Chapter Fifteen
The earth crunchesbeneath Ginger’s hooves as we trot around a particularly pretty bend in the path. Her caramel coat gleams brightly against the pale, whitewashed landscape that surrounds us. The evergreen trees to either side are fully frosted with snow. Icicles hang from their heavy branches, sparkling like diamonds in the early evening light.
I usually don’t ride at this time of day, but I desperately needed to clear my head after the tea party this afternoon.
Chloe was correct about one thing — the women in that room really do make all the decisions for their husbands. I’ve never experienced anything like it in my life. The way conversation shifted from the latest gossip —Did you hear Baron Levinson was caught in a rather compromising position with the new nanny?— to politics —What are the geopolitical implications of Europe’s recent push for renewable energy on the value of Germania’s natural resources?— was truly something to behold.
For more than an hour, they discussed everything from trade to tariffs to the charities they’ll be sponsoring this holiday season. I sat there listening in what I can only describe as awe.
But awe soon faded to outrage.
Not on my behalf — ontheirs. On behalf of all women in this country. For it’s glaringly obvious that, hidden not so deeply beneath perfectly coiffed hair and sparkling jewels, sit some of the sharpest minds in Germania. And no one will ever know, on account of some archaic law barring women from Parliament.
What a goddamn waste.
The longer I listened, the more infuriated I became. How is it possible that Germania — a supposedly progressive nation, a first-world country, a gem of Europe — has sidelined half its population from making political decisions? How can it be that the country I love so dearly does not love me back, simply because I have a set of ovaries? And dear god, why aren’t these women out protesting in the streets, demanding equal representation in government?
I was so lost in the dark spiral of my own thoughts, Chloe had to elbow me several times when the conversation turned my way. Which, to my great displeasure, happened quite frequently as several different women attempted to pawn off their single sons on the future Queen of Germania.
Oliver just returned from a semester at Oxford! He’d love to meet you.
Charles is the captain of his rowing team. He’ll take you out on the Nelle once the weather improves!
Philippe has box seats to the opera. He simply must to bring you to a show!
Evidently, the word is officially out that I’m accepting suitors, which means a parade of eligible young men will soon start showing up at the gates, desperate for my hand in marriage — or, more accurately, desperate for a crown of their own.
My heels press into Ginger’s flanks, picking up our pace. This ride may well be my last moment of freedom.
Freedom.
What a joke.
This isn’t freedom. Merely the illusion of it.
It’s not like I can leave the grounds. And I’m not truly alone, even now. I might not be able to hear my guards anymore, but I’m sure Galizia and Riggs are behind me somewhere — following at a respectful distance on a pair of black horses.
I grip my reins tighter, spurring Ginger faster down the trail as if I might outrun them. The fading light filters faintly through the snow-topped canopy overhead. I know I should turn back before it gets dark, but I’m not yet ready to return to the confinement of the castle.
Tomorrow, it all starts over.
The preening. The fake smiles.
The public appearances and forced princess duties.
When the forest thickens, I pull back on the reins, slowing Ginger to a reluctant walk. She whinnies softly, her breath pluming in the cold air like mist. Turning around another bend, she carries us through the final stretch of trees into a clearing.
I squint at the sudden shift from snowy forest canopy to overcast evening sky. The sun has dipped low, staining the clouds orange as it descends into the towering westward mountains. The castle looks like something out of a fairy tale in the distance, silhouetted like a slumbering giant, its pale stones gleaming, its spires and balustrades refracting a thousand beams of buttery light.
As soon as we leave the narrow trail behind, I feel Ginger’s muscles shift beneath me, poised and ready to run. I eye the large expanse of frozen field separating us from the castle doors and gather the reins more firmly in my gloved hands.
“Okay, girl,” I whisper, leaning forward in my saddle. “Let her rip!”
I barely have to nudge her with my heels before she vaults into motion, her powerful hooves kicking up the snowy ground with each stride. Air rushes into my face, colder than ice as it fills my lungs. The sky turns to a smear of color around us.
I know I should slow down, that Hans would likely disapprove of this wild, undisciplined charge when I’ve barely mastered a steady canter, but I can’t bring myself to pull Ginger back. I can feel the elation in her every hoofbeat.
She needs this as much as I do.