Free The Mapping of Love and Death by Jacqueline Winspear

those lessons in the war when she was a nurse in France, when the screams of men dying did not end with the working day, but echoed back and forth in her head and were not silenced until she saw Khan in her mind’s eye and heard his words: “Be still, until there is nothing…”
    Though an old man—indeed, Maisie could not guess Khan’s age, for he had always seemed old, yet had not appeared to age since their first meeting when she was but fourteen—Khan was much in demand. Among visitors to the mansion, where Khan’s students also lived, were political leaders, men of commerce and the cloth, academics, artists, and writers. Many had known Khan for years, many came to hear him speak, but only a few gained a personal audience. Maisie was shown into the same room where he had first greeted her so long ago, and there, alongside the window, Khan sat cross-legged with his eyes to the light, as if he were not blind. It was from Khan that Maisie learned that seeing was not something that necessarily required the faculty of ocular vision.
    “You have not come for so long, Maisie.” He patted a large square cushion set on the floor close to him. “Come, let us talk.”
    Maisie bowed before Khan, then took her place on the cushion.
    “Have you seen Maurice of late?”
    “You know he has been unwell, a bronchial affliction.” Maisie looked into the pale eyes and felt her own brim with tears.
    Khan nodded. “Yes. He is not a young man, and he has given much in the service of peace, and of those who do not have a voice because it has been silenced.”
    “Will he get better?”
    Khan smiled, and as he turned to her, Maisie saw the wide blind eyes filled with grief. Instead of answering her question, he responded to her thoughts.
    “Extremes live within us all. The joy of association resides alongsidethe anticipation of loss. What is given will be taken, what we have is often only of value to us when it is gone.” He paused, his face now held to the light once more. “Maurice knows this. Whatever is to be, Maurice is at peace.”
    Maisie shook her head. “I am sure he will be all right. As soon as the weather gets better and he can sit outside, that will clear his chest.”
    Khan’s voice was soft. “Yes.”
    “Shall I bring Maurice to you? I am sure he would like to speak to you.”
    “Oh, but we do speak, Maisie. We may not be in the same room, but we speak.”
    Maisie looked at the light as it began to diminish. “I’d better go now, Khan.” She moved as if to stand, but Khan reached out and placed a hand on her arm.
    “No, stay. Sit with me as I taught you when you were a girl. Sit with me here. Tell me about your work. It is such hard work, though I know Maurice instructed you well.”
    “Yes, he did. Very well.” Maisie sighed. “My work at the moment involves a young man—a mapmaker—who was killed in the war. He was very skilled, apparently, and had loved maps from the time he was a boy. There is evidence to suggest he had been murdered, and not by the circumstance of war.”
    Khan nodded, his head now lowered.
    “A map is a conduit for wonder, a tool for adventure. But it is also an instrument of power—and like all things, power has two faces.”
     
    M aisie sat with Khan for some time, and was so deep in thought—or not-thought, as he might say—that when she opened her eyes he was gone and the empty room was illuminated by just one candle. She slipped her shoes on, then made her way to the hexagonal entrancehall, where she stopped to say good-bye to one of Khan’s helpers. As she turned to walk towards the front door, it opened. The visitor was James Compton. His color rose when he saw Maisie, whose surprise was marked by a half-smile, and she herself blushed.
    “James, what are you doing—”
    “Oh, hello, Maisie. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
    “But—”
    “Sorry, I’m a bit late for an appointment. Business. Lovely to see you, Maisie.” He nodded towards Khan’s helper, who