Sordid Empire

by Julie Johnson

  I glance at Riggs and manage to smile properly for the first time all day. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Your Majesty.” He winks. “And congratulations on your wedding.”

  The smile falls off my face.

  I turn and start walking, barely bothering to avoid the worst of the puddles. Behind me, Lady Morrell is screeching about my dress, but she sounds about a million miles away. The numbness inside my chest cavity is radiating outward, hijacking all my senses until the whole world seems quite far removed.

  Just keep moving.

  Just don’t think.

  “Emilia,” Chloe says, once we’re settled in the car — a rare use of my first name. “You’re freaking me out.”

  “I’m fine,” I respond, on auto-pilot.

  “You aren’t fine. You’re like… a pod person.” She waves a hand in front of my eyes. “Hello? Is anyone in there? Anyone home?”

  Ignoring her antics, I turn and look out the window.

  I thought the inclement weather might deter the crowds, but as we ride through Vasgaard in my white Rolls-Royce, the streets are lined with millions of Germanians in plastic ponchos and waterproof slickers.

  “They say it’s good luck if it rains on your wedding day,” Lady Morrell titters from the seat across from mine. “When one is tying the knot, so to speak… a wet rope is far harder to untangle than a perfectly dry one.”

  Chloe scoffs. “That’s just a bullshit cliché made up to soothe Bridezillas.”

  “Miss Thorne, your attitude is not helping matters…”

  I promptly tune them out.

  Don’t think.

  Don’t think.

  Don’t think.

  We soon arrive at Windsor Abbey. The crowds here are twice as thick and ten times as loud, cheering uproariously when my limousine rolls into view.

  Between the press cameras, reporters, and bystanders, the streets are at capacity — a roiling ocean of sodden hats and umbrellas. The surrounding buildings are equally mobbed. People are peering out from every available window, leaning over balcony railings, huddling on rooftops in the driving rain.

  All hoping for just one glimpse at me.

  All waiting with joy in their hearts, thrilled by the prospect of this royal union.

  We pull to a stop at the curb and I steel my shoulders against the inevitable. A page bounds to the door and pulls it open, letting in a wave of sound. It crashes into me, vibrating my very bones.

  Lady Morrell and her minions get out first, poised by the door to assist with my exit. Through the water-beaded glass window, I see the gauntlet of Queen’s Guard forming once again on the steps. Waiting for me.

  It’s time to go.

  “E.” Chloe grabs my arm, stilling me. “I don’t care what anyone says — you do not have to do this if you don’t want to.”

  Lady Morrell makes a sound of deep distress, audible through the door gap. “Miss Thorne! How could you say such a thing? And now, of all times?”

  “Ignore her.” Chloe stares into my eyes, her expression intent. “I mean it. We can make a run for it. The keys are in the ignition. Say the word — I’ll hop the partition, fire up the engine, and get us the hell out of here.”

  I take a deep breath, allowing the air to fill up my lungs, then slowly expelling it out through my nose. For one insane instant, I close my eyes and allow myself to picture it — two sisters on the open road. The runaway bride and the recovering addict, getting the hell out of dodge. Skipping out on all the shit that’s been thrown at us, these past few months. Starting over somewhere new. Living our lives however the hell we choose to, without any input from our families or political pundits or social advisors.

  It’s a nice fantasy.

  I turn it over in my mind, savoring its sweetness. But as soon as my eyes open, the fantasy evaporates like mist.

  Chloe squeezes my bicep again. “Well? What’ll it be?”

  Placing my hand over hers, I squeeze back, once… then slowly pull her grip from my arm.

  “Chloe. If I’ve learned one thing in the past few months, it’s that you can’t outrun fate. It always catches up to you eventually.” I force a smile onto my lips and hope it looks more convincing than it feels. “Look at them all out there. Waiting for me. For their queen. I cannot let them down. I will not let them down.”

  “But, E…”

  “I love you, sister.” I blink away my tears. “I love that you have my back, no matter what. But right now… I need you to stand by my side, as my maid-of-honor. I need you to carry my veil, and hold my hand, and support me when I stumble.” Panic is creeping into my voice; I do my best to tamp it down. “Because if you don’t… I don’t think I’ll be able to go through with this. And I have to go through with this, Chloe. I have to.”

  Chloe holds my eyes for a long moment, then nods. “Let’s go get you hitched.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It is the longest walk of my life.

  Up a set of sodden stone stairs, my once-beautiful veil trailing behind me like a translucent slug. Through a set of ornate wood doors that spill warm candlelight from the cathedral within. Across a threshold of marble and steel, the dividing line between my past and future. Down an alley of flower petals, their beauty crushed to pulp beneath my feet. Onto an altar of gold, where a beautiful man in a white suit awaits.

  I’m not certain how long the procession takes. Somewhere between five minutes and five years. I feel dazed. Half-asleep. Like this is all happening to someone else, or unfolding in a dream.

  I try to take in the faces of the crowd as I walk down the aisle, but there are so many of them. I see not one person I recognize in their midst. Not one person who means anything to me. Just pew after pew of aristocrats, their expressions stoic as I float past in a cloud of silk.

  I feel so desperately alone — even when I reach the end of the aisle and Alden steps forward to meet me.

  “My dear,” he whispers. “How beautiful you look.”

  He smiles down at me, stunningly handsome in his white jacket, and offers his arm. Just as we rehearsed. I slide my hand over the crook of his elbow, allowing him to lead me up three shallow steps onto the platform.

  The archbishop — the same one who conducted my coronation and proceeded over my father’s funeral rites — steps forward. I’ve met him six times at least and yet, in this moment, I cannot recall so much as his first name.

  His robes gleam, gold and white with splendor as he lifts his arms overhead to begin the blessing.

  “Please, be seated.”

  I hear the sound of five hundred guests settling into their pews, but I don’t look back. Instead, I let my eyes slide to my left, where Chloe is hovering. She gives a faint nod of encouragement and, belatedly, I pass off my bouquet of gold roses.

  She steps aside, finding her spot by the far pulpit. Leaving me alone with my choices.

  We should’ve run when we had the chance.

  Alden and I turn to face one another on the altar, hands clasped in the space between our bodies. He looks totally calm and collected as he stares into my eyes. I wonder if my apprehension is plain to see. If he knows me well enough, by now, to read my expression.

  For, now that I am up here, about to tie my life to his for all time…my numbness is swiftly fading and, in its place, a sense of utter panic is taking hold. My coping mechanism — don’t think, don’t think, don’t think — no longer seems to be working effectively.

  My heart begins to pound double-time — a mad tattoo, thundering inside my veins. It’s all I can hear. All I can focus on.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  Everything else is too silent, now that the cheering crowds have been shut out in the rain and the organ has stopped its droning from the balcony.

  The archbishop starts speaking — saying something about commitment and partnership and the many merits of wedded bliss as he blesses our gold rings on small pillows at the ceremonia
l table behind us. His words barely register beneath the dread gripping me like a vise.

  I am getting married.

  Not in a month or a week or a day.

  Now.

  Right now.

  This instant.

  My fingernails are cutting half-moons into the flesh of Alden’s palms. I can feel the concern radiating off him in waves. I can’t blame him — it’s all I can do not to bolt, and I’m certain he knows it.

  I lock my knees together to keep still as the archbishop begins the ceremony in earnest.

  “We are gathered here today in the presence of God and Country to bear witness to the union of Her Royal Highness Emilia Victoria Lancaster and Lord Alden Nottingham Sterling, in the holy covenant of matrimony.”

  I sway a bit.

  Alden’s grip tightens on mine.

  “O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, giver of all spiritual grace, author of everlasting life: send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy name; that, living faithfully together, they may surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made, whereof this ring given and received is a token and pledge; and may ever remain in perfect love and peace together, and live according to thy laws; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  Don’t think.

  Don’t think.

  Don’t think.

  But it’s not working. Not anymore. My thoughts race like a marathon running, circling through my head too rapidly to track.

  The archbishop sucks in a deep breath, his voice booming out over the crowd. “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. The most honorable state of holy matrimony is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly — but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, and solemnly. Into this holy estate, these two persons present now come to be joined.”

  I think my heart might rip its way right out of my chest.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  “If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together,” the archbishop continues. “Let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

  Alden is staring at me. I see the moment he realizes what I’m about to do. The heartbreaking awareness that the woman he loves does not, in fact, love him back. That she is about to break his heart on a massive scale, with the entire world bearing witness.

  “Emilia,” he pleads lowly. “Don’t.”

  But I must.

  I have no choice.

  I thought I could do this — for my country. For my crown. Yet it seems I cannot.

  My lips part, the objection poised on them. My throat clears lightly. “I—”

  “I OBJECT!”

  The male voice swallows mine, shattering the silence of the church. A gasp goes up, the crowd stunned someone would dare interrupt the royal wedding.

  Heart in my throat, I turn to face the man striding down the aisle. His booted feet swallow its length in determined strides, closing the distance between us in mere seconds.

  I think, in that prolonged instant before he reaches me, the whole world ceases to turn. The very atmosphere holds its breath in anticipation. The church is frozen, a tableau of shock and fascination.

  Who is this man, come to claim our queen?

  But when he reaches the altar, halting at the base of the steps, I find myself asking that same question. For this is a man I have never seen before. At least… not in person.

  It takes me a moment to recognize him. To look away from the scarred flesh marring the left side of his face long enough to examine the familiar planes of the right.

  Proud nose.

  Dimpled chin.

  Light brown hair.

  Steady green eyes.

  “You…” I breathe. “You’re…”

  Crown Prince Henry.

  Rightful heir to the throne.

  Future King of Germania.

  The man in question smiles, the undamaged half of his mouth tugging upward.

  “Hello there, cousin. Nice to officially meet you.”

  If I were the kind of girl who fainted in times of great distress, I’d be on the floor right about now. Somehow, I manage to stay conscious as I stare at Henry. My guards have closed in, surrounding him as though he’s some sort of threat.

  “Riggs,” I say numbly. “Fall back. He’s…” I swallow hard. “He’s the true king.”

  At the word king the crowd detonates into a cacophony of sound. Some people are cheering, others are crying. The news ripples from pew to pew. In seconds, it will spread beyond the walls of this cathedral, out into the world.

  It’s the Crown Prince!

  He’s alive!

  Henry is alive!

  And the rightful king!

  I’ve seen pictures of my cousin in the past. He was once regarded as a very handsome man. His scars have tempered his beauty somewhat, but he still holds himself with regal bearing as he ascends the steps up onto the altar, coming to a stop directly between Alden and me. There’s a bemused smile on his face. I realize he is quite enjoying the spectacle he’s just caused.

  My throat feels clogged. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say, in this scenario. Even Lady Morrell, sitting slack-jawed in the second pew, seems at a loss for proper royal protocol.

  “Queen Emilia,” Henry says jovially, bowing slightly at the waist. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance after all this time. I do apologize for the drama of my entrance.”

  “You’re… you’re…”

  “No longer comatose?” He laughs lightly. “Yes, well, I’m certain that’s a bit of an inconvenience.” His eyes slide to my groom’s. “To some more than others.”

  Alden’s hands fall away from mine, as though he’s been scalded. He reels backward, looking pale. His body collides with the ceremonial table, sending our ring pillows cascading to the floor. I watch the gold bands roll off in opposite directions, disappearing beneath a nearby pulpit.

  The crowd behind us has gone silent. Henry turns to face them. “My fellow Germanians — I’m sure my sudden reappearance has caused quite a stir. All will be explained in due time, I assure you. But for now, we must postpone this happy occasion.” He glances at me. “My family has some things to sort out before any marriages can take place. And I fear we must do so without an audience.”

  I signal to Riggs and Galizia. Without delay, they begin to usher everyone out — row by row, a slow parade of eager onlookers craning their necks to catch one last glimpse of the royal drama before they are forced out into the rain.

  “Henry!” A hysterical female voice bursts out. I turn in time to see Ava, clad in a gorgeous silver gown, hurling herself from the front pew onto the altar.

  “Oh, Henry!” she sobs, her waterworks Oscar-worthy. “You’re alive! My darling! My love!”

  I snort — I can’t help it.

  Henry glances over at the sound, a wry expression on his face, then turns his attention to the sobbing woman at his feet. She’s grabbed hold of one of his ankles.

  “Beloved, why didn’t you call me the instant you awoke? I have been at your bedside night and day—”

  Now Henry is the one snorting. He crouches down and clasps Ava’s hand… but only to peel it from his pant leg.

  “That’s interesting, Ava, since I have been out of my coma recovering for several weeks now. My doctors were quite forthcoming with my visitor’s log. It seems you did not visit me night and day, as you claim. In fact, you did not visit me at all. Not once, in nearly a year’s time.” He rises back to full height, peering down at her as one might a dog who’s just shit on their shoe. “Could you explain that to me, my darling?”

  “I was too emotional to visit, but in my heart—”

  “Oh, save it, Ava.” Chloe steps into the fray, hands planted on her hips. She meets Henry’s eyes. “Speaking as someone who actually did visit you regularly, I can attest that your
hag of a fiancée never once set foot in your waiting room.” She pauses, a smile twitching her lips up at one corner. “Good to see you up and around, H. Though I could kill you for not calling me when you woke up.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Have you really been conscious for weeks?” I ask, unable to remain silent. Now that my shock has worn off, questions are hammering at me relentlessly. “I’ve been getting status reports on your condition from your doctors…”

  Henry grimaces. “I apologize for the deception. When I first awoke, I was rather confused about what had happened to me. I commanded they remain silent until I’d regained my memories of that night.” He pauses, expression growing somber. “Of the fire that claimed my parents’ lives.”

  “So you remember what happened?” I ask, eyes widening. “You remember who started the fire?”

  Henry nods slowly. I notice he’s staring at Alden, who’s still collapsed in a heap on the floor, looking like he’s seen a ghost.

  “Oh, I remember,” Henry murmurs. “I remember every detail of that night.”

  Alden wheezes out a sound — not quite a groan, not quite a grunt. I suppose he’s in shock at the sudden return of his best friend. I know how close they were, before the fire.

  Ava is still fake-sobbing, sprawled across the steps at our feet. “Henry…” She sniffles pathetically. “Oh, Henry…”

  “Do shut up,” Chloe hisses at her.

  “Galizia,” I call, gesturing down at Ava. “Would you mind…”

  My guard smirks as she approaches. “It would be my pleasure, My Queen.”

  “I’m not the queen,” I whisper lowly, almost to myself. “Not anymore.”

  Henry hears me, though. He glances over, his gaze lingering on the crown atop my head.

  His crown.

  He is the rightful heir.

  The true king.

  Which makes me…

  No one.

  Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I reach up and attempt to remove it. Unfortunately, the industrial hairspray and thousand-odd pins holding it in place make that task impossible.

  “Sorry,” I say dumbly. I feel like the ultimate imposter in the face of actual royalty. “This crown… it’s yours.”