Sordid Empire

by Julie Johnson

  I suck in a breath.

  There it is.

  She knows.

  She definitely knows.

  Tears fill my eyes as I reach out and grab the remote. Before she can say another word, I jam my finger against the play button. I’d rather watch gory chainsaw massacres than discuss the multitude of ways my heart is breaking right now.

  “Let’s just watch the movie. Okay?”

  If she hears how choked-up my voice is, she doesn’t comment on it. But a second later, her head lands on my shoulder and she snuggles against my side.

  “Okay, E. Okay.”

  Chapter Eight

  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 fi
ll 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. Truthfull
y, 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.”