Under the Jeweled Sky by Alison McQueen Page B

behind the screen. He waited patiently for the reply to come, knowing that it would take some time and would probably make no sense at all when it did eventually arrive, thirdhand. This whole process usually took about an hour, sometimes two, depending upon the Second Maharani’s need for attention that day.
    â€œShe is feeling very weak,” the lady-in-waiting reported.
    â€œI see,” Dr. Schofield said. “What is her pulse rate?”
    Another long pause followed.
    â€œIt is very faint and irregular.”
    â€œI see.”
    Dr. Schofield knew that this was not the case, and that the Second Maharani would be lying there on her splendid bed, issuing symptoms to her ladies. Dr. Schofield had gradually learned the ropes over the course of his first month at the palace, most of it passed down through the jungle telegraph. Initially he had declared to the ADCs that he could not possibly be expected to carry out his duties with any efficacy if he was to be prevented from actually seeing and examining a patient, but that was declared impossible. Both Her Highnesses observed strict purdah , and seeing as the good doctor was neither related nor married to either of them, he could take it on reliable authority that he would never lay eyes directly upon them. His first reaction had been to resign his post rather than run the risk of accidentally killing one of them through misdiagnosis, but he was soon persuaded to stay when the Maharaja presented him with a gold cigarette case and assured him that they would of course make an exception if it were ever thought that either of Her Highnesses were in any serious danger.
    Dr. Schofield had come to learn that there were rarely any real ailments in the zenana apart from a good deal of bickering and the occasional bout of indigestion. In this instance, he was already convinced that there was nothing much wrong with Her Second Highness except an acute case of having her nose put out of joint. A century and a half of British rule had been largely irrelevant to the princes, yet all this had changed in the run-up to independence, as the rulers came to recognize that their states must integrate with one dominion or the other, either with India or with the newly formed Pakistans, East and West. Making up almost half of India’s territory and people, the new nations would be a hopeless patchwork that would never hold together without the princely states. Negotiations were opened and complicated agreements drawn up, and the six hundred princes signed their states away, to India in the main, the rest to Pakistan, bringing down the curtain on centuries of feudal rule. In compensation, the princes would each benefit from the granting of a privy purse, set at a fraction of their state revenues, and few were in any doubt that the time might well come when the royal families might disappear altogether, given their reduced circumstances. It was no wonder the Second Maharani was feeling unwell. Not only had the Maharaja announced his intention to take a third wife, but if the rumors were to be believed, they would soon be shrinking their grand household and selling off the family silver.
    Dr. Schofield continued patiently through the screen. “And what is her temperature?” This was his favorite question of all, as the women in the zenana clearly had no idea about the correct temperature of the body. On past occasions he had been told variously that her temperature was fifty degrees, two hundred degrees, and almost every nonsensical number in between. After another long wait, the answer came.
    â€œShe is as cold as ice!”
    â€œHow is her breathing?”
    â€œIt is fast and shallow.”
    â€œIs there any rash on her body?”
    It seemed like an eternity before the Second Maharani decided whether she had a rash, by which time Dr. Schofield had taken a seat beside the screen and begun to look through his book. It reassured the women of the zenana that he was