Just a party.
There are no threats here.
No attackers waiting in the wings with sinister plots.
Riggs catches my eye as he extends a strong hand to guide me out. My grip finds his as my high-heeled feet find purchase on whitewashed cobblestones that have stood for nearly a century in this same location. The metallic silver polish of my manicure glitters rebelliously in the pale winter moonlight. I smirk a little at the sight.
A queen must wear elbow-length gloves for all public appearances,Lady Morrell told me a million times during our etiquette lessons.It’s a matter of decency.
When I’d asked her why such an archaic rule existed, she looked aghast.
A Lancaster woman is the jewel of the royal family — valued, above all, for purity and quality. She must never be associated with flashy nail polishes, gauche hair dyes, or tacky tattoos. Proper appearance is of utmost importance, Your Highness.
Her words were meant as a helpful guide, to be sure. Or a gentle reminder of what I used to look like, before I became a Lancaster — back in the days of my chipped blue manicures, mini skirts, and overgrown lavender waves. But tonight, as I stared down at the collection of long gloves laid out in my suite, ready and waiting for me… all I could see were shackles of a long outdated dress code. Remnants of a patriarchal society that’s as uncomfortable with female autonomy as it is female anatomy.
In those gloves, I saw a room full of bright women unable to run for elected office in Parliament because of their gender. I saw a long string of advisors, steering me away from political pursuits in favor of more delicate ones: garden parties and classical paintings and preservation efforts. I saw a side of Germania I’ve spent most of my life blind to, despite the fact that it’s colored my worldview since the moment I was born, not-so-subtly steering my every choice — from what clothes I can wear to what topics I can study to what profession I can pursue to what kind of mother I can become.
If I pulled on those gloves, covered my arms to the elbow like a good little girl and walked out the door… it seemed I’d somehow be validating those silent whispers on the wind; the ones that filter through the windows of pale pink nurseries in every town in this kingdom.
Be pretty, not smart.
Be seen, not heard.
Screw that nonsense.
There’s a spring in my step as my bare fingers brush the sides of my silk dress. I picture the scowls mottling the faces of every blue-blooded society member and feel my lips tug up into an honest-to-god smile. This small act of rebellion has set a fire in my chest — an irrepressible spark, warming me against the chill that numbs my limbs whenever I step out of the castle, onto the microscope slide that is my life.
I am not a decorative jewel to be measured by my perceived purity,I tell myself as I make my way up the front steps of the manor.I am a diamond — forged from the darkest of minerals into unbreakable strength, impervious enough to withstand the shucking of tradition and the wagging of tongues.
The shimmering silver skirts of my dress flow around my legs like water as I approach the stately entranceway, oak doors looming ten feet above my head. I’m not sure where my fleet of personal shoppers found the gown — probably in the closet of some long-dead monarch — but it perfectly fits the party theme. I am half Daisy Buchanan, half Princess Diana.
Despite the thick white mink wrap around my shoulders, I shiver in the crisp February air. Winter’s icy grip remains unrelenting here in the mountains. Though, if I’m honest, a good deal of my shakes are probably from nerves.
The mansion towers in the darkness, intimidating for its architectural design as much as the gathering I know awaits me inside its walls. Nerves claw at my stomach lining as I ascend the final steps and watch the doors swing inward to a brightly-lit atrium. I’m glad I didn’t bother with dinner; there’s a very good chance it would’ve wound up all over the front steps of Westgate.
I want to turn back, to ditch my heels and pull a Cinderella-inspired dash into the night. Unfortunately, my fairy godmother seems to be missing in action. There is no magic pumpkin to whisk me away from this fate; just Riggs and a small contingent of highly-trained guards. They surround me in tight formation as we step inside, then fan out to form an immediate perimeter of the room.
I keep my eyes fixed dead ahead, trying not to look as shell-shocked as I feel when I come to a stop in the center of the atrium. The heavy doors bang shut behind me with ear-splitting finality. Uniformed servants are stationed at careful intervals — a blur of white gloves and gleaming gold buttons in my peripheral vision.
There’s a low hum of noise all around me — the refrains of live music drifting down the hall from the direction of the ballroom; the murmur of conversation from fellow late-arrivals as they hand off their coats to waiting pages; the faint crackle of torches lining the walls; and, most prominently, the first gasps of dawning recognition when they finally spot their queen standing there in vintage splendor.
I sense the change in gravity unfurling around me — the sudden angling of heads and canting of spines as everyone drops into shallow bows and curtseys. Surprise hangs in the air, tangible as the imported blooms of jasmine that fill every vase in the entry hall. I ignore the cloying scent along with the hushed whispers crescendoing behind cupped hands.
It’s her.
It’s the queen.
I thought she went crazy.
I heard she never leaves the castle.
Several pages trip over themselves in their eagerness to take my mink stole. I keep my eyes disengaged as the fur slides off my shoulders into a set of waiting hands. Athank youis poised on my tongue — a long-ingrained impulse. With effort, I tamp it down in favor of a sedate nod, slight enough to keep the thin tiara on my head from shaking loose… not that there’s much chance of that, given the amount of pins in my hair.
The team of palace professionals who helped me get ready tonight used so much hairspray to craft my perfect finger-waves, I could probably spend the night doing the foxtrot with F. Scott Fitzgerald himself without a single strand coming loose.
Leaving the entry hall in a wake of tittering silence —Did you see her? I can’t believe she’s here. I guess she’s not in a padded cell, after all.— my heels click down the short hallway that leads to the main ballroom, where the festivities are already in full swing. Last time I was in this room, it was set for a dignified afternoon tea hosted by Lady Sterling; tonight, it looks like a scene straight out of The Great Gatsby. Champagne fountains, a jazz band, and glittering decor have transformed the elegant parlor into a full-on speakeasy.
I hear the dull gasp of collective surprise as two solemn servants announce my arrival, their voices booming over the music.