Sordid Empire

by Julie Johnson

  No trucks exploding into balls of fire in a crowd of innocents.

  No friends and lovers artfully arranging truths to suit their own ends.

  No allies becoming enemies as soon as your back is turned.

  No parents shutting their eyes from yours forever.

  I have been locked away for three long months in this gilded cage. But my solitary confinement is self-imposed. I do not wish for release. I possess no desire to be paroled, need no one to commute my sentence. I am quite satisfied with this new way of living — though, if I’m being honest, I am not certain it’s accurate to call it that.

  Living.

  After all, most days, I feel only half alive; the phantom of a girl who used to exist. I cannot recall the last time I smiled or laughed or did much of anything except breathe. Inhale, exhale. Once an automatic process now feels like a chore; as though, without constant monitoring, my lungs might simply decide to cease functioning.

  Numb, I drift through the motions of my new duties with a detached sort of acceptance, for I know full well there is no other alternative. I have no choice but to carry on. There are too many people counting on me to do otherwise.

  A queen must never falter.

  Some days, the weight of newfound responsibility on my shoulders seems the only thing that keeps me tethered to this unrecognizable life of mine. Without it to hold me down, I might disappear entirely — evaporating into the ether, lost in the wind.

  “Must you insist on scaring the page boys during their first week of work?”

  The wry voice cuts into my reverie.

  Damn.

  She’s found me again. Third night in a row.

  I don’t turn my head but I know if I did, I’d see a tall blonde in military fatigues standing several feet to my right, staring down with bemused disapproval. My personal guard — and personal pain-in-the-ass — First Lieutenant B. Galizia, ranking officer of the Queen’s Guard. I didn’t hear her sneak up on me, but that’s not much of a shock. She’s highly trained in all forms of subterfuge and self-defense.

  Walking closer, she stands over me and peers directly into my face. “Are you going to lie there all night?”

  “Maybe.”

  Sticking out a hand, she waggles her fingers. “Come on. Up you go.”

  I heave a sigh, but I don’t resist. There’s no use fighting Galizia when she inevitably tracks me down and corrals me back to my chambers like an errant child caught out after curfew. Her hand is warm and callused when it clasps mine and tugs me to my feet.

  “How long are you going to keep this up?”

  My brows lift. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty… cut the shit. You know exactly what I mean. You aren’t sleeping. You’re barely eating. You don’t even speak unless you’re forced to put in an appearance at an event outside the castle — and those are rare, these days.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. How long has it been since you got some fresh air? Took your horse for a ride? Went for a walk around the grounds?”

  I’m stubbornly silent.

  “If you can’t remember, it’s been too long.” Her head shakes. “You can’t stay cooped up forever. It’s not healthy. You skip one more event, that new PR lady you hired is going to go apoplectic.”

  “Where is this overblown concern coming from, all of the sudden?”

  “It’s not sudden. If anything, it’s long overdue. I’ve wanted to say something for weeks. Months, even. We all have. But we thought giving you space and time would be enough to…”

  My brows go up when she trails off. “To what? To fix me? To make me forget what happened that day in the square? To make me stop replaying the memories of thirty-nine caskets being lowered into the ground, one after another after another, for so many days in a row I could walk the cemeteries of Vasgaard backwards and blindfolded, I know them so well?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m not trying to minimize what you’ve been through, Your Majesty.”

  “Then give me a little space to work through it, Galizia.”

  “It’s been three months. I worry, if we give you any more space, you’ll never come back to earth.”

  “You’re blowing things out of proportion.”

  “Am I?” Her light blue eyes narrow a shade. “You have a degree in psychology, so I don’t think I need to tell you what’s happening here. All the signs are evident even to my untrained eyes.”

  “Are you implying that I’m depressed?”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you, flat out, that people are worried about you.”

  “Who? You?”

  “Yes, me,” she says without missing a beat. “Along with just about every other person who works in this castle. And, if you don’t start taking better care of yourself, the rest of the world will soon be as well. You know how many eyes are on you every time you step outside these walls.”

  “Then I’ll stay in. Staycations are all the rage, these days — haven’t you heard?”

  “How long do you think that’s going to work, exactly? The press gave you a free pass in the aftermath of the attack… and after you lost your father. But you know the public has a short memory. They’re not going to let you grieve forever.”

  I clench my jaw tight, not wanting to process what she’s saying. Not wanting to acknowledge that, deep down, I know she’s right. The press are always eager for any news concerning the royal family, but these days they’ve become especially rabid.

  If Simms were here, he’d handle them.

  But he’s not.

  Sucking in a breath, I try to infuse some conviction into my voice. “Look, Galizia, I truly appreciate this show of concern… but I’m fine. I’m not a shut-in. I haven’t been riding Ginger because the snow is so deep. Once it melts, I’ll get back to my daily outings. You’ll see.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I’m feeling better. Honestly.” I can barely get the words past my lips, let alone manage a limp smile. “So you can call off whatever intervention you and Riggs are plotting.”

  “What?” Her cheeks go adorably red at the mention of the Commander. “Riggs and I aren’t plotting anything.”

  “Right. Except your happily ever after…”

  “That’s absurd. Your Majesty, he—” Her head shakes. “He is my superior.”

  “Mhm. And has your superior asked you on another date recently?”

  “Dating him would be wholly inappropriate, given our respective roles in the Queen’s Guard. A Commander should never date one of his Lieutenants. It violates all manner of protocols.”

  “That wasn’t strictly a no, Galizia.”

  She’s even redder now, if possible. “Even if he asked, I’d never go.”

  “So he did ask! Didn’t he?”

  She doesn’t answer — which, in itself, is an answer.

  “Are you going to go?” I pester.

  “Of course not.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to be here at the castle, monitoring things.”

  “Twenty-four-seven? You can’t take thirty minutes off to flirt over coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, okay. I see. It’s fine for you to cloister yourself away, but when I do it I’m ‘a shut-in with depression.’” I roll my eyes. “Seems like a double standard to me, Galizia.”

  She regards me for a moment in silence before murmuring succinctly, “You’re so full of shit.”

  “Are you allowed to say that to your Queen?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. But someone has to say it, and right now…” A flare of something that might be sympathy streaks across her face. “I’m all you’ve got.”

  A lump forms abruptly at the back of my throat. She’s right. I don’t have anyone, anymore. Not anyone I can count as a friend, anyway. I am constantly surrounded by staff and yet I am more alone than I’ve ever been in my life.

  “Maybe you should call your sister.
”

  I stiffen at the soft suggestion. “I can’t call Chloe.”

  “Why?”

  “I just can’t, okay?”

  Not after the things I said to her. Not after I accused her of being worse than her scheming mother, Octavia. Not after I had her thrown out of the palace without so much as a word.

  Regret simmers in my veins, tangling with shame and guilt and sorrow. I am a jumbled mess of emotions, incased in a fragile sheet of ice. One crack in my numb composure, it’ll all come flooding out.

  “Your Majesty.” Galizia’s expression has smoothed back into its normal mask of professionalism. “Please, just go back to your chambers.”

  “Why? It’s not like I’ll be able to sleep.”

  I swallow hard and stare down at my bare feet. They look small and pale against the ornate floor. I’m not trying to be difficult, it’s just… being in my room for any prolonged period makes me strangely claustrophobic. As though the walls are liable to cave in around me at any given moment.

  Of course, if I wanted, I could have any other suite in the castle. With a snap of my fingers, the servants would move my things anywhere I requested. Technically, I should be living in the South Wing, where Germania’s kings and queens have always resided during their terms. But I cannot bring myself to move into my father’s rooms. I cannot bring myself to even step inside them.

  “Who said anything about sleep?” Galizia’s strange question draws my gaze once more. There’s a wry twist to her lips that makes my brows go up. “You have a visitor.”

  My eyes widen. “It’s past midnight.”

  She just stares at me, unblinking.

  “You really let someone in to see me at this hour?”

  “I’m the one who called him.”

  “Galizia!” I scowl. “You know I don’t want to see anyone.”

  She shrugs, offering neither explanation nor apology.

  “At least tell me who it is.”

  “You’ll see when you go back to your suite,” she says diplomatically.

  “Seriously? I’m the queen. I can throw you in the dungeons for disobeying orders.” I pause. “I think.”

  “You think? Shouldn’t you know?”

  “I’m new at this queen stuff. The whole ‘off with their heads’ aspect still eludes me.”

  “Well, I don’t know about the rest of your enemies, but I’m certainly terrified,” she deadpans. “Now, let’s go. He’s already been waiting nearly an hour while I wandered around looking for you.”

  He?

  A breath snags in my throat. Beneath its icy cage, my heart starts to thump harder. After so many months of numbness, it’s odd to feel palpable curiosity sparking to life inside me, embers of a fire I thought doused forever.

  Who is waiting for me?

  And what does he want?

  “Whatever,” I say, swallowing hard. “It’s not like I care.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Whoever it is, I’m just going to order him to get out.”

  “Sure you are.”

  I bite my lip to contain another unconvincing comeback. Ignoring her knowing gaze, I stiffen my shoulders as I pivot away and leave the throne room behind. My guard trails after me dutifully, her amusement palpable as she watches me struggling to maintain my charade of indifference. To keep my pace restrained, rather than running full-tilt for my rooms.

  Each step is agony. Too slow, too small. The creeping pace chafes my nerve endings like sandpaper.

  Is it him?

  No.

  It can’t be him.

  Unless…

  No!

  I thought I’d never feel anything again. Anything except numb. But this sensation inside my chest — this fluttering, unfamiliar anticipation — is growing too strong to suppress.

  Hoping Galizia doesn’t notice, I pick up my pace ever so slightly, rounding corridor corners a little too fast, taking the stairs two at a time up the flight that leads toward my chambers. With each stride down my hallway, the battle drum of my battered heart pounds out a crushing tattoo.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  Somewhere in the aching hollow between each beat, hope blooms — insuppressible, inextinguishable.

  Be him.

  Be him.

  Please, oh please…

  Let it be him.

  Chapter Two

  I step over the threshold of my room, heart in my throat. Surprise, joy, and just the smallest bit of disappointment knot together inside my stomach when I take in the sight of the man standing by my terrace, the broad planes of his back filling out an army green jacket, his long legs encased in faded denim.

  Even in profile, he’s handsome as ever. Familiar as ever. That floppy blond hair falling into his face, always in desperate need of a trim. Those long-lashed brown eyes fixed out the glass pane, lost deep in thought.

  Hearing me enter, he turns.

  “Ems.”

  The crack in his deep voice breaks something inside me. Maybe it’s that ice around my heart. Maybe it’s my heart itself, unable to hold together any longer when confronted with a man who knows me better than practically anyone else in the world. I’m not sure. All I know is, one minute I’m standing by the door and the next I’m across the room, in his arms.

  My cheek hits his chest, his embrace closes around me like warm water after a pencil dive. My eyes press tight to keep the tears at bay, but there’s no denying the thickness of my voice — the word comes out a sob.

  “Owen.”

  His arms tighten around me so hard I can barely breathe. I get the sense he’s holding back; that, if my ribs weren’t at risk of fracture, he’d squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until he’d assured himself I was truly there, in his arms.

  In silent surrender, I let him hold me until we’ve both gotten our fill, until my curiosity wins out over his comfort.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, the words muffled against the fabric of his shirt. “It’s been months since I last heard from you. I’d be pissed as hell if I weren’t so damn happy to see you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Believe me, Ems, I’ve wanted to see you too. I wanted that so badly it almost killed me.” His arms tighten again, underlining his declaration. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?”

  My voice is a mere slip of sound. “I thought…”

  “What?”

  “I thought maybe you didn’t want to see me anymore. That you…”

  That you’d left me, too.

  Owen loosens his hold to peer down into my face. “I didn’t leave you in third year when you messed up the word CHARTREUSE during a spelling bee. I didn’t leave you when you crashed my car through my parents’ fence after the spring semi-formal dance and got me grounded for the entire summer. You really think I’d abandon you now, just because you went and got yourself a royal title?”

  “Then why haven’t you been answering my calls?” I smack him on the arm, face twisting into a glare. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been about you, Owen Harding?”

  “I’m sorry, Ems. I’m so fucking sorry. I know you’ve been through hell these past few months. I wish I could’ve been here at your side. But I had to see this through. I couldn’t come back until I was absolutely certain you were out of danger.”

  My brows lift. “So, you being here… does this mean the threat is over? That I’m safe now?”

  “I’m sure the new Commander of your Queen’s Guard has briefed you on some of this already.” Owen’s nostrils flare slightly. “He’s got quite an attitude.”

  “Who, Riggs?” My lips twist as Emmett Riggs’ intent, angular face flashes inside my mind. “He’s just protective. Keeping me alive is kind of his raison d'etre.”

  “Some job he’s been doing. You’re skin and bones. When was the last time you ate a real meal?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He appears unconvinced. “You’re too pale. And you’ve got bigger bag
s under your eyes than you did when you were applying to the clinical psych program.”

  “It’s been…” I swallow. “It’s been hard, okay? Hard to worry about myself when…”

  “When you’re busy worrying about everyone else?”

  I nod weakly.

  “That changes now. I don’t care if you’re the queen. You’re a person first. You have to take better care of yourself.”

  “Okay, Dad,” I tease, on auto-pilot, then go still. That particular wound, that father-shaped hole in my heart, is still so fresh and unhealed I sometimes lose my breath just thinking about it. Saying the word Dad, even as a joke, makes me feel as though I’ve been sucker punched right in the stomach.

  Owen knows me well enough to swiftly change the subject. “Anyway. Your new Commander — Riggs, is it? — seems capable. Certainly confident enough in his role. He barely agreed to let me through the castle gates tonight. I think he would’ve started torture proceedings, if your personal guard hadn’t vouched for me.”

  I make a mental note to thank Galizia later. “You can’t blame Riggs for being suspicious of you — you’re a stranger to him. And you did show up at midnight.”

  Owen grunts noncommittally. “Like I said, I’m certain he’s already briefed you on the state of the country. Between the Vasgaard Square attack and the death of the king so soon after, there’s been a surge of patriotism throughout Germania. People are embracing the monarchy. Hell, they’re embracing each other in a way they haven’t since the empire’s glory days.” His mouth twists wryly. “You’ve seen the flags front of every house… The blue ribbons tied around every tree… The size of the crowd at your father’s funeral rites. I hear they were the most highly attended in history. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for it, Ems. I watched it on the news. You were so stoic. I was damn proud of you.”

  I cough lightly, trying to clear the lump in my throat. In truth, most of the day I buried my father remains a blur in my memory. I was so deep in my own grief, I could not yet see the surface of the murky depths surrounding me on all sides. I could not yet pull a clean breath of air into my lungs or summon energy to pump my arms and swim for even the faintest sliver of light. It felt utterly impossible that a day might arrive when each moment would not feel like drowning; each water-logged breath a death-sentence.