“The number of representatives who votedaye: fifty-four. Majority rules.”
Relief rushed through Poppy in a cold breath, so intense it was painful. Her entire body went soft and numb. She had never been so grateful to be sitting in her whole life. She had done it?—against all odds, she had gotten the votes. Her eyes met Hasan’s again, his expression mirroring her thoughts: If he and his delegation had not been here, she would have lost.
“Given the sensitive nature of the vote,” Lord Colwick continued, “the lords will vote now, for efficiency and transparency. The representatives who are still standing may sit down.”
She sucked in another breath. Of course. She’d nearly forgotten. There was one more round of voting to be done, and Hasan would not be able to influence this one.
The representatives took a seat, and the lords rose. Poppy’s heart was now drumming so hard against her rib cage, she feared it would burst. She curled her toes in their slippers, unable to show any other sign of her immense stress without giving herself away.
“Lord Alderfort,” the clerk called.
“Nay,” Alderfort said.
She closed her eyes briefly.Damn.She was going to lose. She needed three votes, and she had already lost one. It was so bitterly unfair, that her father had named her his heir, the way his forefathers had named theirs before him, but she would be the first to get vetoed. The double standard was so infuriatingly obvious. She clenched her jaw so hard, she feared her teeth would shatter. But she wouldn’t hide from her defeat. She would face it with her eyes wide open.
“Lord Colwick.”
The other man studied Poppy, his expression blank. She wished he would just saynayand move on, instead of dragging out the disappointment. Then, he said, “Aye.”
She blinked.Aye?
Lord Montrose was next. “Aye,” he spat, but his cold look made one thing clear: This was not support. This was a fulfilment of their deal, his voice for her silence, and nothing more. If she lost her seat tomorrow, he wouldn’t say a word.
Lord Whitecliff was openly staring at Lord Montrose, surprise evident on his face. He’d been expecting Montrose to say no. Poppy could see him recalculating. His was the deciding vote, and the pressure was bone crushing. Poppy wanted him to say it?—aye or nay, anything, just to release her from the agony of suspense.
“Lord Whitecliff?” the clerk prompted. “Your vote, please?”
“Aye,” he said.
“What?” Lord Alderfort looked appalled. “Arthur, you?—”
“Gentlemen,” Lord Colwick said, “let’s not forget that the House is in session. We must maintain a level of decorum.”
“The vote is decisive,” the clerk declared. “Poppy Sutherland will be the next?—nay, the first vicereine of Viryana.”
A wave of cold electricity swept through Poppy, snapping through cords of tension that held her taut like marionette strings. She slumped in her chair, boneless with giddy joy. The room was roaring?—or maybe that was her pulse, rushing in her ears.
“Lords, gentlemen, this session is concluded,” Lord Colwick said. “House dismissed.”
The representatives rose, filing out single file. Poppy floated through the doors, weightless, suspended in disbelief. When she emerged into the foyer, Catherine and Demetria paused their pacing.
“Well?” her mother demanded.
Poppy ran and buried her face in the shoulder of Demetria’s black gown. Sobs ambushed her, rendering her incapable of speech.
“She did it,” Theodore said from behind her. “Poppy will be vicereine.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Imposter
Three weeks after her father’s burial, Poppy returned to the same abbey where he’d been laid to rest, to take the oath of office. Though she had pushed to keep the affair small out of respect for his memory, the entire city had turned out to see the inauguration ceremony. They pressed against the barricades, nearly spilling onto the roads as they leaned over to wave and cheer. The sight was fearful and inspirational at once, for the same reason: All of these people expected something from her.
What if she failed them?
She’d tried to quash the thought several times, to no avail. It dogged her, haunting her like a shadow. She couldn’t fail. Not when the entire island had come together for her right to succeed.
Poppy stepped out of the car to raucous cheers. The guards took charge quickly, hustling her into the abbey, to the front of the pews, where a temporary throne had been installed. It was symbolic, an echo of the emperor’s throne in Welkland, a reminder that the viceroy was an extension of the emperor, who was an extension of the Founder. Poppy stood in front of the throne for a long moment, a chill trickling down her spine.
