This is my life.
I am their queen.
This is my country.
Campaigning in person has surely helped spread the word about the referendum. Most of the villagers I meet don’t watch the nightly news or keep up with politics. Without explaining to them why I feel so strongly about establishing equality within Parliament, they’d likely never take the time to head to the polls.
According to Simms, my countrywide tour has become something of a fixture on the nightly news channels. Every program is flooded with footage — there I am, learning how to churn butter with ancient women in Skvelt. And again, shearing sheep with farmers in Hvarda. Once more, playing chess with old timers in the Pardi town square. Jumping rope with children on the streets of Uvendon. Skipping stones on a lake with locals in Saalk. Kicking off my shoes to run through the wheat fields in Hanton.
Rebellious Queen Emilia is at it again!
So long as I step outside the castle gates, it’s guaranteed that there will be a televised segment dedicated to the upcoming ballot question. It’s been a highly effective form of marketing — one made all the better since I don’t have to do much of anything, except be myself.
It must be said, back at the castle, Chloe has been doing an incredible job getting the word out on social media. The buzz she’s built — particularly among millennials — should give us a big turn out, come election day.
Already, Riggs and the rest of the Queen’s Guard are coordinating with local law enforcement in every town and city across Germania, preparing what is expected to be a record-breaking ballot. Experts project this to be the biggest political decision in well over a century, since Parliament was first established. The biggest question ever voted on regarding our political structure.
Will Germania finally grant women admittance into the hallowed House of Lords?
The truth is, this referendum is much bigger than just me. I may’ve struck the match that sparked this fire, but it has grown into something I never imagined, igniting the entire kingdom in a blaze of change. It’s now so large, I cannot even see the outer limits of the inferno anymore.
I find comfort in the collective heat we are generating. I am no longer by myself on the front lines, a lone ember shining against encroaching darkness; I am but one of many, glowing together to cast a great light on shadows that have lingered far too long.
Hundreds of volunteers have stepped forward to help with the campaign — making phone calls to on-the-fence voters, drawing up signs that sayVOTE FOR REFORMin screaming capital letters. I try to stop by headquarters every week, to thank every member of the team in person. Most of them rock bright purple hair and are fond of wearing t-shirts that sayTHE FUTURE IS FEMALEorANATOMY IS NOT AUTHORITYor another equally pithy phrase.
Their office in downtown Vasgaard is a hive of activity and energy and hope for the future. I find my spirits bolstered every time I step through the doors; something I need greatly, these days. For the other portion of my campaign efforts targets a far less pleasant demographic of Germanians.
The nobility.
My attempts to garner support from those least inclined to give it are as tiresome as the aristocrats themselves. The last thing I want to do after a day of traveling around the country is attend a boring black tie function — just another in the endless stream of elite events Simms somehow manages to arrange for me each night. He tells me it’s a necessary evil if I want the popular vote to succeed.
No victory was ever won without some sacrifice, Your Majesty.
And so, I go. To gala after gala, dinner party after dinner party. Evening balls and late afternoon lunches and lauded performances from the royal box at the opera.
The Lords of Parliament ignore my presence completely, their scowls and sneers unflinching; their wives do their best to make me feel like a dung beetle, whether we’re sipping tea in the Solarium or making donations to save an indigenous owl species over dried-out chicken dishes.
I grit my teeth in what I hope appears a genuine smile and carry on with small talk, praying some among their ranks might be swayed into action. Occasionally, I’ll catch the eyes of someone and think, just for a moment, I see a flare of something like approval lurking behind a set of mascaraed lashes or a pair of wizened glasses. In the mirror of a ladies’ restroom at the ballet. Over the candelabra at a dinner party. From a waltz-partner on the dance floor.
But those flashes are so quickly doused, it may just be wishing thinking. In all honesty, I doubt I’m making any traction at all with the elite class — not with the Sterling family campaigning so actively against me — but Simms assures me it’s important to attempt anyway.
A woman may sneer at you while her husband is watching, but there’s no telling what she’ll do when she steps into that voting booth.
I hope he’s right.
I hope the referendum passes.
I hope my kingdom embraces change.
I hope all this effort has not been for naught.
Though at night, when I finally crawl into bed, dead tired from a day of talking and smiling and schmoozing, that nagging sense of doubt crawls right in with me, making itself comfortable in the contours of my mind.
What if we fail? What if my first great act as queen is a total, complete fumble?
It’s easy to be confident about my choices in a room full of supporters. But the courtiers, with their Cheshire-Cat smiles and close-guarded opinions, are far less comforting.
Victory may be within reach, but it is not yet within our grasp. And if the vote for a more inclusive Parliament fails next week when my countrymen finally make their way to the polls…