“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.”
CHAPTER3
“Victoria?Queen Victoria?They’ve got the queen here?”I smile and look around.This is taking fancy dress party to a new level.And congratulations to whoever did casting for this party, because this woman is the spitting image of the queen, and the man is the spitting image of Karim.
“Respect.Your.Monarch,” the man says through gritted teeth, looking like he would throttle me a little if we weren’t in a crowded room.
“The act is getting to be a bit much.”But he’s committed to his role, I guess.
“Don’t speak to Her Royal Highness in that manner,” says another imperious man, this one white and much older than the first man who annoyed me.
Three other men step forward, in sharp red jackets with gleaming medals over pressed black pants, and semi-ridiculous fuzzy, tall hats like they wear outside Buckingham palace.They’re all armed like we’re about to go to war.But war where they only use swords.They put their hands on those fake weapons and look at me with a frightening focus in their eyes.Actors a littletoocommitted to their role.And those weapons look a little too real.This feels like an immersive dinner gone way too intense.
I will be writing a review for this company when I get my phone back, taking off one star for a little too much realism.
“Forsyth.Abdul.”Victoria gives the men who told me to behave a hard look.“She is our guest from India.We cannot expect her to understand royal protocol.”Then she faces me.“Come, walk with me.”
Before I can accept the invitation (although that’s generous since it sounded more like a command than anything else), she starts walking around the large room we’re in.Whose furniture might be different, and in different places, than before my fall.Mainly, the table where we had dinner has been removed to make space for a dance floor.
I rub my head, wondering if this is part of a concussion.Maybe I’m remembering the room wrong because of my fall.
But being around this woman does seem like a better option than all the suffocating masculinity behind me.I hurry behind her since she’s already started the walk without me.
“Which family are you with?Cooch Behar?Maratha?Baroda?”she asks.
Wow.I haven’t heard those names come from someone else’s mouth in casual conversation before.Or even at a conference like this with historians of all different time periods together.They have really stepped it up this year.
But only for the last event, apparently.
“Yeah.I’m in the Cooch Behar family.”This roleplay aspect of the costume party is kind of fun.
“I know the daughters, so you must be a niece.But didn’t the family leave early?Suniti Devi said something about wanting to get back to India to handle some issue with her women’s school.”
“You know about Suniti Devi and her school?You do better research for your roles than the historians I interact with.”
“Pardon me?”She looks confused now, and someone please give these people an acting award already.Their refusal to break character, even when maybe they should have to give me medical attention, should be studied by actors everywhere.
