Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 51855 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51855 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
“Oh, Mama. What about Rugova House and our fortune? They’ve been given to us by the country, and the work we’ll do is for the country. I think it’s a wonderful idea of the King’s.”
Mama looks like she’s not sure if she agrees with me, but goes to get ready for her meeting, at the same time I do.
Barbican Manufacturing is a factory on the west side of the city, a huge brick building with warehouses and offices up on a mezzanine, overlooking the factory floor. A blonde woman in her forties, wearing glasses with thick black rims, greets me at the front desk.
“Lady Wraye, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She smiles and shakes my hand, bobbing in a curtsy.
All morning I’ve been thinking of myself as Wraye the worker, not Wraye the lady, and suddenly, I feel flustered. “Miss Rugova is fine. Or even Wraye.”
Miss Longe ignores me and keeps calling me Lady Wraye. She shows me around the factory and the adjoining offices. “We used to make hundreds of different household items, everything from buckets to thimbles, but we’re concentrating on a few core lines now that the borders are open for imports.”
“Who owns the company?” I ask, following her toward her desk.
“Galen Levanter.”
My high heel catches on the floor, and I stumble. “Galen Levanter?”
She turns to me brightly. “Does Your Ladyship know Mr. Levanter?”
“I, ah, know the family a little. Is he related to Archduke Levanter?”
“Yes, Mr. Levanter is Archduke Levanter’s younger brother.”
A brother. I didn’t know Devrim had a brother, and one who doesn’t go to Court. Maybe they don’t speak? How sad if they’re estranged.
I sit down opposite Miss Longe at her desk. “Why do you call your employer Mr. Levanter and not Lord Levanter, but you won’t call me Miss Rugova?”
“Because that’s his name. Mr. Levanter renounced all ties to the First Families, under the People’s Republic. He had to, otherwise, he never could have kept the factory.”
“And now? Isn’t he part of the family again?”
Miss Longe smiles politely. “I don’t like to speculate about things I don’t know.”
I feel my face burn. I’m so hungry for any news about Devrim that it sounds like I’m hunting for gossip. “Yes, of course. You’re absolutely right. Let’s get started, shall we?”
A lot of Miss Longe’s work is writing press releases based on company reports and fielding phone calls from journalists. She puts all the calls on speaker, so I can listen in. They ask her a lot of tough questions and try to trip her up, but she maintains her cool.
Hanging up a call, she says to me, “The finance reporters are keen to know how things are with the economy under new management. It’s a change that we don’t have to massage the figures or outright lie anymore.”
“You would lie?”
“Had to,” she says briskly, turning pages of her notebook. “If the government knew we were telling the papers we were operating at thirty percent capacity, because the workers were striking, they’d shut us down. King Anson has told the press he expects a rigorous journalistic standard, and he won’t interfere with what they print, and so the reporters put pressure on us to be open and honest about everything.” She looks up at me sharply. “Expect them to ride your ass about everything. It’s not the job for a wilting lily.”
I return her gaze, without flinching. I want to tell her that I never was one, but that would be a lie. I did everything Mama said and never questioned her hard enough. It was a hard lesson to learn, but I won’t be making the mistake of following someone blindly, ever again.
“Don’t worry. I won’t be a wilting lily.”
Miss Longe smiles at me. “That’s the spirit.”
The next day is Saturday, and Mama and I spend the morning packing. There isn’t much we want to take with us. I’m surprised Mama wants to take anything at all. I expected her to just walk out the front door and into her new life, leaving everything behind.
She takes Papa’s books down from a shelf in our tiny sitting room, lovingly dusts each one, and wraps them in newspaper. Her expression is wistful as she works.
I watch her silently from the doorway, my heart twisting painfully in my chest. Papa loved these books. I have so few memories of my father, but I remember sitting on the floor at his feet and playing with cloth dolls as he read aloud.
“Mama, I—” I’m about to ask her if she’s missing Papa, when there’s a knock at the front door.
I go and answer it, expecting a letter for Mama about some real estate matter. Instead, I open the door and find myself staring up into Devrim’s severe expression.
I think I actually squeak.
When I don’t say anything, he rumbles, “Good day to you, too, Lady Wraye. May I come in?”