To Save a Sister: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel (Majestic Midlife Witch Book 1) by N. Z. Nasser

Author:N. Z. Nasser [Nasser, N. Z.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hanora Sky Press
Published: 2023-05-30T16:00:00+00:00

The south courtyard was circular, enclosed by sandstone pillars that stretched up to a summer sky scattered with cumulous clouds. Overnight, groundsmen had erected tiered seating around a vast open arena, where a thick layer of sawdust covered the smooth paving stones. Our skirts swished as Aanya ushered us to our seats in the royal box close to the action, next to an ornate high-backed chair reserved for the raja. I slid his gift underneath my seat for safekeeping, then straightened.

My pulse sped at the sound of horns and flutes that filled the air. Families dressed in colourful garments drank exotic juices from tall glasses. Children bounced in their seats, munched on sweets or waved crested flags. A number of other boxes for court dignitaries were situated at intervals around the arena.

Leena nudged me. “Well, this is awkward. Everyone’s looking at us.”

Hundreds of eyes had indeed turned our way. I tried to act normally, but a flush crept up my cheeks. “It’s one thing appearing briefly at court, quite another being dressed by the palace tailor and sitting in the royal box. I’m guessing the rumour mill is in overdrive.”

“We don’t have newspapers in Jalapashu. Rumours are how news spreads,” said Aanya.

Lokesh Saheb had loaned her an embroidered tunic with gauze sleeves and slim trousers that lent femininity to her boyish frame. She made adjustments to a table of sweet treats tucked into the corner of the royal box. Their aroma drifted to us on the breeze: warm orange spirals of jalebi, a tangy pastry soaked in sweet syrup; and gulab jamun, spongy dough balls soaked in a sweet sauce flavoured with cardamom and rose water. I shook my head when she offered me one. It was impossible to relax.

The secret of this spectacle had been guarded so closely that it set my teeth on edge.

The minutes stretched. Eventually, Prem entered the royal box to a lengthy drumroll and the tooting of a horn. He played the raja for all he was worth, with a golden outfit, long gleaming hair, his crown low on his forehead and a regal wave. The crowd leapt up and cheered for all they were worth. Leena and I stood, too, involuntarily, as if by some pre-programmed subservience. Her smile was uncertain; mine was fixed, a pretence.

At the raja’s left was Mahi. She had swapped her misshapen T-shirt for an equally misshapen scarfless Punjabi suit. Her pixie hair was a grey cloud about her head, and her kohl eyebrows had been drawn with more ferocity than usual. She pursed her lips at the pomp. At the raja’s right stood Deven in his general’s uniform. Daggers gleamed on his belt. His glowering expression was enough to set my heart racing.

Four of us took our seats: the raja in his throne-like chair, with Mahi at one side and Leena and I at the other. We sat in one fell swoop as if we had rehearsed it. Pangs of shame infused my stomach at being part of the charade, but Leena looked around with interest.

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