Chapter 2
As I slowly start coming back to consciousness, every body part fights with the others to see what’s in the most pain. Whatever wins, I’m the loser.
I slowly sit up, glad to be able to do that at least. Even though everything is on fire down to my bones, nothing seems to have permanent damage.
Everything is different now. The sounds of the party are louder, like the guests multiplied and everyone moved outside while I was knocked out. And the lights seem dimmer, with more flickering, like they added real candles to the mix.
How long was I out? Did they set up for another party? Did no one look for me? I’m not even that far from the main house; that’s just sloppy event management.
I try getting up completely with help from the stone banister, making it to my feet for an embarrassingly short three seconds before I sit back down on the stairs.
This is as good a spot as any to check for injuries.
It’s somehow darker than it was before I fell down, but maybe I knocked out some lights with my windmilling limbs.
I run my hands over particularly sore areas but don’t see any blood on my fingers when I’m done. I’m sure I’m going to see bruises tomorrow and this hairstyle’s a lost cause, but at least I won’t have to pay the costume rental place to get blood out of silk.
So I’ve got that going for me.
“What are you doing out here?” an annoyed man asks in an Indian accent.
A tall man in a white-and-gold turban, a red tunic, and loose pants under a long white jacket, all made of a shimmering, very touchable-looking silk, approaches me, the thunderous look on his face a stark contrast to his beautiful clothes.
He looks familiar, a bit like Mohammed Abdul Karim, one of Queen Victoria’s attendants. But it’s the wrong century for that.
“Excuse me?” How hard did I hit my head?
No one was dressed like this when I left the party.
And I think I would have noticed another brown person at the conference, especially one dressed in historic Indian clothes who looks like someone from history.
But also, I need to know where he got his costume, because its quality is blowing mine out of the water.
Even after whatever happened to all the light, I can’t stop staring at the way his clothes are reflecting what little light there still is.
“You should be inside. And why aren’t you dressed in Indian clothes? You know how much Her Majesty likes it when we wear traditional garb.”
“Excuse me?” I ask again, this time with a good deal more anger. “I’m not a circus bear. I can wear whatever I want at any given moment.” Also, the costume rental place I went to didn’t have any period Indian clothes. I checked.
“This is Her Majesty’s birthday and she requested that all the Indians dress in Indian clothes. This is not a hard a request to follow. Especially after all she does for us.”
“What is…Who do you think you are?” I sputter, now just as angry as the man was when he found me. “I’ve just fallen down your stairs; you’ll be lucky I don’t sue you for…unsafe stair conditions.”
“Sue me?” The man puts his hand on his chest, taken aback. “It is an honor for you to even be invited here. But your fall explains your insolence.”
I open and close my mouth a few times, so angry I can’t even form words anymore. But I can think them.
“Come. I’ll present you to the Queen and we can all hope you don’t offend her.”
That takes the wind out of my sails, to be replaced with confusion. “The Queen?” Did they appoint a queen in there while I was out here? Or hire an actress for us?
Even though we are in England, I doubt it’s a real royal. They probably have more pressing things to do than show up at an academic conference hosted in the country.
“Show some respect for your monarch.” A vein throbs in his forehead. This guy needs to relax, maybe do some meditation. Because being this high strung can’t be good for anyone. Even if he is only acting.
“I paid good money for this conference.” I look around my person to find the badge, but I can’t see it.
It must have fallen off in my tumble. I’m about to go into all the reasons I personally don’t have a monarch as an Indian-American woman, including an ancestry of one war and another ancestry of long-term resistance against the Empire, when the man cuts me off.
“You are so strange. Be quiet when I present you to Her Majesty. Nod and bow and don’t look her in the eye. She wants to meet all of the Indian royals before the night is over.”
Indian royals? What is happening? Did they add an event about the history of Indians in England? And not ask for my input as an expert in the field? The only expert in the field at this event.
The uptight man piques my interest enough that I follow him without further complaints about his attitude. If he’s playing some sort of royal servant, he is very good at this acting business.
The man takes me up the stairs, this time without incident, and through the garden. The light still looks different, and I make a mental note to get my vision checked out tomorrow. Can changing vision be a part of a concussion?
I wish I had my phone on me to check right now, but I left it in my purse with my jacket in the coat room. I didn’t want to mess with the appearance of the Victorian clothes, and it’s not like I have pockets where I could bring a phone anyway. I’ll look it up at the end of the night.
The man takes me through a crowd of people I don’t recognize.
Whose costumes have gotten more realistic since I’ve been out of the room.
The rooms, however, are just as obnoxiously decorated, bright gilt surrounding beautiful paintings and silk-upholstered furniture, showing off a lifestyle all paid for by colonialism.
He leads me back to the Durbar Room, with its beautiful white wall carvings showing Indian decorative elements amid dark wood accents, until we stop at a group in front of the fireplace, a giant carved peacock above the mantel looking down at me.
“Your Majesty, I found another of our Indian guests,” the man beside me says.
A short woman turns, her black dress so wide around it keeps people at a distance.
She stands out in the crowded room, the dress embellished with white lace as well as silver- and gold-threaded embroidery in floral and other decorative motifs.
She’s an older white woman, with lace widow’s cap over her grey hair, a small crown resting on top of the lace.
Although she has an air of command around her, there’s a slight droop in her shoulders and a paleness to her face.
The man turns to me. “This is Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.”