Any other day, this dress would’ve been one of the most comfortable, gorgeous things Lynell has ever worn. Today, though, it’s sandpaper against her skin. She wants to rip it off, scrub her face clean, and run away.
She follows a woman several decades her senior across the backstage floor, to the side of the stage. A sliver of the audience is visible, and all of Lynell’s vital organs drop to the soles of her feet. Every single chair is occupied. The auditorium itself holds over fifteen thousand people, and the rest are in overflow rooms throughout the convention center. All thirty thousand guests, plus the several million in the country, are about to watch her.
The biggest crowd Lynell has ever been in front of was maybe a thousand parents at a high school Christmas performance. And she’d been one of dozens of kids then, basically invisible. Now, she’ll be the center of attention.
She swallows burning saliva. In the center of the stage is a podium. Two older men she recognizes as the most well-known oligarchs, Bruce Macgill and Oswald Vanderberg, stand in front of the podium. They appear to have been talking to the crowd for a few minutes already, like openers at a concert. They’re both wearing hands-free microphones to amplify their voices, like the one attached to Lynell.
Macgill says, “I’m sure we don’t have to tell you who is about to join us on stage, but let me refresh your collective memory.” He takes a few steps to the side. “She is the youngest person ever to hold this office or even to have a seat on the Registration committee. Until recently, she lived like any normal citizen, earning her living and giving back to the community. She is a mother, wife, daughter, and friend. She has supported the Registration since long before any of us knew who she was. And she is ready and eager to continue her family’s legacy!” Macgill pauses, then, louder than before, shouts, “It is my sincere pleasure to welcome to the stage, Mrs. Lynell Elysian!”
The cheer following his words is so loud that she only hears a second of it before her ears shut down, and all that remains is a monotone roar deep in her gut.
Daniel touches the small of her back, giving her a flare of confidence. But he stands still, and she walks onto the stage without him. Her legs miraculously don’t shake. She keeps her attention on Macgill, whose smile is wide and brilliant but vanishes before reaching his eyes.
When she’s close enough, Macgill wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her in close. He smells like peaches and cinnamon.
“Mrs. Elysian, everyone!” Macgill shouts, turning them both to face the crowd. Her ears decide to work again, and she’s slammed with thunder made of clapping hands and whooping voices. This time, though, she catches booing mixed with the cheers.
Lynell remembers a beat late to raise her hand and wave. She plasters on a smile that everyone surely will notice is fake and looks around the room, though she can’t make anything out beyond the lights. She knows there are cameras hanging from the ceiling, on either side of the room, at the back of the crowd, and directly in front of them.
What must be several hours later, Macgill drops his arm from her waist and the applause slowly tapers off.
“Thank you so much,” Lynell says. She doesn’t recognize her own voice.
“Murderer!” someone shouts from the audience. Lynell blinks. Before she can process the word, the man on her other side, Oswald Vanderberg, starts speaking. Either security is controlling the crowd or the oligarchs command too much respect, because she doesn’t hear another insult or boo.
“Yes, what a fantastic crowd!” Vanderberg shouts. “It’s always a pleasure to address the American people.” He’s decades older than Macgill but must be on drugs or incredibly healthy, because he has the energy of a much younger man.
She wonders if she’s expected to make small talk with them. That wasn’t in the notes or mentioned at the pre-rehearsal. Maybe they would’ve told her at the rehearsal, but she missed it thanks to being shot at and confined to a safe house.
“Mrs. Elysian, or Lynell?” Vanderberg pauses, giving her an expectant look.
“Lynell,” she says, without thinking.
“Lynell it is,” Vanderberg says, seamlessly taking her expressionless response and turning it into something worthy of a show. “How are you feeling right now?”
She catches her frown before it can fall. A question-and-answer portion definitely wasn’t discussed. “Honestly? A bit nervous.”
Vanderberg chuckles. “Understandable. You’ve never done anything like this before? Addressed such a large crowd?”
Lynell understands then. She hasn’t done any public interviews or speeches or anything since taking over. The oligarchs are taking advantage of being the first to offer the world insight on who she is. “Never,” she says. “I’ve never had the opportunity before.”
“Of course not,” says Macgill. “But it’s in your blood, isn’t it? What was it like to learn of your true heritage?”
“There’s not a sufficient way to describe it,” she says. The further into the conversation they get, the more she relaxes. She’s forgetting about the crowd and lights and cameras, focusing entirely on this conversation with a thirty-year-old man stuck in a seventy-year-old’s body. “I didn’t have the easiest or most comfortable childhood. I never knew who my dad was. So, it was a culture shock when I found out the truth.”
“I’m sure it felt right, though,” Vanderberg adds. “You’re an Elysian to your core, aren’t you?”
Lynell wants to say, ‘only technically,’ but she knows better. “Yes, I am. I always knew there was something missing about me and my family. Learning who I am was like becoming a full person for the first time in my life.” She hopes it’s enough to make Ramsey proud, because she can’t stomach thinking of anything else to say.
“Did you learn the truth when Zachary Elysian Registered you last quarter?” Macgill asks.
Her brain stumbles to a stop, refusing to send a speech command to her mouth. She’s looking at Macgill’s sculpted face in stupidity. He looks like a mold of someone meant to be attractive but who had very little to work with. He’s a middle-aged, conventionally unattractive man who has plenty of money to spare in the quest of beauty.
Audience members take the question as their opportunity to boo and shout words like “murderer,” again, and “fraud,” and “rebel sympathizer.” They manage a couple of seconds before being silenced again, likely both by guards and Vanderberg’s voice.
“Now, Bruce,” Vanderberg says. “Now isn’t time to recall the past, it’s time to look ahead!” He smiles, showing yellow-tinged teeth. “Have you considered the future, Lynell?”
This, she can answer with complete honesty. “I’ve done little else but consider the future. I have complete respect for The Registration, and I can’t wait to serve the country the way my grandfather and father did. I am blessed to have this birthright that has changed and saved our country, and I promise we will continue to work for the good of all people.”
“That sounds like part of your succession address!” Macgill says, false laughter painting the curves of his words. “We don’t want to step on your moment.”
“No, we don’t,” Vanderberg says. “So, before we get carried away, are you ready to officially take your rightful place as the Elysian Heir and owner of the Registration?”
Lynell nods. The ground is becoming steadier as they return to the scheduled events. She sees Macgill walk away from the corner of her vision.
“Perfect. Lynell Elizabeth Elysian, do you swear that you are Gideon Elysian’s legitimate heir?”
While Vanderberg speaks, Macgill returns holding something indistinguishable. It must have been stored in the podium behind them, because there wasn’t enough time for him to leave the stage completely and return.
“I do swear,” Lynell says.
“Do you swear to lead to the best of your ability, prepared to support the country and work with the oligarchs and committee chairs to faithfully uphold the Registration?” Vanderberg asks.
Neither Eli nor Eric were asked to make this oath. After they swore they were Gideon’s legitimate sons, they moved right into giving a short address, then partying.
Lynell has never had trouble lying, though. She says so truthfully that she’d probably pass a lie detector test, “I do swear.”
“Do you swear to protect the Registration from rebels who would seek to destroy your grandfather’s work?”
“I do swear.”
“Then, without further ado, it is my honor to present you with the ceremonial keys to the Registration, your rightful inheritance and the country’s saving grace.” Vanderberg accepts a small silk bag from Macgill, then passes it to Lynell.
She takes it, uses her left pinky to open the sinched top, then dumps the contents into her right hand. A shiny gold key on an equally polished chain falls into her palm. It’s a small, unremarkable thing that probably doesn’t unlock anything, but Lynell has rarely felt so happy to hold an object. The moment is comparable to when Daniel slid her wedding ring on her finger.
She hooks her pinky around the chain and grabs it, holding it out for the audience to see, imagining cameras zooming in on the likely useless yet life-changing key.
Lynell looks up at Vanderberg. Her heart twists and heat she doesn’t want to consider fills her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Vanderberg.” Lynell is horrified to hear the wobble in her voice, and a far too positive emotion wells under her skin.
“It’s my pleasure,” Vanderberg says. “Welcome to your future, Mrs. Elysian.”
Macgill says something similar that Lynell fails to interpret. The crowd is screaming and clapping again. This is the first applause that’s not broken up by boos. It goes on for several minutes, giving Lynell time to reach the podium. She grips the edges, wishing her traitorous body would stop being so damn happy about inheriting a business built on death.
She takes a deep breath and waits for a pause in the cheers. Then she begins.