family’s younger daughters waited just inside the main back gate to welcome guests and direct them to the stairs. Two of the family’s daughters-in-law were also in attendance, greeting guests at the foot of the stairs and making small talk. Bourani, they were called in this household: the bride queens of the household. Once directed to the women’s wings, guests floated up the stairs in their glittering finery. Some carried themselves with slow, stately dignity, bestowing gracious smiles upon the crowd. Others flitted up in groups, surrounded by peals of tinkling laughter. But every single one of them looked like they had stepped out of a dream: beautiful, graceful, wonderfully elegant.

Opu had been watching from the ground-floor veranda. This was the first