Chapter 4: A Step into the Unknown

The London morning was gray and damp, as if the city had decided to mirror John’s mood. He stood by his apartment window, holding a cup of cold coffee, watching raindrops slide down the glass. On the table behind him lay scattered papers — his grandfather’s notes, the photograph of Shri Devi, the two yellowed envelopes. It all felt like a dream, but the weight of the letters in his coat pocket reminded him it was reality. Varanasi. India. Tantric rituals. The words swirled in his mind like autumn leaves in the wind, but John still couldn’t make a decision. Go or stay? Risk it or forget it?

Kate’s visit the previous night had left him with more questions than answers. Her words — “be careful” — echoed his grandfather’s warning. But John couldn’t stop. The publishing house was drowning in debt, and this mysterious project, however strange it seemed, was his only chance to fix things. And then there was the truth about his grandfather. John had never been close to him, but now he felt that Edward Coplestone had left him a legacy he had to unravel.

He returned to the table and picked up the photograph of Shri Devi. Her eyes, even in the old snapshot, seemed alive, as if she knew he was looking at her across decades. John felt a pang of curiosity mixed with unease. Who was she to his grandfather? A mentor? A co-author? Or perhaps something more? He set the photo down and took the sheet with his plan. The first item — find Ajay Rathod — seemed almost impossible. The letter Kate had mentioned was dated 1963. If Ajay was lucky, he might still be alive, but where to look for him? John sighed and added another item to the list: “Buy a ticket to Varanasi.”

The apartment door creaked softly, and John flinched, snapping out of his thoughts. He wasn’t expecting visitors, especially after last night. But this time, it wasn’t Kate at the door — it was Lucy. Her auburn hair was tied in a messy bun, and her raincoat glistened with droplets. She looked like she’d been in a hurry, but her smile was as warm as it had been in the restaurant.

“You’re not answering your phone,” she said, shaking raindrops off her umbrella. “I figured I’d better come in person.”

John raised an eyebrow in surprise. Lucy rarely showed up unannounced, and her visit after their tense dinner felt even more suspicious.

“I’ve been busy,” he replied, gesturing her inside. “Grandfather’s archives, you know.”

Lucy nodded, but her gaze immediately slid to the table where the papers lay. She stepped closer, and John noticed her fingers subtly gripping the edge of her raincoat. She was nervous again, and it didn’t escape his notice.

“Find anything interesting?” she asked, trying to sound casual. Her voice was soft, but there was an undertone John couldn’t quite decipher. Curiosity? Fear? Or something else?

“Notes about India,” he answered, watching her reaction. “Tantric rituals, Varanasi, some woman named Shri Devi. And a letter warning my grandfather to stop.”

Lucy sat on the edge of the couch, her movements fluid, but a shadow flickered in her eyes. She knew more than she was letting on, and John felt it in every fiber of his being. Her scent — the same one that had driven him wild at dinner — filled the room, but this time it only irritated him, reminding him of her secrecy.

“Tantra…” Lucy mused, as if tasting the word. “That sounds like something that could intrigue readers. But why did your grandfather stop?”

“He wrote that it was dangerous,” John said, looking away. “And I don’t know if I want to find out what scared him.”

Lucy leaned closer, her hand lightly brushing his shoulder. The gesture was subtle, but John felt the warmth of her palm through his thin shirt. For a moment, he remembered their old times — evenings filled with laughter, when her touch didn’t raise suspicions. But now everything was different.

“John,” she said softly, “this is your chance. Not just to save the publishing house, but to do something big. Your grandfather couldn’t do it, but you can.”

He turned to meet her eyes. Her gaze was sincere, but behind it lurked something else — something that made his heart beat faster, not with love, but with unease. Why was she so insistent? What was she hiding?

“Why does this matter so much to you?” he asked bluntly, holding her gaze.

Lucy looked away, her fingers nervously twisting a strand of hair. She was silent for a few seconds, as if weighing what to say.

“I just… want you to succeed,” she finally said. “And maybe I’m tired of my own life. I need an adventure, John. And you need help.”

He didn’t respond. Her words sounded sincere, but John couldn’t shake the feeling that she was playing him. He stood and paced the room, trying to gather his thoughts. Lucy watched him, her gaze attentive, but she didn’t try to stop him.

“I’m going to Varanasi,” he said at last, stopping by the window. “But I’m going alone.”

Lucy opened her mouth to protest but then only nodded. Her face remained calm, but John noticed her hand gripping the edge of the couch.

“Fine,” she said quietly. She should have left him alone then, but she couldn’t bring herself to…

“You’re always like this…” Lucy murmured softly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know… I’ve always felt this distance between us. This invisible wall you’ve put up around yourself. But…” Lucy let out a quiet sob but quickly pulled herself together.

John didn’t respond. Truthfully, it hurt him just as much, but in light of everything that had happened between them, he was caught in a true zugzwang. On one hand, he desperately wanted to rush to her and finally clear things up. On the other, she was the one who ended it. Maybe these tears were just a game…

“Pathetic…”

“What?”

“I’m talking about myself,” John admitted.

“Why are you so cold to me…”

“Lucy,” he began, but she didn’t let him finish. Her hand slid higher, to his neck, and she leaned in, her lips inches from his. Her breath was warm, her eyes full of desire she no longer tried to hide.

“Don’t say anything,” she whispered, her voice low, almost husky. “Just… give me a chance.”

She pressed herself against him, her body soft and warm, and John felt his own body respond, despite all his doubts. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her lips brushing his, promising something more. For a moment, he forgot about the letters, his grandfather, Varanasi. There was only her scent, her warmth, her quiet breath. Lucy pressed closer, her hands sliding down his back, and John felt his heart pounding as if it wanted to break free from his chest.

But suddenly, a voice from downstairs shattered the silence.

“John? Are you home?” It was Kate, her voice clear but tinged with urgency. “We need to talk!”

John froze. His arms, already around Lucy, stilled, and he pulled away, feeling reality crash back like a cold wave. Lucy frowned, her eyes flashing with irritation, but she quickly composed herself.

“Kate?” she whispered, stepping back. Her voice was quiet, but it carried a hint of disappointment.

John didn’t answer. His face burned, his thoughts a jumble. The moment with Lucy — so close, so dangerous — dissolved, leaving only confusion. He stepped back further and adjusted his shirt, trying to collect himself.

“I’ll be right down,” he called, his voice hoarse. Then he turned to Lucy. “We need to stop. This… this isn’t the time.”

Lucy nodded, but her eyes were full of pain. She looked away, smoothing her hair, and for a moment, it seemed she wanted to say something — something important. But instead, she only sighed.

“You’re right,” she said softly.

She grabbed her umbrella and headed for the door without looking back. John stood still, his heart still racing. The scent of her perfume lingered in the air, now mingling with the cold smell of rain drifting through the open window.

Kate was already waiting downstairs, holding a small folder. Her blonde hair was disheveled, her eyes gleaming with the same excitement as when she’d come to him at night. She looked tired but determined, and John felt a pang of guilt for thinking about Lucy when Kate was working so hard for the publishing house.

“I found something in the archives,” Kate said, wasting no time. “About Ajay Rathod. He’s still alive, John. And he’s in Varanasi.”

John’s pulse quickened again. Ajay Rathod, the man who knew his grandfather, was in his eighties but, according to Kate, still giving lectures on Indian culture at a small university in Varanasi. She handed him a printout — a letter from Ajay, dated 1964, inviting his grandfather for a second meeting. “Shri Devi is waiting,” it said at the end.

“You’re sure?” John asked, his throat dry.

Kate nodded, her hand brushing his as she passed the folder. The gesture was accidental, but John felt the warmth of her fingers, and for a moment, he thought he could still feel Lucy nearby. He shook his head, pushing the thought away.

“I booked you a ticket to Delhi,” Kate said. “From there, a local flight to Varanasi. You leave tomorrow.”

John looked at her, surprised. Kate was always efficient, but this time she’d acted faster than he expected. He felt a wave of gratitude mixed with a slight shame for not thanking her sooner.

“Thank you, Kate,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She smiled, but her smile was faint, as if she were hiding her own worries.

“Just come back in one piece,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “And be careful. If your grandfather stopped, he had his reasons.”

She left, leaving John alone with his thoughts. He returned to the apartment and picked up the photograph of Shri Devi. Her eyes seemed even more piercing in the gray morning light. Varanasi awaited him — a city where the Ganges carries centuries of secrets, and temples whisper of rituals uniting body and soul. John felt a premonition stirring in his chest — not just fear, but a strange curiosity. What awaited him there? And was he ready for the truth his grandfather had hidden?

He began packing a suitcase, folding his grandfather’s notes and the letters. Images swirled in his mind: Lucy, her warm hands and painful words; Kate, her quiet support; Shri Devi, whose eyes gazed at him from the past. London was fading behind him, and ahead lay India — and perhaps answers that would change everything.