I fix my period-appropriate gloves and take a deep breath, restricted by the elaborate Victorian corset and gown I rented for the party.“I’m just going to walk in the gardens for a bit.I need a second before going back into that.”
“Okay.I’ll save you a dance.”
I nod.“See you soon.”
Luis walks back into the historic house, where a hundred of our peers are dressed up in costumes and a little buzzed as they enjoy the last night and get in their last-minute networking, while I try to remind myself that despite the downsides, this is an amazing opportunity.
Since I’m usually reading, writing, teaching or working my way through the entirety of Netflix’s catalogue, it’s nice to get out of my routine.Or it would be, if I could focus on the historic building and all the research in England I don’t have access to in California, and ignore the Heathers of the world.
I take one last look at the out-of-place Italian architecture that found its way to the rainy shores of an English island, and then turn away from it, starting my walk through the formal gardens.Maybe I’ll walk all the way to the beach—it’s only about half a mile away.Then I can look out over the same sea that Victoria looked at for inspiration on my next article.
Maybethisarticle will be the one that makes people care about the history of Indians in England.
I walk down the stairs leading to the lower terrace, wanting to see the putti who are riding sea-monsters lining the Andromeda fountain, and the woman at the center, forever waiting for Perseus to save her.
On my way down the stairs, mind already on a potential next article, I trip on one of my many layers and fall.The world spins during my dizzying descent, the lights of the estate grounds blurring in my vision.My body makes painful contact with the hard stairs as I roll down them.
This is all because I cared too much about making people acknowledge brown people in history.Now I’ll never get to write the article that would have made people see.
On that depressing thought, the world goes dark.
CHAPTER2
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.
