Her breath catching.
Her words fading.
His mouth close to her neck.
Her head falling back.
He blinked.
Right.
Artisans. At the end of the corridor. Real people. With eyes.
He exhaled through his nose and looked at the ceiling like a man conducting a very serious architectural evaluation, as if that might distract him from the increasingly creative ideas his brain kept offering every time she came within arm’s reach.
This was becoming a problem.
A very specific, very persistent problem.
And it had a messy bun and absolutely no idea what it was doing to him.
“The eastern wing was the last major construction,” she went on, turning a little so she could look at him. “Around 1820. You can tell from the borders. More ornate. By then the craftsmen had begun to show off.”
Amusement touched her tone. He caught it, and smiled.
“Are you listening?” she asked, glancing back.
“Yes. The craftsmen were showing off.”
Her gaze met his for a second, then she faced forward again.
The workshop opened ahead, filled with the scent of lime, wet earth, and something older beneath it. The smell of the Haveli’s own body.
Abhinav paused at the threshold.
Six artisans worked within the space. One younger man at a table, hands moving through a shallow bowl of pigment and powder. Five at the wall, their movements precise, unhurried, as if time itself had agreed to match their pace.
One of them turned.
He was the oldest. His hands were rough, lined like old bark.
Meera stepped forward. “Govind Dada. Good morning. Hukum is here to see you.”
Govind looked at Abhinav, his expression easing. He straightened and folded his hands. “Thakur Sa.”
Abhinav returned the greeting, palms together, head inclined. Respect met with equal weight. He let the title pass without reaction.
Govind’s eyes warmed.
“His family has worked on Anand Mahal for five generations,” Meera added, pride woven into her voice. Her gaze moved to the younger artisan. “Six, if you count his grandson.”
Govind followed her glance. “He is learning the mixing. His hands are good.”
Abhinav took in the room piece by piece. Bowls of ground colour. Tools arranged with care. The wall where time was being undone and formed again.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“We are restoring the final plaster layer,” Govind replied. “Four hundred year old method. Same as the original.”