“Lords being the operative word,” a hook-nosed man adds drolly from the front row. “The House of Ladies this is not.”
Laughter breaks out in full this time. As I listen to it bouncing off the walls, my hands curl slowly into fists in my lap.
“Order!” Mallory barks from beside me. “Order in the hall!”
Silence descends once more, but there’s a smugness lingering in the air that wasn’t there before. I taste it on my tongue with each breath, sour and unpalatable, as my eyes narrow on the landscape of powdered wigs and black robes.
How dare they?
These entitled men, who have been entrusted to make decisions on behalf of every man, woman, and child in this country, are so terrified by the prospect of relinquishing even a smidge of their power, they refuse to give the possibility of change a proper discussion. The sheer arrogance of such a move is astounding. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Or, more accurately, what I’m not hearing.
Will not one of them speak up for the voters they are obligated to represent? For the women of this country, so long denied the voice of representation in these hallowed halls?
I’m still sitting there, stunned silent with shock, when Mallory rises to his feet on the dais.
“Gentlemen, I realize it has been a long day of deliberations. So, if there are no other ministers who wish to bring up counterarguments concerning this matter, we can take our final vote of today’s session before calling a recess.” He pauses for a moment, allowing the silence to marinate while he awaits any objections from the men staring back at him.
None come.
“All right, then.” Mallory gives a perfunctory nod. “In the absence of any objections, I will call for the vote. Ayes in support of an official inquiry into the eligibility exclusions for Parliament — namely, the provisions for ministers’ age and gender; Nays in favor of keeping our existing structure for another term without reexamination…”
The scene plays out before me in slow motion, as though I’m watching from behind a plexiglass wall. Sounds seem muffled, words muted. Even colors seem dulled as my eyes whip around the room, studying every face in the crowd, watching as pursed mouths form the same word. One after one, puppets producing the same syllable over and over and over again.
Nay.
Nay.
Nay.
Nay.
Nay.
Each objection hits me like a punch to the stomach. By the time the last minister has cast his vote, his nay ringing out into the hall, I can barely breathe. My hands are fisted so tight in my lap, the knuckles have gone white.
“The nays have it,” Mallory announces, his words as definitive as a sword-stroke to the heart. “A unanimous vote to end our March session.”
His solemn mouth is slightly upturned at the corners when he turns to face me. And the audacity of that almost-smile… It snaps something inside me — snaps something open. White hot rage is spilling out from a well in my chest I did not know existed, filling me up until I am burning with it. Until each follicle of hair on my head stands on end, electrically charged with unquenchable injustice at the Prime Minister, for his idle compliance in this political farce. At the men in this hall, for their self-inclined indifference.
I am an inferno.
I am anger incarnate.
I am a queen immolated.
“Your Majesty?” Mallory calls.
But my eyes have left him behind. My focus is now on the Ministers, laughing and chatting at their benches as they pack up their bags and rise to their feet, preparing to leave. Their attention is already fixed far beyond the walls of this hall, on their homes — the very homes where wives and cooks and maids who will never get the right to vote in this very chamber are probably busy preparing dinner for them.
“Your Majesty,” Mallory prompts again, narrowing his eyes on me. There’s a needle of frustration weaving between his words. “You must give your assent so I can call our recess. For the official records.”
My eyes slide back to him. My brows arch in disbelief. I was so thrown-off by this chauvinistic power-coup, I’d almost forgotten about my role in all of this.
My assent.
My pulse begins to pound, a battle drum on the front lines of a war I wasn’t even aware I was fighting. I tell myself to form the words — those harmless two words, the ones I know he expects to hear. The same ones that have been spoken by every Lancaster leader for more than a century, a line of well-behaved figureheads complying with their constitutional duties.
I assent.
Only… when my lips part, nothing comes out. I do not say the words. I cannot. Instead, I am assaulted by all the ramifications of my own acquiescence.
If I assent… am I an accomplice in the continued discrimination against my own gender?
I hear Carter’s voice, whispering at the back of my mind.
You are a queen.
Stop acting like a pawn.
“Your Majesty,” the Prime Minister repeats again, sounding decidedly annoyed now. “It is time. Give your assent so we can disband for the day.”
“But I do not assent,” I say simply.
He’s the only one close enough to hear me. He goes stiff, eyes widening with shock. The rest of the hall is still packing up behind him, headless of the standoff occurring on the platform.
“What did you say?” Mallory whispers, staring at me. He looks totally rattled.
Slowly, I rise to my feet. I square my shoulders, suddenly grateful for the sharp lines of my stiff, military-style jacket. It emboldens me as I call out the words once more in a voice that rings through every corner of the chamber.
“I do not assent.”
They all hear me this time. The hall seems to freeze, every minister going stock-still, then pivoting around to face the platform where I’m standing. In a flash, I see the room as if from a birds-eye lens — old men in black robes facing off with a young woman in white. An unexpected power struggle about to unfold.
For a long moment, there’s complete silence. If someone in the back row so much as sneezed, it would sound like the blast of a canon. The bafflement on their faces is so genuine, I almost want to laugh.
“Prime Minister,” Lord Klingerton finally stutters, shattering the quiet after what feels like an eternity. “Can she truly withhold assent?”
Mallory is oddly silent from my left.
“Surely she cannot!” Another minister forces a strained laugh. “She has neither right nor proper cause to invoke veto powers in this instance!”
“Her approval is a mere formality,” a third minister adds angrily. “Her presence here is nothing but an archaic remnant from the days of monarchy.”
My chin jerks upward with annoyance. “If royal assent was a formality, I would not be required by law to give it. In this instance, I do not give it. And I will never give it again until you correct the discriminatory practices I have witnessed firsthand here today.”
A gasp reverberates out — utter disbelief colliding with male privilege, setting off a cataclysm of slow-dawning outrage. I watch as face after face morphs from baffled to enraged, bracing myself for what’s about to unfold.
“Queen Emilia,” Mallory interjects from my left. There’s a shred of placation in his tone — like he’s soothing an unruly child — that only serves to make me angrier. “I think you must be confused about your role here in the House of Lords.”
“Oh?” My brows lift. “Is it not my role to speak on behalf of the crown? To cast my vote in favor of any bills worthy of royal approval?”
“No!” he hisses, that unflappable decorum finally shaking loose. “It is your role to support the bills we, your elected representatives, see fit to pass. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Even if you, my elected representatives, appear to be abusing your power in favor of your own political gain?” I ask sweetly, triggering another collective gasp. My head tilts. “Or have you so easily forgotten the words of the oath that binds your position? No
n sibi sed patriae. Not for self, but country. A country I feel inclined to remind you, Prime Minister, is comprised of fifty-percent female constituents.”
Mallory’s teeth grind together. “My Queen, I do not require a refresher course on the guiding principles of a position I have held for longer than you have been alive.”
I lean in slightly, eyes never leaving his. “Then perhaps you have held that position for far too long. Perhaps all of you here in your hallowed House of Lords—” My gaze sweeps outward, across the hall, touching on every face I can. “—have held your positions for far too long. Perhaps it is time for new leadership; leadership more representative of the kingdom you are supposed to fairly and justly advocate for. Leadership that includes Germanians of every race… every religion… and every gender.” I pause, taking a deep breath before I throw the final grenade. “Perhaps the crown should call for a formal referendum. To ask the people directly, by popular vote, how they feel about their Parliament as it currently stands.”
The swell of anger that’s been building for the past few minutes finally reaches its crest, crashing across the room in a great wave of indignation. The ministers start shouting all at once, hurling opinions from their benches, their faces going beet-red as their fingers wag up at me.
“Ridiculous!”
“She cannot be serious!”
“This is an outrage!”
The placid smile fixed on my face as I stare down at the mob of furious men only seems to incite them further. It’s hard to pick out individual voices in the cacophony as yells assault me from all sides, but a few permeate the din.
“Prime Minister, I cannot believe you would entertain this farce!” Klingerton yells, practically frothing. “History will not stand for it!”
“Throw her out!” A man at the front snarls viciously. “As I have said before, a child has no place in constitutional matters!”
My eyes lock on him. I nearly flinch when I recognize Lord Sterling — Alden and Ava’s father. The vitriol in his voice is almost enough to make me flinch.
Almost.
“Order! Order, ministers! Order in the hall!”
The Prime Minister’s booming voice eventually manages to get the room under control, but a simmering rage remains even in the newfound quiet. There’s a violence in the air that wasn’t there earlier, honed on me in the form of a hundred and fifty male glares. I try not to let it shake my resolve, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel very small and very alone, standing up here.
Mallory steps closer to me. His face is contorted in a grim mask. His eyes are narrowed to pinpricks. “Your Royal Majesty,” he says, practically choking on the title. “You seem to have misinterpreted our reluctance to pass this particular bill. It is not that we seek to exclude any particular group from running for Parliament…”
I try my best not to snort.
“…But Germania has a highly effective government,” he continues. “A system that has been working without issue for hundreds of years. To hastily alter it would be a grave mistake.”
“I am not suggesting anything hasty. In fact, I rather believe having female ministers is a step long overdue, if anything.” My eyes sweep around the hall, searching for a shred of understanding amidst the angry faces. “You are fathers of daughters. Husbands of wives. Sons of mothers. Is there truly no one amongst you who will step up for the women in his life? Who can see that this current system is fundamentally lacking in balance?”
“She is clearly too emotional to see reason, Prime Minister,” Lord Sterling growls, his cold eyes drifting to mine. “This kind of absurd display is exactly why we do not encourage your kind here.”
“My kind?”
Sterling’s pompous nose lifts higher in the air, an expression that immediately reminds me of his daughter. “It is well documented that women cannot be trusted to maintain any semblance of logic or level-headedness when confronted with the difficult scenarios we, as ministers, must contend with. Hormones are an unconscionable liability when it comes to legislation.”
Violent rage erupts deep inside me. My fingers itch to wrap around his neck and squeeze; I curl them into a tight knot instead. “Save whatever pseudo-science you’re about to spout for someone who’s listening, Sterling. Men like you are the exact reason we need to call for a popular vote. Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass long enough to see daylight, you’d realize it’s the new millennium, not the Middle Ages.” I raise my voice until it fills the chamber, newfound determination stitched into every syllable. “Despite your resistance, you should all know… I plan to use every bit of royal authority I possess to support measures that empower the women of this kingdom against bigots and sexists. You can either support me in that endeavor, or… Well… I’d prepare to find a new source of employment, gentleman.”
Shouts break out again from the crowd.
“She can’t do this!”
“A queen has no authority here!”
“This will not stand!”
“Remove her at once!”
“We cannot allow a referendum!”
“Your Majesty, maybe you should step into my office, to discuss this in private—” Mallory butts in, moving closer to me with an intimidating look on his face. He reaches out for my arm and I fear he’s about to physically haul me off the stage.
“Queen Emilia will not be going anywhere with you,” Riggs says smoothly, stepping in front of me before Mallory can make contact. I didn’t even see him leave his post by the exit doors; in a flash, he’s simply there, my human shield.
I’m so relieved, I could hug him.
Mallory’s spluttering something else about proper procedure, but I ignore it as Riggs glances over one shoulder to look at me.
“You ready to go?”
I nod.
Without another word, Riggs signals for the rest of his unit. They appear like ghosts, flanking me from all sides as I walk away from the Prime Minister, off the platform, down the small set of stairs, and through the gauntlet. Jeers and protests hit me from all sides, an unrelenting barrage, but I keep the smile on my face the whole way.
When I step out the front doors into the crisp mountain air, leaving the House of Lords behind in all their stale self-importance, I greet the waiting press with a smile.
“Queen Emilia, how was your first day in Parliament?” the first reporter calls.
My smile widens. “Funny you should ask…”
Chapter Nine
The charity auction is held at the Germanian Museum, which boasts the finest collection of artwork, historical artifacts, and interactive exhibits in all the kingdom. The stately columned building sits on the banks of the Nelle River, surrounded by a network of sprawling gardens. Tonight, as we pull to a stop at the front entrance, its facade is illuminated by thirty-nine pale blue spotlights — a tribute to the Vasgaard Square bombing victims we’ve come to raise funds for.
The museum is closed to the public during the event, but at least a hundred of Germania’s most well-endowed members of society are expected to attend. Nearly that many members of the Queen’s Guard will be here as well, judging by the fleet of SUVs I saw rolling out the castle gates earlier; Riggs isn’t taking any chances with my safety, especially after the reporters’ crazed reaction to my speech on the steps outside Parliament this afternoon. I am ensconced in a net of invisible yet impenetrable security.
The stone steps are lined with a red carpet, adding a touch of glamour to the atmosphere. There are already several dozen guests making their way up to the entrance. They stop and pose at studied intervals, their tailored suits and designer dresses practically dripping money. Even my eyes, which are more accustomed to The Gap and Zara than they are Emilio Pucci and Ted Baker, can’t miss the obvious show of wealth.
“Oh, Christ,” Chloe mutters, pressing her face up against her window. “I think that’s Simon Haldorff. He’s been on a mission to ruin my life since archery camp at age fourteen.”
“Why?”
“He may’ve… possibly… caught me hooking up with someone else while we were seeing each other.”
I shake my head. “Poor guy.”
“And the someone else may’ve been his twin sister.”
“Chloe!”
“I know, I know. I’m terrible. But in my defense… you haven’t seen how hot his sister is.” She grins wickedly. “Hey, maybe she’s here, too!”
“It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it?”
She just laughs. “Don’t worry, I’ll avoid him. I should warn you, though: the odds of Haldorff being my only ex in attendance are decidedly slim.”
“Just remember, we’re trying to keep altercations to a minimum if possible.”
“Me? What about you, Miss Millennial Feminist Icon? After the stir you caused at Parliament, you’re trending on Twitter again,” she reminds me. “I doubt anything I do tonight could possibly top that.”
“Why do you say that like it’s a challenge?”
She smirks.
“Chloe!”
“Oh, chill.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Hashtag buzz kill.”
I sigh. Impending drama notwithstanding, I’m thankful to have her by my side as we exit the Rolls-Royce. Not only will several of the ministers I sparred with earlier be here tonight, there’s a large contingent of press gathered, snapping photographs of the attendees as they arrive and ascend the stone steps.
When Galizia pulls open my door and I step out onto the flagstones, I’m hit with a crushing wave of sound. Six months ago, it would’ve made me flinch. Now, it’s as familiar as breathing.
“Queen Emilia! This way!”
“Look over here!”
“Love the new hair, Emilia!”
“Is there any significance to the purple streak?”
“Planning to bid on anything tonight, Your Majesty?”
“What designer are you wearing?”
“Smile for us, Queen E!”
“Can you comment on your plans for a referendum?”
I keep a demure smile on my face — the one I’ve perfected after countless days in front of the camera. Chloe walks by my side, stopping occasionally to strike a pose, hamming it up for the paparazzi like we’re celebrities at Cannes Film Festival. It’s so nice to see her in good spirits, I find myself grinning with genuine joy as she tosses her long red hair dramatically.
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