Sordid Empire

by Julie Johnson

  I moved to it like a magnet, pulled in by some elusive charge in the air. Without a fire burning in the hearth, Carter’s suite was cold enough to see my breath. At least, that’s the excuse I gave myself to justify crawling beneath his covers like a little girl hiding from a nightmare.

  Hugging his pillow to my chest, I breathed in the only trace of him left behind in my life. Tears filled my eyes instantly, spilling out onto silk sheets as the faintest trace of smoke and spice filled my senses.

  Soon, it too would be gone.

  I miss you.

  Every minute, every hour, every day.

  I miss you so much it hurts.

  Wrapped in the empty bed of my almost-forever, I closed my weeping eyes and pretended, just for a few hours, that he was still here. That any moment now, those strong arms of his would closer around me and pull me close. That the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek would guide me to sleep, a comforting metronome designed especially for me.

  I was gone before dawn, settled firmly back in my own suite before any of the servants or guards could bear witness to my weakness. The bedspread smoothed immaculately. Everything exactly as I’d found it. Except, perhaps, if you looked closely… the faintest stain of tears on thousand thread-count sheets.

  “Better?” I ask, once I’ve finished applying the thick nude-colored makeup beneath my eyes.

  Chloe grabs my chin, leaning in to peer at my pores close-up. “Slight improvement. Honestly, E, did you sleep at all? You do realize every camera in the country is going to be trained on you today, don’t you? Actually, given the international interest in this referendum, I’d say every camera on the continent. Maybe even the world.”

  “Thanks. That’s so comforting.”

  She shrugs. “Like Lizzo says — truth hurts, babe.”

  “What is a Lizzo?”

  “God, you really need to get out more.”

  Sighing, I turn to look out my tinted window. The streets of the capital roll by in a blur of color. Every house seems to be sporting a political sign — purple for our supporters, red for our opposition. I try not to take a tally of them, to weigh whether the odds are truly in our favor… but I can’t help noticing an alarming amount of red as we wind slowly toward the National Assembly.

  The sign someone sticks in their front lawn does not always correlate to the ballot box they check, Simms reminds me daily. Be patient and trust the process.

  “Nervous?”

  I glance back at Chloe. “Of course I am.”

  “Don’t be. Gerald and I had a final strategy meeting this morning. We both feel very confident the referendum will pass.”

  “Gerald?” I scoff. “I didn’t realize you and Simms had grown so close. First-name-basis is a big step for two people who used to hate each other.”

  “War makes strange bedfellows, so they say.” Her lips twist. “Never thought I’d find myself admitting this but… the old timer is actually rather amusing. In a dry-as-dust, stiff-upper-lip sort of way.”

  “Well, if all else fails with this vote, at least you’ve made a friend other than me.”

  “The vote is not going to fail! Don’t say that. Don’t even think it,” she scolds, smacking me on the arm. “You’ve put your heart and soul into this campaign, E. You’ve been to every village in this godforsaken country. If there was a world record for ‘Number of Selfies Taken With Excited Germanian Peasants’ you would be the unquestionable champion.”

  “Don’t call my people peasants.”

  “Oh, whatever. I’m just saying… You’ve done everything you can. At this point, you just have to let go. Have faith in the work you’ve done. Have faith in this revolution you sparked. And have faith in your people, as you call them. They’ll turn out to support you.”

  She sounds so self-assured, it makes my eyebrows arch toward my hairline. I stare over at my sister, somewhat awed by how far she’s come in such a short time.

  Was it mere months ago we were prying pill bottles from her hands, scraping her drugged-out frame off the floor of dingy nightclubs? Was it only recently she worried she might never find her way back to sobriety?

  You’d never know it, to see her now. The girl seated beside me radiates confidence. Her red hair is lustrous, her porcelain skin flawless. She looks healthy. Happy. Full of purpose.

  “Why are you looking at me like that, loser?”

  Blinking rapidly to clear the sting from my eyes, I lean forward and plant a quick kiss on her cheek. “Because you’re beautiful.”

  Her brow furrows. “Okay… Whatever you say, weirdo…”

  I laugh and turn back to look out my window. When I see the building looming back at me through the glass — the great domed roof of the National Assembly, blocking out the mid-morning sun — all amusement vanishes, quickly replaced by a gnawing sense of dread that fills my stomach.

  We’re here.

  The steps of Parliament are lined with hundreds of members of the press, along with two distinct mobs of Germanian citizens — one clad in purple, the other red. From inside my limo, their shouts were deafening; now that I’m out, standing in plain view on the steps, they have reached a decibel that threatens to shatter even the sturdiest of eardrums.

  My appearance is a lightning rod in an electrical storm that was already raging out of control. The clashing protestors, hyped up from weeks of sparring online, are even more frenzied now that their confrontations have shifted past the safe separation of a computer screen. Face to face for the first time, they hurl insults and campaign slogans with a vitriol that makes my bones shake.

  Cheers of “WE DO NOT ASSENT!” are met with volleys of “KEEP GERMANIA ON COURSE!” The streets are so loud, when I step up to the podium to speak, my voice is barely audible despite the cluster of microphones amplifying it.

  “My fellow Germanians — I stand here today not just as your queen, but also as your countrymen. For the past few months, I have had a chance to get to know so many of you. I have traveled from border to border, hearing your stories, sharing histories, and making new memories. In every town and city, I was welcomed with open arms — into your homes, into your hearts. You allowed me to make my voice heard in a manner unlike any before.”

  I pause, pulling in a steadying breath as I look out over the crowd. They have gone utterly silent, hanging on my every word. I try to pick out familiar faces in the crowd, but there are too many to focus on — an undulating sea of features, some contorted into frowns, but many — so, so, many — rapt with hope.

  “Booo!” a shrill voice suddenly screams from the opposition side. “Get back to the gutter where you belong!”

  A gasp moves through the crowd. Though many attack me on nightly news programs and in print interviews, few are brazen enough to do so in my direct presence.

  My eyes cut to the source of the attack — a tall blonde in an immaculately tailored red pantsuit. Her version of battle armor, no doubt. She’s accessorized to the hilt with ruby jewels, stilt-high stilettos, and a studded black handbag.

  Ava.

  I should’ve known. She’s standing with her parents at the front of the crowd, her expression full of that icy smugness she pulls off so well.

  Bitch.

  Holding her stare, I grit my teeth in what I hope resembles a smile and carry on with my speech. “There are those in our nation who claim I have overstepped my bounds as your queen. That, in expressing a political opinion, I am grasping at authority I have not yet earned.” I force myself to look out at the rest of the crowd, straight into the lenses of the hundred cameras beaming at me from all sides. “Today, I stand here to assure you: I have no interest in being a dictator. And yet, I am equally uninterested in being a mere figurehead, sitting on a great gold chair with little regard for those she reigns over.”

  A cheer goes up from the back of the crowd and, smiling, I lift my hand to silence it. “So perhaps those who denounce me at every turn are correct in one regard, at least — I am not your typical royal. I say tha
t not with regret, but with pride.” My lips twist wryly. “My so-called ‘commoner’ past may be easy ammunition for those taking aim at me. But I feel no shame in my upbringing. Long before I was your queen, I was merely one of you. A regular Germanian. Struggling to pay my bills and get to class on time and start a career and remember to take out the rubbish bins—” An appreciative laugh titters through the audience. “—and, perhaps, given half a chance… to leave some kind of mark on this world we all share.”

  I look around again, sweeping through the gathered faces. This time, my gaze lands on the front row where Alden, Chloe, Simms, and Lady Morrell are standing. I search in vain for another face — one I know better than to look for, but can’t stop myself from seeking out anyway.

  He’s not there.

  Why would he be?

  I jerk my eyes away and carry on. “My mother raised me to believe that if you are given the privilege of a loud voice, you are obligated to use it to spread truth and goodness, not malice or hate. I will not stand idly by as injustice and inequality find favor in our Parliament. I cannot, in good conscience, remain neutral on issues that my predecessors ignored for far too long.”

  The cheer goes up again. It takes twice as long to extinguish it this time.

  “My fellow citizens, I am speaking directly to you, now. In a few moments, polls all across our nation will open and you will have a chance to make your own voices heard. You will step through those doors and cast your votes in what I’m sure will be a historic election. I do not know what the results will be. I do not know whether our nation is yet ready to cast off the shackles of tradition, to embrace a new age of equality and prosperity. But I do know one thing. Regardless of the outcome today… I stand here before you, ever-hopeful for our future. A future in which we are defined not by the things that divide us, but rather, those that unite us. I stand here grateful that I have played even a small role in this groundswell of change. And, above all, I stand here eternally proud to call myself your queen.”

  There’s no silencing the cheers.

  Not this time.

  They fill the air in a great crescendo, echoing off buildings, drifting upward into the clouds, drowning out any potential boos from the opposition.

  They sound like hope.

  They sound like progress.

  They sound like the future.

  And it is bright.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’m halfway down the National Assembly steps, so close to my waiting Rolls-Royce I can practically smell the vintage leather, when it happens.

  Bang!

  I know that sound. I’ve heard it before — once in real life, and a thousand times since in my nightmares.

  An explosion.

  A bomb.

  A truck, bursting into flame and leveling a city block, the bodies of my countrymen along with it. A cataclysm of carnage and despair. A million sleepless nights and a hundred gleaming coffins…

  The boom catches me off guard, piercing my eardrums like the blade of a knife. There’s no warning. No way to steel myself against it. And certainly no time to use rational thought or logic to counter the reaction it triggers inside me.

  In the space between two blinks, I’m flooded with a sense of panic so strong, I can hardly breathe.

  Run.

  Hide.

  It’s happening again.

  The next thing I know, I’m on the ground beside the limo, ducking for cover between the wheel-well and the dirty curb. Something’s pressed against my chest.

  An anvil, slowly pushing the air from my lungs.

  No — it’s only my legs. They’re curled so close to my chest, the heels of my shoes dig sharply into the backs of my thighs. My arms wrap around my shins, hugging them like a child does a teddy bear at night, when monsters creep out of closets and shadows move without warning. My forehead presses against my kneecaps as my eyelids squeeze shut, blocking out everything around me.

  Blind terror.

  Literally.

  I try to breathe, but I can’t seem to drag even a single molecule of oxygen down my throat. My windpipe has effectively sealed itself off. In the distance, there’s the dull sound of many someones yelling my name; a chorus of Emilia! Emilia! Emilia! that makes me want to shrink down until I’ve disappeared completely. A mote of dust on the sidewalk, invisible to whatever danger is about to unfold.

  “Emilia, it’s okay!” A detached voice assures me from above. “Everything’s okay. It’s not what you think.”

  No, no, no.

  Not again.

  “E, get up. You have to get up.”

  Leave me here.

  Let me disappear.

  But then, there are arms around me — big hands sliding beneath kneecaps, around shoulders. I’m hoisted up, up, up, until I’m cradled against something very broad and very warm, even through the suit jacket. A chest.

  Carter.

  He came for me.

  “You’re here,” I murmur, pressing my eyes to the fabric of his suit. “You came.” A tear escapes. “I knew you’d come for me.”

  “Of course I’m here, My Queen.”

  The voice — it’s all wrong. No rasp, none of the faint sarcastic edge, not even a flicker of wry humor.

  It’s not him.

  My eyes open as I realize I’m not in Carter’s arms at all, but Alden’s. He’s breathing a bit heavily, the strain of holding me in his arms apparent, but his eyes are full of comforting warmth as they peer down into mine.

  “It was just one of the press van engines backfiring, Emilia. We are not under attack.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling my panic dissipate. In its wake, embarrassment floods me as I realize my PTSD has just been put on full display for not only the crowds, but also the world. There are dozens of cameras trained on us, recording a scene that is sure to be trending live on Twitter within seconds.

  I open my mouth to tell Alden to put me down but before I can, he turns to face the cameras head-on, cradling me more firmly against his body.

  “Queen Emilia, are you alright?” one of the reporters yells from a forest of telephoto lenses, her microphone extended toward us. “What happened?”

  “Are you all right, Your Majesty?”

  “Lord Sterling!” another shouts. “Look over here!”

  A stream of other questions are hurled our way, a barrage of curiosity and concern coming at us from all sides. When Alden clears his throat to address them, the reporters fall silent.

  “Our queen is feeling a bit faint. We will return to the castle at once.” His grip tightens on me, hauling me closer. “I assure you, she will be looked after with the utmost care and caution. There is no task in the world of greater importance than protecting my Emilia.”

  The crowd lets out an audible gasp at his accidental informality. I can practically hear the cameras zooming closer, immortalizing the image of me in Alden Sterling’s arms for all time.

  What a sight we must make.

  “Queen Emilia, that is,” Alden bleats, practically stuttering, a tinge of red staining his cheeks.

  But it is a flimsy recovery for a monumental fumble. A gauze bandage on a gushing wound. The press has exploded once more — this time yelling a new set of questions that make my head spin far worse than the imagined terrorist incident.

  Are the two of you engaged?

  Can we expect a royal wedding?

  When did your romance begin?

  Will you make a formal announcement?

  They were worked up seeing me fall; they are now practically tripping over each other in their eagerness to get information out of me. The reporters push in like a line of advancing troops on a battlefield, microphones held out like lances, cameras driving forward like battering rams. The Queen’s Guard form a line to keep them at bay, their arms outstretched in a blockade as Alden turns and ushers me to the Rolls-Royce.

  We pass Chloe, Simms, and Lady Morrell — all three of whom are wearing identical worried expressions as they take in t
he sight of me in Alden’s arms. My mind is such a tangled spool of panic and fatigue, I can barely conjure the will to keep my eyes open and my lungs pumping, let alone worry about the scandal we’ve just created on a city sidewalk.

  That’s life as a Lancaster, I suppose.

  Another day, another international incident.

  No one in my entourage seems to know what to say. We sit in the back of the limousine in thick silence, not making eye contact or addressing the elephant in the room — the one sitting on my left ring finger.

  We’re halfway back to the castle when I finally take a deep breath and attempt some levity.

  “So. That could’ve gone better.”

  “You think?” Chloe snorts, scrolling through her phone. “I’m going to have to do some serious damage control to keep #LoonyLancaster from trending.”

  I groan. “Was it that bad? The panic attack?”

  “No,” Alden insists.

  “Yes,” Chloe says at the same time.

  “Honestly, you were quite commanding up till that point,” Simms remarks dryly. “However, your speech soundbites may be overshadowed by your rather… untraditional exit.”

  “I found you inspiring, Your Majesty,” Lady Morrell chimes in, trying to sound upbeat. “And, may I say, your outfit was simply perfect today — at least, until you got all that dirt and grease on it.”

  “Brought down by a car backfiring,” I mutter, laughing dryly. “Sounds about right.”

  “Oh, whatever.” Chloe waves away my words. “With any luck, all they’ll remember is what happened after your little meltdown.” Her eyes slide from me to Alden and back again. “You do realize the entire world thinks the two of you are engaged now, don’t you?”

  My stomach clenches. “Surely not.”

  “Zoom in on our queen, scooped into the arms of a dashing blond hero in a time of great distress! Swept off into a waiting limousine!” Chloe snorts. “It’s practically fairy tale fodder. The press is going to take this and run with it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already staking out the castle and speculating over potential wedding venues.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I snap. “We’ll put out a press release later today to clarify that Alden and I are nothing more than friends.”