Page 66 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“If it lasts from midnight to dawn, you should be spending that time resting,” her mother said, reproach in her tone. “Those hours are for sleep.”

“I’ve never kept conventional hours, mama. You know this.”

As midnight approached, Deepa grew restless, more nervous of her mother’s reaction to the great reveal than she had been of any of her friends’. She channeled that restlessness into tidying, pointlessly re-folding clothes and rearranging the contents of the kitchen cabinets until finally, her mother took her by both hands, guiding her back to the loveseat and forcing her to still.

“Deepa,” she said, in a tone of infinite patience. “My dove. You have done this many times before, yes? And you have always kept your human mind throughout the change?”

Wordlessly, Deepa nodded.

“There is no danger in your transformation, not to yourself, and not to me. My heart hurts for you, but I am not afraid.” With fingers permanently dyed turmeric-yellow, her mother touched the side of her face, tracing her from temple to jaw. Deepa nuzzled into her hand, craving that softness. “You will show this to me, and I will tell you that I still love you, and I will stay here until morning thinking of ways to lift this unwanted magic away from my child. That is how our night will pass, from start to finish. No surprises. Yes?”

“You promise?” Deepa asked in a small voice.

“Of course I do. Ridiculous child, questioning your mother. Now, go, go change out of your nice clothes, and stop worrying about me. It is my job to worry about you, not the other way around.”

In the bedroom, Deepa changed out of her nice clothes as instructed, and then, as the clock ticked past midnight, she changed out of her skin. Sitting there, spotted and golden-furred and leonine, the supposed epitome of grace and power, she didn't dare make the first move. Either her mother would come in to see her, or they would sit silently in their separate rooms until daybreak, after which Deepa would never broach the subject again. There was a part of her that hoped that would be the case, but it was the fearful, nervous part of her that always assumed the worst of everyone, and couldn't be trusted to reveal her heart.

The greater part of her wished desperately that her mother would come into the room, put her arms around her the way she’d always done since Deepa was a swaddled babe, and holdher to her breast as if her fangs and claws and fur changed nothing.

As the seconds ticked on and there was no sound from the other room, Deepa began vibrating with anxiety, shifting her weight from one paw to the other atop the mattress, wishing for anything to break the stalemate.

At five interminable minutes past the hour, her mother came to the doorway. “There you are,” she said gently. “I thought you would let me know when you were ready, but I suppose it was a fast change, was it not?”

Nervously, Deepa dropped low, her front paws hanging over the edge of the bed as she stared up at her mother, for once guileless.

“Stand up and let me get a look at you,” her mother instructed, entering the room slowly but without hesitation. Deepa obeyed, rising to her feet and turning in a slow circle, paws sinking into the soft bed covers.

“Of course, you are as beautiful a leopard as you are a woman. I expected nothing less. What a foolish boy, to think he could demean you like this. Sit, sit, be comfortable.” Joining her on the bed, Deepa’s mother sat with her legs neatly crossed at the ankle, her hands folded in her lap. “Now, my dove, because you cannot interrupt me like this, you will listen to what I have to say.”

Deepa made a noise of protest, which her mother immediately hushed with a pat to her forepaw.

“None of that,” she chided. “My daughter is a strong, clever girl, but she can still benefit from her mother’s wisdom. I see the choices you make, and I let you live your life as you see fit, but now that you are a captive audience, you will hear my advice, hm?

“My advice to you is this: go back to your Rosaline and make up with her. I don't know what it is you argued about, but I have met her, and I believe she will forgive you. Don’t give me thatlook — I know you, Deepa, and yes, I think it is you who must be forgiven, not her. I know too that you worry she does not have enough money for you. Always, you are so concerned with money.

“You have never allowed me to matchmake for you, and I have respected your wishes, but I see these silly boys fluttering after you, giving you pearls and diamonds, and every time, I want to tell you,my daughter can do better.It is better to live a modest life with someone who loves you than a life of luxury with a man who will not respect you in marriage. Don’t hiss at me; I know what I am talking about. I see the lengths you go to catch their eyes, the way you paint your face and bare your skin to get their attention, making yourself like an exotic peacock next to the plain sparrows of their Englishwomen. And all these silly little boys with their silly little trinkets, they find you alluring now, but they will not respect you.

“Rosaline, she is not like that. And you know it, because you introduced me to her when you have never so much as told me the name of a single man who has courted you.

“Your father had all the money in the world, but no tenderness in his heart, and where did that get us? His wife is a housekeeper and his daughter shares this tiny flat with its thin walls and broken doors. I do not want you to walk the same path as me, my dove. I want you to find love. Even before this curse, I have always wanted you to find love.”

Deepa buried her face in her mother’s skirts like she used to do when she was a little girl, shutting her eyes and breathing in deep. She hadn’t allowed herself to be held like this in so long; since before leaving Gujarat, even. Her mother felt different now, dressed in her starch-stiff English fabrics, but she smelled the same, of warm kitchen spices and almond biscuits. As her mother petted down her back, slow and steady strokes the way she used to brush Deepa’s hair, Deepa tried to crawl into hermother’s lap. With a huff, her mother opened her arms, pressing Deepa’s face to her chest as she bundled her up and held her tight.

“Poor thing,” she murmured, running her fingers through Deepa’s fur. “Go to sleep, get some rest. I will be here in the morning, and all will be well.”

In her mother's voice, it seemed so easy. Go back to Roz. Open herself up to love. Allow it to happen. But the hardened part of Deepa’s soul, the part that would only be fed with pearls and diamonds, wines and chocolates, insisted that what her mother was really describing was the act of settling. Settling for affection instead of wealth, for the bare minimum instead of luxury. She made it sound easy, to find comfort in the mundanities of the working class. She made it sound like it wasn’t such a terrible way to live. The hungry part of Deepa’s soul bristled, resisting the idea, but the smaller, softer part of her — the part that missed Roz — wondered if perhaps, her mother might be right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

IN WHICH A LADY BESTOWS A FAVOUR ON HER KNIGHT

All day Wednesday, Deepa flip-flopped about whether she would attend the boxing match. On Thursday, she changed her mind on an hourly basis, by turns missing Roz, wanting to argue her case, and wanting to stay away entirely. Her vase of tiger lilies still stood on the kitchen counter, as vibrant as they had been the day Roz brought them. Deepa expected to part the flowers and find the secret rose within withered from lack of care, but it was unchanged, as lush and delicate as ever, which was somehow more annoying than if it had died.

She was close to giving into her worst impulses and staying at The Songbird for the night when Cherie brought Aaliyah, Jasmine, and Elizabeth home, mercilessly siccing them on her friend.

“Come on, get up,” Aaliyah ordered. “Put on your best dress and all your jewellery. We’re going out.”

“Are we?” Deepa asked archly from the kitchen table, where she was calculating the worth of her latest round of gifts.

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