"Missy, please don't hide from Ayah."

From her perch up in a mango tree, Miranda kept a watchful eye on the tangerine silk of Ayah's sari as her nurse wandered mournfully through the grove behind the bungalow. Delighted that her mild tantrum had turned into a game, Miranda smiled, resting her chin on her small fist.

Today was her sixth birthday, and she'd been promised a trip to the bazaar. Yesterday her soldier father had been sent to Delhi on the Honourable East India Company's business, and no one else in the household would take her. In a rare fit of temper she'd fled outdoors, determined to punish the adults who'd deprived her of her favorite excursion. But now she heard a deep, familiar voice on the rear veranda.

"Don't worry, Ayah. I'll find Miss Miranda."

The reassuring English voice belonged to her beloved "Uncle" Brendan. A dear friend of her parents, he always played games with her, even though at twenty-two he was nearer to the vast age of her father. Miranda grasped the engraved gold locket around her neck--her Christmas present from Brendan--and opened it to gaze at his handsome portrait next to her own. Smiling, she clicked it shut and prepared to scurry down from her perch. Then she paused, mindful that she'd be in for a stern lecture from her mother if she went back to the house.

"All right, poppet," said Lieutenant Brendan Tyrell. "You can come out now. I've smoothed your way with your mother, and you needn't worry about a scolding."

With a smothered giggle, Miranda heard Brendan's purposeful steps as he approached her tree. He stopped below her hiding place, and the morning sun shone on the thick, glossy waves of black hair that brushed his collar. She saw him impatiently tap his riding crop against the supple leather of his boot.

"Miranda,love, if you don't show yourself soon, I'll have to find a more deserving little girl to take to the bazaar."

Bothered by his casual threat, she peeked through the dark whorls of mango leaves to gauge his temper. An easy smile lit his tanned face, and his black eyes sparked with a kindred mischief. He wore his usual riding attire, a loose white shirt and cotton jodhpurs.

Without hesitation, she grabbed onto a thick branch and dropped below it. Swinging by her hands, she called, "Catch me, Uncle Brendan, catch me!"

Brendan looked up, drawing a sharp breath. The little minx was hanging from a branch, her tiny scuffed shoes dangling almost six feet above his head. If she fell from that height....

He quickly positioned himself beneath her and opened his arms. "Randie-bai," he said calmly, using his pet Indian name for her, "let go now, and I'll catch you."

Fearlessly, the little blonde-haired girl let go of the branch and dropped into his waiting arms. Once he had her safely in his grasp, Brendan hugged her to his chest while Miranda wrapped her arms around his neck, bussing his cheek. He gave a sharp exhalation of relief.

Miranda's ingenuous green eyes gazed up at him. "That was fun. Can we do it again?"

"Oh, no ... you're never to try anything like that again," Brendan said, frowning. "Do you understand, Miranda? You could have been hurt if I wasn't right there to catch you."

Secure in his affection, she smiled up at him and said placidly, "But you were."

Brendan gave a deep sigh as he let Miranda down to the ground and smoothed her rumpled muslin skirts. Impetuous and precocious, the child was a handful even at six. How could he begin to explain to her that he--or her parents--wouldn't always be around to rescue her?

Instead, he smiled back at her. "Happy birthday,poppet." He took her small hand in his. "I've heard that there's a troop of Nepalese acrobats performing in the bazaar today. You wouldn't be interested in seeing them, would you?"

Miranda's response was a shrieking whoop of joy.

The supple stunts of the Nepalese acrobats delighted Miranda, and after the performance, Brendan led his excited charge through the crowded bazaar. Miranda chattered gaily as they threaded their way between stalls piled high with chased silver vessels, finely-tooled leather goods and glittering skeins of gold jewelry mixed with other sparkling baubles. Skillfully draped silks of emerald green, Phoenician purple and crocus yellow snared the eye before it was drawn to the next stall by a flash of celestial blue and gold tissue.

The displays in the spice vendor's alley were a rich, aromatic mosaic: the shallow bowls filled with the bright ochre of saffron and turmeric, the earthy browns of nutmeg and cinnamon, the pale green of cardamom and the fiery orange of dried chilies.

Gnarled, wizened men bent over their mortar and pestles, chattering in Hindi or Urdu, all the while sending an intoxicating potpourri of scents into the air. The rising heat wafted the spicy bouquet upward, blending it with the pungent odors of the market. Noisome stenches and the reek of camels, elephants and oxen vied with the smoked, meaty smells from open cooking fires and the perfumes of jasmine, roses and patchouli.

The brown-skinned, wiry water-carriers screeched over the competing cries of the sweetmeat vendors, who in turn yelled to be heard above the buzzing Babel of a dozen different tongues and the constant clanging of bells.

Wondering how well his charge tolerated this assault of the senses, he glanced down at Miranda and saw her enraptured gaze dart from one side of the Hazrat Ganj to the other. As the street widened up ahead, Miranda pointed excitedly.

"Look, Uncle Brendan! A horse dealer!" She tugged on his sleeve to pull him through the milling crowd. "Do you think he has any ponies? Papa says I'm almost old enough--"

"I don't think that's quite the present that your father has in mind for you, poppet." As a bullock cart rumbled by, they came to a stop across from the Arab dealer and his sleek string of gray and sorrel horses. His ears flattened and teeth bared, a silver stallion with a white blaze eyed the lumbering bullock. Before the animal could lunge forward, the Arab jerked hard on the horse's lead and gave him a stern glance. The stallion slipped back into line, ears twitching in sulky annoyance.

Emboldened by the stallion's display of temper, Miranda thrust her lower lip forward in an attempt to pout. "I'm too old to always ride in front of you or Papa."

Her uncharacteristic show of petulance vanished as her curious, skittering glance fixed on the stall beside them, a stall festooned with dozens of cages that each held a brightly-plumed bird. "Oh, Brendan-ji, look!"

He smiled fondly as she moved from one cage to the next, talking to the squawking mynahs and colorful, nervous finches. From the darkened rear of the stall came a beckoning hiss.

Startled, Brendan stared into the gloomy depths and recognized Vijay Gupta, an informant who'd aided him on a number of his secret missions into the native quarters of Lucknow and the further reaches of the Kingdom of Oudh. Miranda was chattering amiably with the bird-seller, so he slipped unobtrusively into the stall.

The slight Indian looked around, eyes fearful. "Tyrell-sahib ... tell no one you have spoken to me. It will mean my death."

Brendan moved next to him, his voice low. "What is it, Vijay?"

"Sa'b, you must go home to England, right away. Take the child with you."

"But you know she isn't mine ... Miranda is Captain Seton's daughter. Why should we leave now?"

Vijay's brown, liquid eyes probed his. "If the girl is not yours by blood, she is still the child of your heart, is she not?"

Brendan glanced back at Miranda and saw her gold curls bounce as she deluged the merchant with lively questions. "Well, yes, certainly ... but--"

"Listen to me, sa'b. I know you well--you are an honest friend, a pukka-sahib . I also know this to be true--those evil rascals--the badmashes--are planning to massacre the British Raj. The memsa'bs and children too. You must go."

"You've been listening too long to the bazaar gossips, my friend." Brendan smiled grimly, though he knew that Vijay was a faithful and reliable informant, if occasionally excitable. "These rumors of murdering the Firinghis have been flying about for months ... from troublemakers trying to stir things up."

"You are not believing me, sa'b?" Vijay hissed through his teeth. "Tcha! What of the sepoys? This matter of the defiling rifle cartridges is making the soldiers fear for their caste, that they will be forced to become Christians. It is being said the sepoys will also rise."

Brendan frowned. There had already been trouble over the new cartridges for the Enfield rifles. Rumor had spread among the native regiments that the greased cartridge papers, which had to be bitten to load, were soaked in beef and pork tallow. Though it was untrue, the very idea of such an abomination touching their lips was deeply offensive to Hindu and Muslim alike. The sepoys feared if they used the cartridges, their caste would be broken. Thus defiled, they would be shunned by their families, and denied their proper rewards in the afterlife. The native soldiers had been reassured that the rumors were false. In any case, they could now tear the cartridges open with their fingers, to avoid touching the cartridge to their lips. Still, the insidious story spread throughout the ranks that the British were determined to break their caste.

Would the sepoys stay true to the Company's salt? Or would they mutiny, as Vijay was warning him?

"Vijay, you must tell me what you know. Gather whatever information you can, then send word where we may safely meet. I need to know how extensive this disaffection is."

"Yes, sa'b. I must go now."

Vijay silently disappeared through the rear of the stall. Mentally debating the seriousness of this latest rumor, Brendan slowly walked back to Miranda and the cages of raucous birds.

"Look, Uncle Brendan. Isn't she beautiful?" Miranda pointed to a ring-necked parakeet preening in a bamboo cage. The greenish-blue bird clung to the bars of the cage and cocked its head to one side, fixing its bright eye on his face.

"That she is, poppet." Smiling to mask his disquiet over Vijay's words, he asked, "Would you like to bring her home?"

The little girl's green eyes grew round, then sparkled. "Oh, may I, Brendan-ji? I'll name her after you!"

Looking askance at the bird, Brendan teased, "She doesn't quite look like a `Brenda' to me."

Miranda's face fell. "No, she doesn't." She asked hopefully, "Do you have any other names?"

He stuck a finger through the bamboo bars and stroked the bird's smooth poll. "Actually, my middle name is Philip."

"Philip," Miranda said, testing the sound of his name. "That's not right either." Her face lit up. "I know--Pippa! Everyone calls my aunt Phillipa `Pippa'!"

"Pippa it shall be." He briefly haggled with the merchant, then settling on an agreed price, removed the caged bird from its hook. "Happy birthday, Miranda."

"Thank you, Uncle Brendan," she said with an excited grin. "This is the best birthday I've ever had--except for Papa being away, that is. Wait until he sees my beautiful Pippa!"

Brendan smiled at her enthusiasm, ruffling her shiny curls. "I think he'll be happier to see his little girl."

Bird in one hand and Miranda's hand in the other, he made his way through the riotous confusion of the bazaar. While they waited for a rich litter with silver dragons on either end to pass by, Miranda whispered questions about the occupant of the palanquin, wanting to know what purdah was. As they headed back toward the ordered tranquility of the Mariaon cantonment, he explained that it meant seclusion for Indian women of high rank.

Intrigued by this custom, Miranda said, "I guess it's rather like being `indisposed'--how Mama feels whenever that tiresome Mrs. Grindley calls."

Brendan's shout of laughter made Pippa flutter in her cage, so Miranda spoke softly to the bird to calm her down.

Thus left to his own thoughts, Brendan wondered--were there dangerous days ahead? Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea for Miranda and her mother Sarah to go up into the hills at Simla, or down to Calcutta. He'd talk it over with Miranda's father, Anthony, as soon as his friend arrived back from Delhi. In the meantime, he'd contact Sir Henry Lawrence, his superior and the new Chief Commissioner of Oudh.

While he thought deeply about what he would tell Lawrence, Miranda talked happily about her new bird and her pet mongoose, Caesar. From her abrupt silence, he realized that she'd asked him a question. "I'm sorry, Miranda, what did you say?"

She looked up at him with wounded eyes, hurt by his inattention. "I asked if you minded if I bring Pippa and Caesar with me when I come to live with you."

Though rather confused, he teased, "Live with me? Why would you want to live with a crusty old fellow like me?"

"Well, Mama says that when two people love each other, they get married and live together." She watched his face in grave attention. "I love you, Brendan-ji ... don't you love me?"

"Oh, piara--Miranda darling, of course I do. But it's different--" He paused, unwilling to hurt her in his clumsiness. "We can't marry, poppet ... I'm nearly old enough to be your father."

Impatiently, she said, "That's what Mama said about Sir Mortimer's new wife--that he'd robbed the cradle and could be her grandfather."

Brendan's sudden guffaw silenced her, so he stooped down and hugged her to his chest. "Ah, Miranda, sometimes I think you hear too much, and I know you understand too much."

Her pique apparently soothed by his amusement, she asked curiously, "How am I to learn anything if I don't pay attention to what I hear or see?"

Her innocent words struck an apprehensive chord in Brendan's chest. Were Vijay's reports a reality? He hoped not, but he had to check them out properly--to be certain.

To Miranda, he said, "You're right, Randie- bai. One should pay attention. Now, we'd better get you home and wash all this bazaar dust off you and Pippa or you won't be fit company for your own birthday celebration."