“Who are you?” Lord Meeker said, standing. Meeker was responsible for law enforcement and defense, as well as hunting and foraging. Bartz had bought him a long time ago. He wasn’t about to let Bartz’s moment of triumph be interrupted.
Meeker didn’t receive an immediate response from the elderly woman. “Doorman, please remove this woman,” Meeker said. “These meetings are closed to the public.”
“Which is a shame, don’t you think?” the old woman said, plodding slowly around the mahogany table, all eyes resting on her. “We are here to govern for the people. Shouldn’t those we serve be privy to know how we serve them?”
She took a seat in one of the empty chairs around the table, the one next to Alastair.
“You can’t sit there. What’s the meaning of this?” Meeker asked Klipton, his fists clenched.
Klipton opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a cutting remark from the gray-haired woman. “Now don’t get all testy with the deputy attorney.” She spoke with remarkable force and clarity given her stature and age. She wagged her finger at Meeker. “He did his job, and properly too, giving me quite the once-over. That’s why I had to go to the trouble of getting an official validation of my talisman from the Citizen’s Registry. It seems my original talisman was misplaced, along with those of a lot of my relatives. Thankfully it could still be authenticated, based on a likeness to other talismans and some other transactional records.”
The old woman looked over at Alastair. “Who knew the deed to that terrible Cherry Avenue money pit would ever be useful to anyone?” She laughed and touched his arm as if they were old friends. Meanwhile, with her other hand she was pulling out a number of sealed letters. She distributed them one by one to each of the lords.
They were copies of an affidavit from the Deputy Attorney, affirming her identity.
She took a key from her pocket and easily unlocked the drawer built into the table in front of her, as if she did it every other day. She awkwardly reached in, pulled out a name block, blew some dust off it and placed it on the desk with the name facing out. “Amazing,” she said, “still here after all these years.”
Then she looked up at the council members. “Gentleman, lady, my name is Madison Banks. Please excuse my tardiness. I will try to not be twenty-seven years late for the next meeting.” She smiled at the councilors, only to continue receiving blank stares in return.
Without missing a beat, she asked, “Well then, what’s on the agenda?”
MONTICELLO
Master Euclid had sent down a proper horse and carriage to pick up Mehta and Flora. It seemed like a nice welcoming gesture, but when inside the carriage they realized it was more for convenience. They had to sit on uncomfortable wooden boxes full of seeds, bricks, and other Seeville goods. There was an odd but pleasant smell of rye and apricot.
Euclid had signed the deal for Flora’s placement at an attractive price. He’d also agreed to keep her on the estate and not let her fraternize among the people of Seeville. It was a good deal for the railroad—good enough to force Thorpe to grudgingly accept it. Mehta wasn’t entirely free of his contract yet, however. There was still a one-week period where Euclid could back out if for some reason he didn’t like Flora.
“You’ve done her up well,” Barbara said, looking Flora up and down from across the carriage. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Mehta.”
Flora cast Mehta a somber glance. He had purchased some better fitting clothes for her. They were nothing fancy. Flora looked nice simply because her figure was no longer hidden by rags and a bulky jacket. Her crimson hair also hung neatly down to her shoulders, the tangles removed through some aggressive brushing she did on her own.
Barbara said, “Euclid likes them like you—a bit older, more experienced. As long as you can play along with his games, you should do fine.”
Flora again looked at Mehta. He gave her a firm look in return. Flora nodded compliantly to Barbara.
When Mehta had told Flora she might have to play Euclid’s games she didn’t seem surprised. She only nodded solemnly.
Mehta knew Flora fairly well by now—from her own stories or from watching her during the sessions—but sometimes he wondered if there was even more misfortune he didn’t know about.
It felt right for her to have some reward for all her troubles. If he could do something to ease her sorrow he could leave this forsaken place in good conscience. At the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to tell Flora his suspicions about the slave Barbara named “Mutt”. He didn’t trust her to think clearly with that expectation on her mind. Besides, Mutt might not, in fact, be the man she was looking for.
“You know, Mehta, a man like you, we could use you. I could use you.” Barbara bit her finger after she said it, sizing him up with her eyes.
Mehta wanted nothing to do with Euclid’s whore. Ordinarily he would have told her to go fuck a sweaty mule, but he didn’t want to mess up the deal. So he continued to absorb her crude advances with polite grins.
Barbara was just one reason why it was rumored Euclid was some kind of pervert. But he invested in a number of important Spoke operations, so people let him be. As long as he didn’t push the New Founder agenda too much, the lords would ignore him. There was no worry on that account. At one time the New Founders had been a powerful force in Seeville, but now, with Euclid at the helm, they seemed more like a curiosity born of Seeville’s past—historians that were now part of history.
While all the snow had thawed in Seeville, there remained a few patches of hardpack on the mountain. The sun peeked out, and the road turned to a glistening brown, channeling the remaining melt down into the valley below.
They pulled up to the stately home.
Mehta hadn’t seen the estate on his prior trip up as Euclid wanted to meet in Michie Tavern, slightly down the mountain. Monticello looked exactly as it did in the books, with four pillars and a triangular archway first greeting visitors. Two wings struck out from either side, and a small dome jutted from the roof. It was smaller than Mehta had expected, but impressive in its décor.
A hunched-over man in rags greeted them and opened the carriage door. He was bare-sleeved and had red marks covering his face and forearms.
“This is Scabby,” Barbara said. After they all exited the carriage, Scabby wordlessly pointed to the east and then went to work on getting the boxes out. Mehta noticed Flora was looking at Scabby closely, trying to see his face despite Scabby’s predilection for looking down.
When they had stepped down from the carriage, Barbara said, “Welcome to Thomas Jefferson’s mountaintop home. This was where Jefferson must have greeted visitors three centuries ago.” Barbara was smiling congenially and waving her hands at the building in a rehearsed manner.
Mehta was no New Founder, but he’d learned enough about this Thomas Jefferson. He wondered what Jefferson would have thought about the current use of his cherished homestead. It was inhabited by a pervert who employed a whore, his greeter was in rags and marked with scabs, and their guests were a woman from a notorious enemy turned-slave, and a merc who’d killed hundreds of people.
It probably wasn’t what he had in mind for the place.
“It sounds like Mr. Euclid is in the gardens,” Barbara said. “You can get to know Scabby later.”
Barbara walked with them toward a long pathway that ran along the hilltop while Scabby escorted the carriage driver to the stables on the west side of the building.
Below the pathway, to the east, was a palisade garden. Even in winter there looked to be plants growing at the far end. Perched on the edge of the plateau was a glass-walled gazebo where one could look out and see for miles into the distance.