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Knock.
Knock.
“I guess we will have to find out about her the old-fashioned way,” I said, rising up. Both Iskandar and Balduin moved to flank the sides of me. “Enter.”
Wolfgang opened the door to a small woman both in height and build, just a few inches taller than Balduin, dressed in a gray suit dress, with a ladybug broach, holding a briefcase and some paper, with thick-rimmed glasses.
“Your Majesty.” She curtsied.
“Dr. Banerjee?” I asked.
She nodded. “It’s an honor, sir.”
“Please sit,” I said, motioning to the chair in front of me. “The queen tells me you’ve been advising her on the Nationalism Reform Act.”
“Yes, sir, she was trying to better understand the political climate and how to avoid angering both sides of this debate,” she said, putting her papers onto my desk and then reaching into her bag. She pulled out two red pens, a blue pen, and a pencil. “At first, I didn’t think it could be done. I advised her to avoid entering the fray altogether. However—”
“She has joined the fray,” I added, leaning back in my chair. “Has that bothered you?”
“It has bothered the whole country, sir,” she answered and pushed her glasses back up her nose. “Have you not seen the protests?”
I frowned. “I have. But what makes you think you have come up with a solution no one else has?”
“I’m not sure if no one else has had it; I simply wished to help her navigate during this time.”
“Dr. Banerjee, are you aware two people tried to break into the palace in order to speak to the queen on this law?” I asked. Test one…if I saw it in the papers, I’d know it came from her.
“I was not.” Her shoulders dropped. “But I understand.”
“You understand?”
“When you are afraid, don’t you try to go to your mother?” she asked me. “The queen is the mother of the nation, isn’t she? The royals serve the people. So while these people were wrong and a bit foolish, I can understand them. When you have sent your petitions everywhere, and no one hears your voice, you reach out to who can speak for you.”
I said nothing, instead reaching for her paper. “What is your solution?”
“It shouldn’t just be the queen who submits an application; you both should.”
“I beg your pardon? Your solution is to have me go? Aren’t we in this problem now because the queen is going?”
“Yes, but I don’t think you can turn back now. So a compromise is necessary.”
“How is this a compromise? Instead of one royal stamp of approval, you will have two.”
“No, because you won’t be approved, sir!” She grinned and flipped to show me the page. But I’d read it a thousand times before.
I looked at the page, reading over it again, but not seeing what she meant. “Where does this relate to me? Why wouldn’t I be approved? Because I am a king?”
“No, because you are royal. Everyone knows children of kings or queens are born in the palace. Under the law, everyone has to show proof of birth from the hospital. If you are a non-citizen, you have to show your proof of birth from the hospital of your country of origin. One of the complaints against the law is many do not have these records if they are fleeing from their native countries. But also, the issue affects anyone who was born at home. The prime minister said they would just have to have the doctor or midwife sign a letter…sir. The doctor who delivered you isn’t alive. So, if you try to submit an application—”
“I would be initially rejected,” I whispered, looking at the law again.
“And if the king, whose family can literally be traced back hundreds of years, cannot stand against the law, what hope do regular citizens have?” she asked me.
The compromise was that we did what the prime minister asked and supported him. But at the same time, we also highlighted how flawed this system could be.
“Sir,” Balduin spoke up. “This might be embarrassing for you.”
No, it would be embarrassing for the prime minister.
