The sight gave Artemisia pause. Angus Dalrymple had been such a robust man, of penetrating intelligence and full of joie de vivre. To see him now, so reduced by his malady, nearly broke her heart. It was an insult against nature. It was tempting to blame the Almighty for her father’s predicament. When Angus came down with a blindingly high fever, at first it had seemed enough for him just to survive the illness. The family was elated when the fever unexpectedly left him. Then, when it became apparent he’d been permanently impaired and would likely continue his downward slide, her mother turned bitter. Even the vicar stationed at their cantonment had been little help. He cautioned against questioning the will of God. As if God had purposely struck her father down. The vicar’s version of God seemed too capricious and evil to be named a Superior Being. Surprisingly enough, it had been Naresh who’d helped Artemisia make peace with her father’s condition. “All life is precious,”
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