Greenwood’s smile bent into a scowl. “Size is one thing”?—he sniffed?—“but when it comes to quality, we are the leader.”
“I don’t disagree,” she said, “but your company has been forcibly prevented from growing. By Gordon Alderfort, isn’t that right?”
Gerald Alderfort’s brother, Gordon, also owned several textile factories back in Welkland, the Alderfort Cotton Company. However, the quality of their fabric was hardly comparable to that of the Greenwoods’. Rather than improve their output, they had hiked the price of raw cotton, making it expensive for the Greenwoods to purchase from them. While the Greenwoods could try to find another supplier, the Alderforts had owned the majority of cotton farms on the island since early colonization, and if their behavior went unchecked, it would only encourage them to further bully the Greenwoods’ business.
Greenwood gritted his teeth. “Alderfort is a cheap and dishonorable man. He would rather put his resources toward throttling other businesses instead of improving his own.”
“I understand that my father has allowed his friendship with Lord Alderfort to cloud his judgment,” she began carefully. “But I agree with you. Alderfort’s unethical business practices not only throttle other businesses, as you so aptly put it, but outsource labor that could be used to keep our own citizens gainfully employed. If I become vicereine, I will reduce the raw cotton exports and require an increased domestic production.”
“You would challenge the Council of Lords?” Greenwood did not look convinced. “Do you not need their support to see bills passed to your desk?”
“I do,” Poppy said, “but I intend to review the membership of the Council. See, having grown up without a title, I certainly don’t believe it to be a requirement for upward mobility at all.”
She let him mull that over in silence.
Finally, he said, “If I might ask a... delicate question.”
She inclined her head, shoulders tensed as she braced herself for the worst.
“Even if you are named heir, do you still intend to marry Richard Montrose?”
Poppy couldn’t help herself; she flinched backward.What concern is it of yours?She wanted to snap.Would you have asked me this if I were a man?But she needed Blair Greenwood to like her. Instead, she sorted through what she knew, trying to understand the motivation behind his question.
Then she remembered: Blair had a son, Liam. He wasn’t the heir, but he was three years older than her. Evidently, it had not escaped Blair that if he played his cards right, the next dynasty of viceroys could bear the Greenwood name. The thought of marriage?—to anyone, not just Richard?—made Poppy’s palms sweat. If she had learned anything, it was that to share a name with a man was to give him power over you. Liam might have been a perfectly fine man, but she recoiled at the thought of marrying him. Still, Greenwood didn’t need to know that.
“No,” she said, as pleasantly as she could manage. “Richard Montrose and I are no longer engaged.”
Greenwood’s satisfied smile told Poppy that she had guessed his motivations accurately. “Well, Miss Sutherland,” he drawled, “I think your leadership may be just what this island needs.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Rulers of the Slums
Harithi lined up at the checkpoint to enter the Welkish sector. The midafternoon sun bore down on her, but since the freak storm that had interrupted Poppy Sutherland’s wedding a few days ago, the heat had lost its brutal strength. Hasan and Harithi had both known the storm was no act of nature. No matter what the papers said about the summer’s peak or humidity or ocean currents, they knew the truth: Poppy Sutherland had summoned that storm, washing half the city with her wrath. They’d watched it from the window of Hasan’s apartment, black clouds flocking to the Welkish quarter, the rain falling so thick and heavy that the cathedral was obscured from view.
“How is that possible?” Hasan had asked. “The amount of daivyakhi that would require...”
“I guess you weren’t as poor a teacher as you thought,” she quipped.
“You!” an officer shouted at Harithi. Her focus snapped back. “You’re next.”
She picked up her bucket of cleaning supplies, readjusting the cotton dupatta over her shoulders where it had slipped, and made a show of hurrying forward, showing the man her stolen identification card. For the last week, she’d observed the checkpoint at Morning Bridge. Only servants who worked in the Welkish quarters were being permitted through. Each of them had to present a card, which was cross-referenced against a directory by a police officer. Harithi had sent one of her vasudhakt runners to pickpocket one of the maids. He’d brought back the woman’s purse, where she found the identification card she needed, as well as a paycheck written from the Wainwrights. She’d taken the identification card, considering herself lucky that the Welks had been too cheap to invest in adding photographs of servants to their cards.
The officer squinted at the card. “Nandini?”
She hid her wince at the way he butchered it?—nan DEE knee?—and smiled, bobbing her head. “That’s me.”
“What business do you have today?”
“I clean houses.” Harithi lifted the bucket of supplies she’d pillaged from Hasan’s bathroom.
“Who’s your employer?” the officer asked, eyeing her up and down. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
Of course, she’d ended up with the one chatty checkpoint officer. She scowled. “Do you think I’m new? I’ve been mopping floors and scrubbing toilets for years! I was here just two days ago, cleaning for the Wainwrights.”
The officer hesitated, skimming the list of names underWainwrightuntil he found her name?—well, Nandini’s name. “Oh, that was you.” The officer nodded. “I remember now. Yes, it’s all clear. Go ahead.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Harithi simpered, her tone so sweet it was almost putrid. She sauntered through with her bogus bucket of cleaning supplies, heading to Montrose Manor on foot. When she got there, she peered through the gatehouse window. The man inside was probably in his sixties, close to retirement, and deeply engrossed in a novel. She sauntered up to the glass, knocking twice before he opened his window.
