Veils of Silk Read Online Free PDF

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. At any rate, 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" on his tongue. "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. Since Pyotr had no children of his own, 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 anight."
    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.
    His lips tightened to a bloodless line. It was time, past time, to be honest. What he felt about darkness was nothing as mild as distaste; it was surging, irrational terror.
    Nor was darkness the only fear he had acquired in prison. As his bare chest rose and fell in agitation, he forced himself to face the ugly facts he had been trying to deny since his rescue.
    He was afraid of being alone, yet he found it difficult to endure the company of other people.
    He was terrified of being confined against his will.
    He was afraid to sleep because he feared his dreams.
    He was a coward, a man sworn to honor's code who had betrayed himself more profoundly than anyone else could ever have betrayed him.
    He was not the man who went to Bokhara, but a dry, broken husk who would never be the same again.
    He feared death. Infinitely worse, he feared life.
    One by one, he mentally ticked off his weaknesses, studying each one until it settled in his mind and made itself at home. But bitter as those truths were, they were not as painful as