As Zenetra left the dining hall, she saluted a perturbed Clemence Pocket and gave the dour Mr. Murkwood a sly grin as they passed each other in the hallway. With a quick hug to Paloma, the longtime family cook, Zenetra heated a pot, poured in five bottles of dark red wine that were made from the boysenberry bushes on the grounds of the estate, and added an entire bottle of high-quality whirl. Tossing in cloves, ground ginger, molasses, juniper, and Marzhanian bay leaves, she stirred the pot until the wine began to simmer. The kitchen filled with the aromatic scent of spiced alcohol and sweet desserts.
As she broke cinnamon bark into chunks and added it to the simmering pot, Paloma set out trays laden with dozens of glass mugs. A dried orange slice was at the bottom of each.
Zenetra rubbed her fingertip lightly over the rim of one mug. Delicate was not a word to describe them, for the glass was thick and hardy. That meant they were winter mugs imported from the Glass City. "Where did these come from?"
Paloma, a short and plump woman in her late fifties who always mispronounced Zenetra's name as Zen-aye-tra, waved the dishrag that hung over her shoulder at the wall of kitchen cabinets. "They've been here a long while, Miss Zenetra. We haven't a use for 'em since Ms. Noire was runnin' the place."
The cook meant Xuxa, Zenetra knew. Not their late mother. Paloma had never called Zenetra's sister anything other than Ms. Noire because that was what she already was when the cook joined them.
"They're lovely."
Paloma gave Zenetra a crinkly smile and began to lay out an impressive spread of desserts. There were apple tarts smothered in a cinnamon glaze, bread pudding only served during the cold season, and purple yam mini pies.
Zenetra nicked one of the vibrant pies off the tray and took a bite. The crust consisted of crushed almonds, flax seeds, and sweet dates. She gobbled the rest down as Paloma shook the dishrag at her in mock outrage.
Once the mugs of howl—an ancient drink named for the wolves that howled to the moon—had been distributed, Zenetra joined her father and an intoxicated Governor Ewald to dessert. It was half-past nine when Zenetra snuggled into a plush leather armchair in the general study. A fireplace crackled beside them, mingling the faint scent of smoking firewood with the sweet air from the kitchens.
"I'm tellin' you, Orton," said Governor Ewald, sipping his third glass of howl. His words grew slurred as the evening waned on. "This nation is car'wheeling downhill! We need to do something about it before it's too late."
Orton tapped the rim of his glass. "What exactly is it you want, Gustav?"
"S'pport! Vocally and financ'lly. Too many jobs are being outsourced to foreign workers."
Zenetra took a sip of her wine. "Noire Transport employs hundreds of foreign alchemists, Governor Ewald. We rely on them to keep our production running smoothly."
"Yes, yes," placated Governor Ewald with a wave of his glass. Dark liquid sloshed over the rim. His teeth had become slightly purple from the wine. "But have you ever wondered why we haven't started producing nationally trained alch'mists? There's no Alchemic Academy here, which means we have to hire them from the Kingdom of Marzhan or the Qoman Empire."
"A fair point," said Orton. "Something we can no doubt explore the options of in the near future."
Governor Ewald set his glass on the end table and pulled himself forward in his chair, swaying unintentionally from the sudden movement. "It's not only the alch'mists, Orton. Other jobs—simple jobs that anyone can do!—are being outsourced to foreign workers. Why's that? I'll tell you why! To pay employees bare min'mum. It's their right a' course, these workhouses, to pay foreign employees less than a national, but issit morally accep'able?"
Orton cradled his mug of howl between his hands. His facial expressions, as they always did, hid behind bushy eyebrows.
Zenetra was less restrained. "I admit that sounds unfair to anyone except the employers, but Noire Transport would not exist without our foreign workers. We pay them well, we offer great benefits, and they choose to stay."
"Lemme ask you something, Miss Zenetra." Governor Ewald picked up his glass again. "Aside from the alch'mists, how many foreign employees does Noire Transport hire for jobs that could be done by a national?"
Zenetra had never been directly involved in the running of the company, nor had she set foot in any workhouse or shipyard. Her father handled everything, telling her bits and pieces of what went on whenever she asked.
"Papa would know the answer to that better than I would."
Orton's eyebrows moved up his forehead like two giant caterpillars. "The alchemists bring their families and if they need jobs, I find something for them to do. Noire Transport is a family business, Gustav. Family is what we're all about."
"Our nation is a family," replied Governor Ewald. "And our family is struggling. The Hovels are overflowing with unemployed ci'zens. Look here, Orton. I'm not s'ggesting companies drop their foreign employees right away. That would be fruitless for everyone. All I want is for the heads of companies to sign an agreement that they will hire nationals over foreigners and if I'm 'lected as Prime Min'ster, follow through on that promise as best they can. As Prime Min'ster, I would be of some help in that shift."
Zenetra took another sip of her wine. "Which other companies have agreed to this?"
Governor Ewald waved his hand dismissively. "I couldn't poss'bly tell you. It's confidential until the election rally."
It wasn't only his drunken antics that made Zenetra distrust that final statement. For all they knew, Noire Transport would be the first and only company to make such agreements.
"Support and promises," Orton pondered aloud. "That is all you want from me and Noire Transport? What would be in it for us?"
Smiling in that slippery way politicians did when they thought they won some argument, Governor Ewald seized his opportunity. "I'd like you to give speeches on my behalf. It will put an even bigger spo'light on Noire Transport. You would be a second voice of mine, Orton! Giving interviews with the Hive, having discussions over the radio...that sort of support. I know you haven't been out in the public much these past few years. Not since—"
The study went quiet. Zenetra expected Governor Ewald to backtrack or steer the conversation away, but she was wrong. The alcohol had loosened the governor's tongue.
"Iss difficult." Governor Ewald reined in some of his drunkenness. "Losing fam'ly. You threw yourself into work after your wife was murdered. Then you retreated from the public when your daughter went missing. Don't try 'n deny it. Everyone could see it."
Governor Ewald shut his eyes for a moment as if debating whether to continue. When he reopened them, his face was awash with anguish. "I went into pol'tics after my own wife died. If I had retreated from society the way you did, my son may not have run off and become a vagrant. I've no idea where he is or what he's doing, or if he's even alive. All I know is that he was a lil' touched in the head when he left."
Zenetra understood the governor's decision to throw himself into work, but when comparing the two men gingerly sipping their drinks, she couldn't decide whose pain was worse. With one, a child left willingly, whereas the other—unwillingly.
"If I may, Governor." She shifted uneasily in her chair. "How did you lose your wife?"
"She slipped 'n fell down the stairs. Wouldn't have been that bad of a fall, but the stairs to the cellar are made of flagstone. She hit her head on the corner of one. Constables said she hit it so hard a chunk of stone broke off." Governor Ewald lifted his glass and downed the rest of his howl. "Was a long time ago. It was hard losing her but harder losing my son. Well, you know how it is, Orton. To lose both a wife 'n a child."
Zenetra watched her father's gaze drop to his glass. The dark red liquid swirled into a mesmerizing whirlpool. He had not gotten any better at talking about Xareen or Xuxa. Silent as the grave, he blustered when confronted by reporters and angered when cornered to comment.
"I daresay it is harder to lose a child," said Orton. "My Xuxa was wise beyond her years, but frail."
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Preview for next chapter:
Zenetra tells her father about her first assignment. Orton gives her a mysterious heirloom.
I know you're probably wondering when we're getting this show on the road (or in this case, airborne) but I have just a couple more chapters before we get to the search and rescue operation over the Ghost Sea. That'll be when the magic of the world really kicks in.