now everything should click.
That wasn’t happening—and this new riot was just the most recent in a string of unrest.
“Coffee, Your Highness,” Neena said, setting the drink on my table.
“Thank you. You can take the plates.”
I scanned the article. This time a restaurant was burned to the ground because its owner refused to promote a waiter to a position as a chef. The waiter claimed that a promotion had been promised but was never delivered, and he was sure it was because of his family’s past.
Looking at the charred remains of the building, I honestly didn’t know whose side I was on. The owner had the right to promote or fire anyone he wanted, and the waiter had the right not to be seen as something that, technically, didn’t exist anymore.
I pushed the paper away and picked up my drink. Dad was going to be upset. I was sure he was already running the scenario over and over in his head, trying to figure out how to set it right. The problem was, even if we could fix one issue, we couldn’t stop every instance of post-caste discrimination. It was too hard to monitor and happening far too often.
I set down my coffee and headed to my closet. It was time to start the day.
“Neena,” I called. “Do you know where that plum-colored dress is? The one with the sash?”
She squinted in concentration as she came over to help.
In the grand scheme of things, Neena was new to the palace. She’d only been working with me for six months, after my last maid fell ill for two weeks. Neena was acutely attuned to my needs and much more agreeable to be around, so I kept her on. I also admired her eye for fashion.
Neena stared into the massive space. “Maybe we should reorganize.”
“You can if you have the time. That’s not a project I’m interested in.”
“Not when I can hunt down your clothes for you,” she teased.
“Exactly!”
She took my humor in stride, laughing as she quickly sorted through gowns and pants.
“I like your hair today,” I commented.
“Thank you.” All the maids wore caps, but Neena was still creative with her hairdos. Sometimes a few thick, black curls would frame her face, and other times she twisted back strands until they were all tucked away. At the moment there were wide braids encircling her head, with the rest of her hair under her cap. I really enjoyed that she found ways to work with her uniform, to make it her own each day.
“Ah! It’s back here.” Neena pulled down the knee-length dress, fanning it out across the dark skin of her arm.
“Perfect! And do you know where my gray blazer is? The one with the three-quarter sleeves?”
She stared at me, her face deadpan. “I’m definitely rearranging.”
I giggled. “You search; I’ll dress.”
I pulled on my outfit and brushed out my hair, preparing for another day as the future face of the monarchy. The outfit was feminine enough to soften me but strong enough that I’d be taken seriously. It was a fine line to walk, but I did it every day.
Staring into the mirror, I talked to my reflection.
“You are Eadlyn Schreave. You are the next person in line to run this country, and you will be the first girl to do it on your own. No one,” I said, “is as powerful as you.”
Dad was already in his office, brow furrowed as he took in the news. Other than my eyes, I didn’t look much like him. Or Mom, for that matter.
With my dark hair, oval-shaped face, and a hint of a tan that lingered year round, I looked more like my grandmother than anyone else. A painting of her on her coronation day hung in the fourth-floor hallway, and I used to study it when I was younger, trying to guess at how I would look as I grew. Her age in the portrait was near to mine now, and though we weren’t identical, I sometimes felt like her echo.
I walked across the room and kissed Dad’s cheek. “Morning.”
“Morning. Did you see the papers?” he asked.
“Yes. At least no one died this time.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Those were the worst, the ones where people were left dead in the street or went missing. It was terrible, reading the names of young men who’d been beaten simply for moving their families into a nicer neighborhood or women who were attacked for trying to get a job that in the past would not have been open to them.
Sometimes it took no time at all to find the motive and the person behind these crimes, but more often than not we were faced with a lot of finger-pointing and no real answers. It was exhausting for me to watch, and I knew it was worse for Dad.
“I don’t understand it.” He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “They didn’t want the castes anymore. We took our time, eliminated them slowly so everyone could adjust. Now they’re burning down buildings.”
“Is there a way to regulate this? Could we create a board to oversee grievances?” I looked at the photo again. In the corner, the young son of the restaurant owner wept over losing everything. In my heart I knew complaints would come in faster than anyone could address them, but I also knew Dad couldn’t bear doing nothing.
Dad looked at me. “Is that what you would do?”
I smiled. “No, I’d ask my father what he would do.”
He sighed. “That won’t always be an option for you, Eadlyn. You need to be strong, decisive. How would you fix this one particular incident?”
I considered. “I don’t think we can. There’s no way to prove the old castes were why the waiter was denied the promotion. The only thing we can do is launch an investigation into who set the fire. That family lost their livelihood today, and someone needs to be held responsible. Arson is not how you exact justice.”
He shook his head at the paper. “I think you’re right. I’d like to be able to help them. But, more than that, we need to figure out how to prevent this from happening again. It’s become rampant, Eadlyn, and it’s frightening.”
Dad tossed the paper into the trash, then stood and walked to the window. I could read the stress in his posture. Sometimes his role brought him so much joy, like visiting the schools he’d worked tirelessly to improve or seeing communities flourish in the war-free era he’d ushered in. But those instances were becoming few and far between. Most days he was anxious about the state of the country, and he had to fake his smiles when reporters came by, hoping that his sense of calm would somehow spread to everyone else. Mom helped shoulder the burden, but at the end of the day the fate of the country was placed squarely on his back. One day it would be on mine.
Vain as it was, I worried I would go gray prematurely.
“Make a note for me, Eadlyn. Remind me to write Governor Harpen in Zuni. Oh, and put to write it to Joshua Harpen, not his father. I keep forgetting he was the one who ran in the last election.”
I
