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her unsteady perch. She had a pair of scissors in her hand and she cut a gem from the red lampshade that hung from the ceiling. “The last one,” she said with a sigh.
1936 Grand Palace ~~~
    THE LITTLE GIRL lies on the white table in front of him. Slowly her eyes close and her breathing becomes heavier. Every day for the past week Peter Harris has examined Chutki, the youngest daughter of the maharaja. Despite the fact that she continues to complain of a sore throat, difficulty in swallowing, and breathing problems, she is strong and healthy. He has studied all the possible causes, just as he would have done in his hospital practice at Long Millgate. There is no doubt that chronic inflammation of the larynx is the culprit. It is a miracle that it hasn’t spread to the bronchial tubes and the lungs. He runs the back of his tweezers over her skin, but the girl does not react. The chloroform has worked faster than usual due to the high temperature in the room. Back in the slums of Manchester, he always had a fully equipped operating room at his disposal, but here the drip hangs from the ceiling on a string and the operating table has been adjusted to the right height by means of blocks sawed to measure that morning. The maharaja would not allow him to take the girl to the hospital in Delhi, where he has worked for the past four months. Maharaja Man Singh, who is suspicious by nature, keeps walking in to see what the surgeon is doing with his daughter. Peter has forbidden him to enter the room during the operation, after delivering a lecture on bacteria and the risk of infection.
    Peter presses the back of his hand against the girl’s forehead and prays that all will go well, that he will be able to meet the high expectations, and that there will be no permanent scar on her neck, so that when she marries, she will wear the family jewels with pride. Peter suspects that the maharaja is using his daughter as a guinea pig. This powerful man will agree to be operated on himself only if she recovers. Glancing at the rickety construction supporting the table, he regrets that he did not insist that the operation take place in an official hospital. But then Peter nods to Aziz, his assistant, and with even more precision and concentration than usual, he tilts the girl’s head backwards. During the mirror examination he saw just how serious the condition of the larynx was. Aziz paints the girl’s throat with an antiseptic and covers it with a cloth. There is an opening in the cloth on the exact spot where the young throat specialist will make the incision.
    THE MAHARAJA, WHO is not accustomed to taking orders, strides out of the palace. He would rather have gone straight to his study to oil one of his guns, but he is unable to concentrate on anything but Chutki. Although she isn’t his favourite daughter, she’s a good dancer and he doesn’t want to lose her. He slows his pace as he approaches the stables. He has not yet met the taxidermist whom he summoned from Bangalore. The abattoir, which on his father’s initiative was covered with Delft blue tiles straight from Holland, and where the English throat specialist declined to operate, has for several days been the domain of the man charged with mounting the elephant head for the viceroy. Maharaja Man Singh has already decided that he will only make the viceroy a present of the head if he survives his coming operation. The heavy door of the abbatoir creaks open. There are large hooks hanging from the ceiling and draining racks along one wall. The elephant’s head lies on a large round table in the middle of the high-ceilinged room.
    The taxidermist, who is kneeling on the ground, does not look up when the maharaja enters. The Indian prince waits in amazement. In his palace, people jump to their feet as soon as he appears. For a moment he considers dismissing the man, but instead he sits down on the long wooden bench against the wall. He watches as