Her father readjusted his glasses with a sigh. “In recent years, the cost of maintaining farms has increased. Many farmers are unable to finance improvements to their land alone, so they take loans or sell their land. The best offers tend to come from the companies on this list, who buy the land to grow the crops you see here. These companies then sell the raw materials to other companies in Welkland or other territories.” Her father flipped several pages ahead, then turned one around for Poppy to see. “See? These external companies refine and package the goods, and then we re-import those outputs. So, eventually, the cropsdoreturn to Viryana for consumption, but only after being processed.”
“That sounds... inconvenient.” Not to mention illogical. “Each time we ship cotton and grain across the sea, we add an extra layer of cost to these essentials, which makes it less affordable for common people. Why not establish refineries here, and establish a more domestic supply chain? We have an existing industrial sector. Why not expand it?”
“We already have some factories,” her father allowed, “but the issue is twofold: First, we simply do not have the necessary real estate to build enough refineries to support the kind of demand we face. The existing factories are configured to process other finished goods?—textiles, lumber, automobiles, and so on. The initial conversion would be incredibly expensive. It’s easier to ship the raw agricultural produce overseas, where they already have established factories, and then import the finished goods.”
She pressed her mouth into a flat line. Most of the factories in Viryana produced goods that regular Virians couldn’t afford, especially given how cheap labor was on the island. It seemed like a mockery?—to force a man to build something he could never own, even if he saved every crown he earned over his entire lifetime.
“What’s the second reason?” she asked.
“The companies exporting the goods have established relations with the manufacturing companies.” He took off his glasses, polishing them with a cloth. “Even if we did have refineries here, these companies would require a decent incentive to sever ties with their old partners just for the sake of giving the contract to local companies.”
Poppy tapped on the sheet again as she thought about the unemployed men she’d seen by the docks, defeated and desperate. She recalled the bony children along the sides of the roads, lurking near food stalls, waiting with the gulls to swipe their next meal.
“What if we legally required a certain percentage of raw agricultural inputs be processed domestically?” she suggested. “Refining these items domestically would make food more affordable and create jobs for the lower class.”
“We can’t force companies to convert their factories into refineries.” He shook his head. “We’d lose business like that, and then people would lose jobs. Besides, many of the companies that are exporting agricultural goods are owned either partly or fully by members of First Families.”
And there it was. Her father would not change the rules if it meant inconveniencing his inner circle. She bit the inside of her cheek, sifting for an appropriately diplomatic response. Push too hard and she risked his ire?—or, worse, his doubt in her complete transformation.
“Surely, it’s in everyone’s best interest, First Families included, to bolster the employment rate?” She tried to lead him along her thought path. “If people had a reliable source of income, they would not be so desperate as to turn to crime.”
“Lack of income doesn’t lead to crime,” he said. “There is a natural defiance in those people that leads to deviant behavior. The only way to manage them is to take them in hand firmly. I’ve increased fines, jail time, and compulsory labor measures in response to the crime rate. If their moral compass cannot point them on the correct path, then fear of punishment will keep them from going astray.”
“But, Father,” she pushed, “punishment is a reactive response to crime. We should be addressing the source. The rise in crime has grown steadily along with the unemployment and starvation rates. There’s a correlation. If we could give people jobs, lift them out of poverty?—”
“Enough!” Her father slammed a hand down on the desk, causing her to jump. “It’s their own responsibility to lift themselves out of poverty,” he said, his eyes burning. “These people have already proven their deviant tendencies. Did I not tell you, seven years ago, that enabling their behavior with handouts will only aggravate it?”
Poppy shrank both at his reproach and at the reminder of what had happened seven years ago. “I apologize if I’ve displeased you. I was only trying to help.”
The old man softened a touch as he reached across the table and laid a hand on hers. “I understand,” he said. “But governing the colony is my responsibility, not yours. I have seen things that you have not, Poppy. Wisdom comes with experience.”
An awkwardness filled the space, the easy silence vaporized in the heat of their tense exchange. Her father cleared his throat. “Besides, you have pleased me immensely, Poppy. You have become a graceful, sensible young woman. Richard Montrose is a very lucky man.”
Her cheeks warmed. She and Richard had been seeing each other for nearly two weeks, going out every evening to dinner, the theater, the opera, even once sailing on his boat. Richard was the consummate gentleman. While most men would have tried to steal a kiss or other favors, he was traditional, firmly believing that physical affection should be reserved for engaged couples. Most women would have been discouraged, but she didn’t mind. Yes, Richard’s looks were desirable, but she had never been attracted to him for physical reasons.
“I am fortunate to have his attentions,” Poppy said. “We are well suited.”
He lifted one brow. “So, if Richard were to ask for your hand, you would be unopposed?”
She started. “No, but it’s quite early for that, isn’t it? Why, it’s only been two weeks.”
“In my day, short courtships were the norm.” Her father shrugged. “All that mattered was the consent of the families. Your mother and I only had the opportunity to meet a few times before I made my offer.”
Now, this was a story Poppy had never heard. She knew the facts of it?—Demetria had been from one of the Welkish noble families, on a tour of the colonies with several other noble daughters when she had stopped in Viryana and met the young viceroy, Clarence Sutherland. But Poppy had never heard either parent tell it, and so she leaned in and asked, “How did you court Mother?”
Her father leaned back, the creases in his face easing, as if sinking into a memory. “Your mother was on that tour,” he said, “with several other young ladies and their chaperones. I had taken the office eight years prior, after my father passed away from fever when I was only twenty, three years younger than you are now. He had barely prepared me for the office I had inherited, and so my first few years were dedicated to mastering the role. By the time I turned twenty-eight, my council had been pushing me for several years to search for a suitable bride. At the time, I’ll confess, I thought I had no need for a wife. My plan was to merely host the ladies at the estate for an evening, then send them on their way. But one dance with your mother, and I knew that she was the lady I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
“Your mother took more convincing, admittedly?—her tour had allocated only a fortnight for Viryana, and I spent the vast majority of it trying to convince her to stay behind and marry me. Though the point of the tour was to get away from the mainland and see the colonies, she was reluctant to leave Welkland behind for good. But I was nothing if not persistent. When she finally agreed, I fired off a telegram to both her parents and to the Imperial Family, and the rest is history.”
Poppy blinked, surprised. She hadn’t known that about her mother before. She opened her mouth to ask a follow-up question, but a knock on the door interrupted them.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” the butler said, “but Lord William Montrose and Captain Richard Montrose seek an audience with you.”
Her father chuckled. “What a coincidence.” To the butler, he ordered, “Let them in.”
William Montrose entered first, Richard behind him. Surprise rippled across Richard’s face when he noticed her sitting at her father’s desk, pen in hand. The expression dissolved in a second, replaced by a dazzling grin. She returned it with a shy smile of her own.
“Your Grace,” William Montrose said. “We seek a private audience with you.” Poppy noticed that he hadn’t said what for.
