I wake the next morning with massive circles beneath my eyes. I didn’t sleep well. How could I, with thoughts of Chloe and Carter tumbling around inside my head?
A maid arrives with breakfast on a tray — fresh raspberry scones with jam and clotted cream, a double-strength cappuccino on the side. I sip it out on my terrace, the mug warming my hands against the chill air.
The castle grounds are still encased in a thin layer of ice. They seem to dazzle in the early-morning light, the frost turned to diamonds. There’s not a sound except the occasional thump of heavy snow falling from a weighted tree-bough, the sporadic crack of an icicle plummeting from the ornate stone awnings to the hard-packed earth far below.
I’m not looking forward to the day ahead. Six hours at the National Assembly, followed by an evening babysitting Chloe at a charity auction I had no intention of attending. I’ve never been to an auction in my life. Normally, I’d have Lady Morrell by my side to help me prepare, talking me through all the dos and don’ts, describing proper bidding etiquette, consulting on royal protocol…
Am I supposed to donate some ancient relic from the palace vaults to be auctioned off? A collector’s item the highest bidder can tout around at cocktail parties to impress their wealthy friends?
This bronze cigar box belonged to King Xavier II, circa 1630! If you breathe deeply, you can almost smell the ghosts of all the peasants who starved to death during his reign while he sat in his castle smoking fine tobacco! Isn’t it simply divine?!
I snort out a breath, watching it fog the air in front of my face. I’m already exhausted and I haven’t even finished my cappuccino. Then again, I doubt my forthcoming agenda would sound appealing even after a solid eight hours of sleep. I doubt it would sound appealing after a full-frontal lobotomy.
I shiver as the wind picks up, whipping snowflakes around in tiny vortexes that pelt my cheeks. My shoulders hunch inward to ward off the cold. I know I should head back inside, but I’m loathe to exchange my favorite pajamas for the tailored pantsuit the seamstresses laid out for me last night: white with dual-breasted gold buttons and sharp shoulders. It makes me look like a military officer in an old Hollywood film.
The creak of a door opening startles me so much, I nearly spill what’s left of my cappuccino. I whirl around to see Carter stepping out of his suite onto the adjacent balcony. He’s wearing dark slacks and a hunter green peacoat — on his way to another meeting, no doubt, for his mysterious new project in Switzerland.
His hands are fisted around what appears to be a blanket, but I give it no more than a passing glance; I’m too distracted by the severe look on his face. I feel the breath snag in my throat at the intensity of his scowl as he stalks in my direction.
Shit.
Someone’s in serious trouble — and that someone appears to be me. I gulp nervously as he reaches the waist-high partition dividing our balconies.
Before I can conjure a single cohesive sentence to ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing, Carter swings his long legs over the stone railing and hops smoothly onto my side. There’s a soft crunch of snow beneath his dress shoes as he lands, then quickly closes the distance between us. My eyes are wide when he stops in front of me, still glaring like I’ve just insulted his favorite brand of scotch. My fingers are so tight around my mug, I think I’ve lost circulation.
“W-what—”
“Are you trying to freeze to death?” Carter snaps, shoving the blanket roughly over my shoulders. “It’s subzero out here.”
“I… I was…”
His dark brows lift, two angry slashes across his forehead. “What? Standing out here in your fucking pajamas, hoping to catch the plague?”
“Maybe,” I mutter, chastised by his scolding.
“Christ, Emilia.”
“Don’t yell at me!”
“Don’t make dangerous decisions, then.”
“I’m standing on my balcony drinking coffee, not scaling Everest barefoot. I wouldn’t call this living on the edge. But thanks so much for the show of condescension.”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Whatever. I’m late for my meeting anyway.”
“No one’s keeping you hostage here! By all means, go finalize your plans to flee the country!”
His eyes narrow on mine. “Careful. I might actually start to think you care about me leaving.”
“Of course I care,” I snap, exasperated. “God, are you ever going to be done punishing me for pushing you away after Linus died? I apologized, Carter. Pretty profusely.”
His nostrils flare with anger, but his words are wound tight with self-control. “This isn’t about that. This is about something much bigger, and you know it.”
Stiffening, I turn away to set my coffee cup down on the terrace ledge with a clatter. My fingers grip the icy stone like a lifeline. “I don’t know anything.”
He scoffs. “Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit.” I blink hard, hoping it’ll make my eyes stop pricking. “And even if it is, I’m not sure why I should discuss the facets of my life with someone who’s stepping out of it in a few days’ time. What good will come of rehashing ancient history?”
“Is that what we are, Emilia? Ancient history?”
I pull in a sharp breath, trying like hell to keep my voice even. To hide the fact that, with each word he speaks, the crude thread I used to stitch my heart back together three months ago comes a little more undone inside my chest. “The past is the past. It’ll be easier for both of us in the long run if we let it stay there.”
“Easier,” he echoes bitterly.
I bite my lip and fix my eyes on the castle grounds, unable to meet his stare. Unable to even respond.
What could I possibly say?
He’s leaving… and I can’t give him a single reason to stay. No matter how much I’d like to. We have backed ourselves into an impossible corner and I can see no viable way out. Not without doing irreparable damage to us both.
There’s a long silence — so long, I think Carter must’ve gone back inside. I’m about to turn and check when he finally shatters it. His voice is so, low, so intent, it sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the cold.
“How long are you going to pretend we can continue to exist like this? You don’t want me to go to Switzerland and build a future of my own, but you sure as hell won’t make a place for me here in yours. So where exactly does that leave me, Emilia? What possible reason do I have to stick around?”
The terrace is just about the only thing keeping me upright. I shake my head uselessly. I don’t have a single word to say in my own defense. I don’t have an answer for him. Not one he wants to hear, anyway.
“You’re the most powerful woman in this country,” Carter says quietly at my back. “But you’re still just as trapped by this life as you were last fall, when we first met. You’re a queen. Stop acting like a pawn.”
My eyelids squeeze shut as his words hit me like a ton of bricks.
I’m trying, I think pathetically, hating myself for my own failings. Can’t you see, I’m trying?
“You think painting your nails, putting a purple streak in your hair means you’ve reclaimed your autonomy, Emilia?” His voice goes dangerously soft. “Why don’t you try taking something that actually matters for a change? Something you actually want?”
Tears fill my eyes as his words slice through me. I feel another few stitches shake loose inside my heart. Frozen, I take a deep breath.
Another.
One more.
Gathering my courage.
Summoning my strength.
“What if the thing I want most is—”
The words falter when I whirl around and find he’s already gone back inside. I’m alone on the terrace, my breath puffing like smoke in the empty air.
My hands fist in the thick fabric of the blanket he placed around my shoulders. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend it’s a set of strong arms, pulling me close. Keeping me safe when the world feels immeasurably screwed up.
What if the thing I want most is you?
“All rise for Her Royal Majesty Emilia Victoria Lancaster, Queen of Germania!”
A hundred and fifty middle-aged men lumber to their feet, eyeing me with a strange mix of apprehension and apathy as I make my way through their ranks. The aisle cuts straight down the center of a dozen rows of wood benches, culminating in a raised pulpit at the front of the grand chamber. I keep my eyes fixed on it, hoping my face betrays none of the nervous energy zinging through my system.
I take a deep breath. The air here in the National Assembly smells of leather, furniture polish, cigar smoke, and that unique perfume birthed from old books. With soaring ceilings, dim lighting, and walls full of portraiture, it looks more like a musty library than the much-revered House of Lords.
The ministers nod deeply as I pass, their ridiculous white powdered wigs bobbing. They look like something out of a Renaissance reenactment. Old men playing dress-up.
I press my lips firmly together to keep them from twitching as I make my way up three gleaming mahogany steps and take my place on the small platform at the head of the room.
Two chairs await — the empty one intended for me, the other reserved for a man I’ve met only twice before, in brief passing at state functions. Prime Minister Edmund Mallory. We’ve traded no more than a few words in total since I claimed my Lancaster lineage last fall. He rises to his feet when I reach him, torso inclined in a shallow bow.
“Your Majesty. Welcome to Parliament.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister.”
Mallory is a solemn man, but his eyes are not unkind when they meet mine, nor is his body language aggressive as he gestures for me to take my seat. In his late sixties, he still cuts a rather impressive figure. Time has not completely weathered what once must’ve been quite a handsome face.
In truth, I don’t know much about him, except that he’s held his position for nearly twenty-five years — longer than I’ve been on this earth. In his record-breaking tenure as Germania’s PM, he’s dealt exclusively with middle-aged Lancaster males: the late King Leopold, his father King Leonard before him.
What he might think of me — this audacious child-queen who dares trespass on his realm — remains a mystery. His blank expression reveals next to nothing.
“Please, take a seat, Your Majesty.”
We sink into the ornate wood chairs on the dais. The entire hall immediately follows suit; a hundred and fifty ministers settling onto benches, their black robes billowing like ship sails. For a moment, the hall is silent as a graveyard as I gaze down at them. They gaze fixedly back, a sea of lukewarm welcome. Everyone seems to be taking my measure. I feel like a child being sized up on her first day of school.
Will she cry and call out for her mother?
I try not to cow beneath the weight of so many chilly stares. Just being in their midst is strangely unsettling. Not only am I the youngest person present by several decades, I’m also the only one without a penis. My own anatomy has never been quite so apparent to me.
It’s obviously startling to them as well. Like Mallory, none of them have been confronted with a female Germanian monarch in all their time serving our government.
Until today.
Breathing deeply, I tell myself not to panic. It will be over soon. After all, my presence here is, for all intents and purposes, largely ceremonial.
“Welcome, all.” Mallory’s deep voice booms from my left. “I call to order the official session of Parliament on this first day of March in the year of our Lord two thousand and twenty, in the presence of Her Royal Majesty the Queen. She will now swear us in, so we may proceed with the month’s most pertinent bills in a timely fashion.” His eyes slide to mine and he clears his throat lightly. I take that as my queue.
Pushing to my feet, I walk to the center of the dais, where a narrow pulpit sits. With each step, I’m highly aware of the ornate crown on my head; it’s far heavier than the small tiaras I’ve grown accustomed to donning at social functions in months past. I feel rather absurd wearing it — then again, I suppose it’s preferable to a powdered wig.
There’s a book resting on the pulpit’s surface, its gold-edged pages already open to the correct bit of dialogue. I read the words etched there — words that have been read by almost every king and queen of this kingdom for the past hundred years, each time Parliament gathers to vote.
“My Lords and Members of the Germanian House of Parliament,
With the royal authority bequeathed to me by right of the divinity, I hereby command this assembly to commence.
Members of the House of Lords:
Estimates for public service shall be laid before you.
Members of the House of Lords:
Tasks of industry shall be laid before you.
Members of the House of Lords:
Burdens of national security shall be laid before you.
May you steer with sound judgment, abiding all codes of moral conduct to which this kingdom aspires. May you cast your influence forsaking all personal interest in favor of your fellow countrymen. And may the blessing of our Almighty God rest forever upon your counsels.
Non sibi sed patriae.”
“Non sibi sed patriae,” a hundred and fifty voices echo back at me, a thunderous chorus of baritones. The very floor beneath me seems to vibrate with it.
Not for self, but country.
Closing the heavy tome, I make my way back to my seat. Mallory nods at me, a small show of approval. I’ve barely settled on my cushion when he rises from his to face the chamber.
“We are now officially in session. Lord Henderson, I believe you petitioned for the first vote regarding your forestry referendum for the woodlands outside Jaarlsburg…”
Over the course of the next few hours, I have ample opportunity to practice my poker face. It takes great endurance to keep the exasperation out of my expression when the lords go three rounds over a bill about increasing funding for road infrastructure.
My eyes begin to glaze over when discussion turns to seasonal mining regulations in the highest mountain reaches by the Swiss border. I nearly doze off entirely when one minister starts droning on about the injustice of proposed restrictions for the coal industry, in compliance with new global emissions standards.
Perhaps I’d be more inclined to be involved in these matters if I actually had a say in how any of them will play out. But I am simply a member of the audience; a passive bystander to the creation of my kingdom’s laws. As such, sitting here is almost like watching a very long, very uninspired stage performance — act after act of political maneuvering and careful wordplay, the company players reciting their lines without much passion or dramatic flair.
Each time they finish debating a topic, Prime Minister Mallory calls for a vote. The lords cast their ballots verbally with a series of ayes and nays, at which point the bill is considered official. My only role in all this is to sit gravely in my chair and call out, “The crown assents!” in my most convincing voice, swearing it into law with my so-called divine right.
Whenever I do this, Mallory nods at me in a pleased, albeit somewhat patronizing, manner.
What a good girl! You’ve memorized your one line so well!
I smile blandly and attempt to prevent my eyes from rolling in their sockets. Truthfully, I’m just grateful I don’t have to attend this charade more than once per month. I think doing so might turn me into a full-blown narcoleptic, if today’s topics are any indication of what Germania’s government typically votes on.
After six straight hours without so much as a lunch break, even the ministers seem to be getting antsy for the session to end. When the final bill is introduced for debate, most of them look rather wilted in their black robes, shifting restlessly on their benches, eyeing the exit doors with unconcealed longing.
“Today’s final matter is called to our attention by Lord Heathcliff Klingerton, our representative from Lund.”
My eyes widen in recognition at the familiar surname. The tall man who’s just clambered to his feet is the spitting image of his son Edgar. When I hear the bill he’s introducing, I’m everlastingly grateful he will never become my father-in-law.
“I am compelled to bring forth a measure from the voters in my district, seeking a review of our current Parliamentary structure — specifically concerning certain eligibility requirements for those who wish to seek an active role as Minister or Prime Minister.” His lip curls with thinly-veiled pomposity. “It seems there is a percentage of Germanians who are unhappy with what they call exclusionary gender practices within our governing body.”
There’s a ripple of barely-suppressed laughter throughout the hall. I watch their amusement reverberating through the room and feel my spine stiffen.
“As this is the second time this matter has been advanced to my desk, I am legally inclined to present it on the floor for official debate.” Lord Klingerton pauses. “Though I do not presume there’s much to discuss, in this particular regard. This kingdom’s Parliament has run successfully for hundreds of years. I personally see no need for unsubstantiated changes that may threaten the very bedrock of our constitutional monarchy.”
“Here, here!” Another minister chimes in, rising to his feet. “My full support lies with maintaining the existing structure of our House of Lords.”
“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? Non 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…”