Rebel Queen by Michelle Moran

beneath a painting of a heron. “You do know what the Durgavas is?”
    I shook my head, and felt my cheeks flush.
    “No one has told you how the guardswomen live?”
    I’m sure if the roots of my hair could have turned red, they would have, too. “We get very little information about Jhansi in my village.”
    “Of course,” Kahini said pityingly. “Which village did Sundari say you were from?”
    “Barwa Sagar.”
    “That’s north?”
    “South.”
    Her smile was so brief that I might have imagined it. “Well, the Durgavas is nothing more glamorous than a room with ten beds. Our servants sleep outside this room on the floor.”
    “The former members of the Durga Dal,” I said, repeating what Sundari had told me.
    “Yes. Although the members of the Durga Dal who become leaders are given estates of their own with handsome pensions.”
    “So Sundari-ji will be given an estate when she retires?”
    “As will the woman who takes her place.” Kahini stopped outside of a curtained doorway and regarded me. “We are all aiming for the same thing.”
    “And how does the rani choose the leader?”
    Kahini allowed herself a full smile, and a row of perfectly white teeth flashed against her red lips. “Humility.” She pushed back the curtains and stepped inside.
    Ten beds, with fluffy mattresses and massive wooden frames, lined the frescoed walls of the Durgavas. I followed Kahini across the room, and when she stopped in front of the last bed near the wall, I immediately reached out to touch it. It was something fit for a maharaja.
    “Certainly you’ve seen a bed before,” Kahini said.
    “No. I sleep on a charpai at home.”
    “Well then, you’re going to be quite surprised when you see the Durbar Hall. Though I doubt you’ll see it today. The rani hasn’t gone at all this week; she spends most of her afternoons praying to Durga to keep her from the sick bowl. Which is too bad, because soon she’ll be as fat as a sow and unable to walk anywhere.”
    I covered my mouth with my hand. I had never heard anyone talk about a pregnant woman this way, much less the Rani of Jhansi.
    “Oh, you don’t have to pretend to be shocked. It’s the truth, and I tell it to the rani herself.”
    “She doesn’t get angry?”
    “Perhaps. But she values my honesty.”
    “And humility,” I offered.
    “Yes.” She sat on the bed, and I tried to look as elegant as she did while doing something as simple as taking a seat. “Honesty is an extremely important quality to the rani. Pay attention to what she wears,” she said. Then she lowered her voice, as if what she was about to say was a secret. “Most days, her only jewelry is a plain pearl necklace and pearl earrings.”
    “What must she think of your jewelry, then?”
    Kahini sat back to get a better look at me. “Only the rani shows her humility in her dress. We are expected to show it in our actions. If you noticed, the women in the rani’s room were all dressed in silk saris.” She glanced at my traveling chest, made from old wood and tarnished silver buckles. “You packed a few yourself, certainly?”
    I owned nothing made from silk. Just two new kurtas and the best juti my father could afford. “No.”
    “Oh.” Then with forced cheer, she added, “I’m sure the other guards will let you borrow a few things until you purchase better clothes.”
    A knot formed in my stomach as I thought of how much silk would cost. “But how is silk evidence of humility?”
    “It isn’t. But we can’t go around the palace looking like we belong in a village market, can we? The rani is allowed to look humble because she is the rani. We are merely her servants.” There was an edge in her voice as she said this. Then she stood and said, “And now I will show you the maidan.”
    I followed her out the door into an open courtyard. A multitude of flowers poured like brightly colored waterfalls from the urns, and a fountain splashed musically beneath the sun. But I didn’t