Star Daughter(90)
Sheetal stared up at him. Here was the star who would soon relinquish his throne to become a supernova and ultimately a black hole.
She accompanied Minal and Charumati to the viewing pool. On one side, across from the semicircle of the Esteemed, five tents containing black-and-silver tables and blue upholstered chairs had been lined up in a row, with the respective nakshatra’s banner hanging over each tent. A platform stood before them, waiting for the champions. On the other side was the judges’ long table, unoccupied.
“The judges are already in their places,” Charumati explained. “Simply hidden.”
The whole thing felt like a faux-medieval feast. Sheetal worried a loose thread on her sari. Normally, she would be in the audience, not getting ready to be skewered as the entertainment.
There was still time to run away. . . .
No, she told herself, holding Dad’s face in her mind. No, there wasn’t.
The champions, companions, and attendants of the other competing houses took their seats. Leela and Kirti rested quietly between Leela’s patrons, hands folded in their laps, while in contrast, clouds of nervous energy wafted from Priyanka’s and Sachin’s sections. The two of them glared at each other, and Jürgen’s lips pinched in disapproval. They all wore candy colors—pumpkin orange, berry pink, and emerald green—that only made Sheetal even more uncomfortably aware just how much she looked like a star in her own clothes.
The looks Priyanka and Sachin directed her way burned with scorn, as if they knew what she was thinking and couldn’t agree more. Sheetal averted her gaze. Good thing Priyanka didn’t know she’d seen her in Jeet’s room.
Meanwhile, Jeet, in a gray kurta that made his sallow skin look even sicklier, exchanged heated whispers with Rati.
The schadenfreude Sheetal felt at that probably made her a bad person. Oh, well. She was sorry for Jeet, but she also kind of hoped they were fighting, too.
Dev, who was sitting as far from Rati and his cousin as he could, caught her eye and held it. Like a star, he wore black and silver, and like a star, he enthralled. Her stomach took a dive, stage fright and anticipation all tangled up in a ball. Oh, gods, he was going to hear her sing. Oh, gods!
What if she choked like during rehearsal?
She remembered again how he’d said he wished he could make Jeet quit. She wished that, too. She wished she could make them all quit.
The Esteemed Matriarch of the Dhanishta nakshatra smiled, a munificent turn of her mouth framed by deep wrinkles. “You may proceed.” The supporting Esteemed Matriarchs and Patriarchs then raised their arms, awash in starlight.
The viewing pool began to glimmer. A picture appeared within its illuminated depths before being projected into the air. It depicted the platform that had been set up near the pool and all the champions gathered around, like some kind of futuristic hologram.
The Esteemed Patriarch lifted a hand, dispersing the enchantment cloaking the long table and revealing the panel of judges.
As the Patriarch of House Dhanishta named them, each one rose: five stars from nakshatras not in the competition and one middle-aged human man who described himself as an art history professor. “Wow me,” he said. “Technique and craft have their place, but what I really want is emotion. Move me. Make me feel.”
Nana had told Sheetal the mortal judge would be ensorcelled to believe this night was just a detailed dream, but his vote remained vital. She shivered. What if her talent wasn’t enough?
These last few days hadn’t wholly felt real. There had been so many preparations, so many distractions keeping her occupied. But now the truth assailed her: The competition really was happening. She really had to win it—on a measly two days’ training—to save Dad’s life.
Suddenly it was like she was standing by his bed again, smelling the air of the ICU, hearing the feeble beat of his pulse. Dad. Oh, Dad.
The ruling Esteemed Matriarch clapped loudly, and the court hushed. “A reminder: Each champion will be allowed one hour to complete their work. During that time, they must not be disturbed for any reason. You are welcome to show your support, but do so silently.”
“And now,” announced the ruling Esteemed Patriarch, “for the main event!” He reached into the silver bowl on the stand between his throne and that of the Esteemed Matriarch and plucked out a black slip of paper.
Sheetal held her breath. Please let it be her. She was going to die of nerves.
“Please welcome our first champion, Priyanka Chauhan of House Magha. She will perform a puppet show using marionettes she crafted herself.”
At the platform, Priyanka held out her arms and cracked her knuckles. She shot Sachin another lethal glance over her shoulder. Sheetal frowned. What was going on there?
One of Priyanka’s attendants set down a painted wooden stage that came up to her waist. As before, the viewing pool projected a magnified version of the scene into the air. Another star from her coterie stood before her, fingers uncurling.
Light vaulted from that star’s hands into Priyanka, rendering her brilliant. Her eyes glowed like moonlit lakes, and with a theatrical flourish, she opened the red velvet curtains, then knelt behind the stage so only her puppets could be seen. There were two, a princess and her shape-shifting tiger consort. Somehow Priyanka had rigged the puppet so that with a simple flick of her wrist, the consort’s long tunic flipped up to bare the tiger beneath and actually became the animal’s striped skin.