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It had probably begun as a strike. Savine knew every manufactory in Adua, and this was Foss dan Harber’s paper mill, a concern she had twice declined to invest in. The profits were tempting, but Harber’s reputation stank. He was the kind of brutal, exploitative owner who made it hard for everyone else to properly exploit their workers. It had probably begun as a strike then turned, as strikes quickly can, into something altogether uglier.
The memory made her sick. Sick with guilt. Sick with disgust. Sick with guilt at her disgust.
It was quite the shocking disappointment. Like popping some delightful sweetmeat into one’s mouth and, upon chewing, discovering it was actually a piece of shit. But that was the experience of being a monarch. One shocking mouthful of shit after another.
The past isn’t made of facts, not really, just stories people tell to make themselves feel better. To make themselves look better.
But love is not always a solution. In this case, it was very much a problem. ‘Goodbye,� he said. What else was there to say?
