Free Rebel Queen by Michelle Moran

glanced at Father, who seemed to understand what Shivaji was saying, because he smiled.
    “I think we should work on being charming today,” I said.
    Shivaji laughed. “Charming is something a woman learns when she realizes how beautiful she is. Not enough people have told you how beautiful you are, Sita.”
    I touched my hair self-consciously.
    “Not just here.” Shivaji indicated my face. “Here.” He placed his hand on his heart. “You are charming because you are educated and you are honest. Those may be refreshing traits in the palace. Instead, let’s work today on what you will say when the Dewan arrives.”
    So for the next three days, Father and Shivaji spent our usual training time preparing me for the Dewan’s interview. We rehearsed answers to the questions the Dewan might ask, even surprising ones, such as, “What is your favorite food?”
    On the last day, Shivaji said, “There are hundreds of girls across this kingdom who’ve also been preparing for years for the Dewan’s visit. For nearly every job in the palace, bribes are expected.”
    I’d heard this, and my heart sank at the idea.
    “But no one has ever bribed their way into the queen’s Durga Dal. The final choice rests with the Dewan; when he believes he’s found the right girl, the search is called off.”
    I was silent. What if they found the right girl today before I had a chance to prove myself?
    “When it’s time for the interview,” Shivaji continued, “the Dewan will try to trick you. He will ask you about imaginary situations involving the rani, and in every case, there is only one right answer: the rani herself. If he asks who the ultimate authority is in the palace, for you it is Rani Lakshmi. If he wants to know to whom you owe your allegiance, it is Rani Lakshmi. The Durga Dalare her personal guards, not the maharaja’s. They are there to protect and entertain her, no one else.”
    Father took up his pen and wrote in his book, “A list of your skills was sent to the Dewan three months ago. He may choose to challenge any one of them.”
    “Which skills were listed?” I wrote back.
    “Only what you do flawlessly. Archery, swordsmanship, shooting, riding, lathi, malkhamba.”
    Lathi, if you don’t know, is a type of exercise performed with a stick. Malkhamba is a form of gymnastics.
    “And all of your intellectual skills,” Father continued. “Your talent at chess, and your ability to speak Hindi, Marathi, and most important, English.”
    I didn’t need to ask why English was most important. It was the only skill that might separate me from the hundreds of other girls hoping for this chance, since anyone could call the Dewan to their home for a trial. In 1803, the Raja of Jhansi signed a friendship treaty with the British East India Company. Thirteen years later, another treaty was signed in which the British agreed to allow the current ruler to carry his line forward without their interference. In just a few years, the treaty had turned from one of mutual protection to one in which Jhansi had to seek British approval for the right to its own throne. The camel’s nose was not just in the tent. The entire camel had entered. By the time our raja, Gangadhar Rao, took the throne, it was only because the British had chosen him. Now English was spoken at court as often as Hindi.
    But Shivaji warned, “The Dewan will be able to speak English. If there’s a word you’re unsure of, don’t use it to impress him.” He took Father’s red book and added, “If she passes tomorrow, she will need new clothes. At least two angarkhas for travel and another for court. Plus slippers.”
    We didn’t have the money for new clothes, let alone another pair of slippers.
    “Can’t I wear what I have?” I asked.
    Shivaji was firm. “Not in Jhansi.”
    “If she passes,” Father wrote, “I will get whatever is needed by afternoon.”
    But I couldn’t think that far ahead. My thoughts were with the Dewan, who even now was