There’s a ripple of barely-suppressed laughter throughout the hall. I watch their amusement reverberating through the room and feel my spine stiffen.
“As this is the second time this matter has been advanced to my desk, I am legally inclined to present it on the floor for official debate.” Lord Klingerton pauses. “Though I do not presume there’s much to discuss, in this particular regard. This kingdom’s Parliament has run successfully for hundreds of years. I personally see no need for unsubstantiated changes that may threaten the very bedrock of our constitutional monarchy.”
“Here, here!” Another minister chimes in, rising to his feet. “My full support lies with maintaining the existing structure of our House of Lords.”
“Lordsbeing the operative word,” a hook-nosed man adds drolly from the front row. “The House ofLadiesthis is not.”
Laughter breaks out in full this time. As I listen to it bouncing off the walls, my hands curl slowly into fists in my lap.
“Order!” Mallory barks from beside me. “Order in the hall!”
Silence descends once more, but there’s a smugness lingering in the air that wasn’t there before. I taste it on my tongue with each breath, sour and unpalatable, as my eyes narrow on the landscape of powdered wigs and black robes.
How dare they?
These entitled men, who have been entrusted to make decisions on behalf of every man, woman, and child in this country, are so terrified by the prospect of relinquishing even a smidge of their power, they refuse to give the possibility of change a proper discussion. The sheer arrogance of such a move is astounding. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Or, more accurately, what I’m not hearing.
Will not one of them speak up for the voters they are obligated to represent? For the women of this country, so long denied the voice of representation in these hallowed halls?
I’m still sitting there, stunned silent with shock, when Mallory rises to his feet on the dais.
“Gentlemen, I realize it has been a long day of deliberations. So, if there are no other ministers who wish to bring up counterarguments concerning this matter, we can take our final vote of today’s session before calling a recess.” He pauses for a moment, allowing the silence to marinate while he awaits any objections from the men staring back at him.
None come.
“All right, then.” Mallory gives a perfunctory nod. “In the absence of any objections, I will call for the vote.Ayesin support of an official inquiry into the eligibility exclusions for Parliament — namely, the provisions for ministers’ age and gender;Naysin favor of keeping our existing structure for another term without reexamination…”
The scene plays out before me in slow motion, as though I’m watching from behind a plexiglass wall. Sounds seem muffled, words muted. Even colors seem dulled as my eyes whip around the room, studying every face in the crowd, watching as pursed mouths form the same word. One after one, puppets producing the same syllable over and over and over again.
Nay.
Nay.
Nay.
Nay.
Nay.
Each objection hits me like a punch to the stomach. By the time the last minister has cast his vote, hisnayringing out into the hall, I can barely breathe. My hands are fisted so tight in my lap, the knuckles have gone white.
“Thenayshave it,” Mallory announces, his words as definitive as a sword-stroke to the heart. “A unanimous vote to end our March session.”
His solemn mouth is slightly upturned at the corners when he turns to face me. And the audacity of that almost-smile… It snaps something inside me — snaps somethingopen. White hot rage is spilling out from a well in my chest I did not know existed, filling me up until I am burning with it. Until each follicle of hair on my head stands on end, electrically charged with unquenchable injustice at the Prime Minister, for his idle compliance in this political farce. At the men in this hall, for their self-inclined indifference.
I am an inferno.
I am anger incarnate.
I am a queen immolated.
“Your Majesty?” Mallory calls.
But my eyes have left him behind. My focus is now on the Ministers, laughing and chatting at their benches as they pack up their bags and rise to their feet, preparing to leave. Their attention is already fixed far beyond the walls of this hall, on their homes — the very homes where wives and cooks and maids who will never get the right to vote in this very chamber are probably busy preparing dinner for them.
“Your Majesty,” Mallory prompts again, narrowing his eyes on me. There’s a needle of frustration weaving between his words. “You must give your assent so I can call our recess. For the official records.”
My eyes slide back to him. My brows arch in disbelief. I was so thrown-off by this chauvinistic power-coup, I’d almost forgotten about my role in all of this.