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 courseof 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 ofayesandnays, 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. Truthfully, 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 callexclusionary gender practiceswithin our governing body.”