I scan the half dozen men surrounding the table in front of me, stuffed into their suits like sausages threatening to burst their casings. The Crown must have scraped the bottom of the barrel for this committee.
“Sirs, please.”
The low chatter around the table quiets as they once again turn in my direction. “If I could have a few more minutes of your time, I think you’ll be very interested in this footage.” It’s a stretch but one can hope. I aim the remote at the ancient telly in the corner of the room and press play. The news anchor leaps into action.
“—body of fourteen-year-old Kira Radbury, found in her home on the east side of Wesbourne City on Wednesday.” A girl’s picture fills the screen next to the news anchor. Her lips are curved into a smile around her braces. My vision blurs at the sight and I blink to clear it. “Preliminary reports say that Radbury had large amounts of insidion in her system, Wesbourne’s most popular drug, which caused the death of the young teen in the early hours of Wednesday morning. This is just one of the many cases of insidion overdoses in Wesbournian youths—”
I click the power button and the screen goes black. By waiting a few beats, I hope to allow Kira’s photo to stick in their minds. That pink-cheeked, strawberry blonde-haired girl could have been any of their daughters.
No, that isn’t true. All of their daughters are safely ensconced in private schools Kira’s single mother has no hope of ever affording, leaving her at the mercy of the public school system in which the currency of choice among students is insidion, a lethal and temperamental drug that is almost always addictive if it doesn’t kill you first. I turn around to face the committee—all men, not a single woman—and say, “Surely you can all see the need to do something about the rise in illegal substances entering our ports.”
Lord James clears his throat before replying. “It’s not that we don’t think something should be done about it, Your Grace. It’s simply your proposition to increase security at the ports that raises concerns.”
“And what do you propose we do instead?” I say.
Evidently having completed his duty, Lord James looks around at his comrades on the special committee assigned to my petition.
Lord Sutton sighs and takes his place. “Why not simply incorporate more teaching in schools?” he says.
“As I mentioned earlier, the schools are already pushing a large amount of anti-drug education. While proving somewhat effective, there is still the matter of a large supply of insidion making it onto school grounds and being sold to children. If we could cut off the supply before it ever enters the country—”
“Sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, but adding more security personnel to the ports would not only slow down processing but would also increase costs exponentially. It would require a raise in taxes.” This from Lord Barton, possibly the most promising convert of the entire group, if not for his single-minded focus on inane matters like cost.
“I think most citizens would be in favor of a slight tax increase, if it meant protecting their loved ones from the devastating effect of drug use,” I say.
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I hardly think a woman in your position could know what the people of Wesbourne would or would not be in favor of,” Lord James says.
The stuffy room becomes as still as death. My own lungs choke for air.
He seems to regret his words immediately and stammers, “My apologies, I simply meant—”
“No apology needed. I’m sorry to have wasted so much of your time.” I gather the stack of files I brought with me: accounts of insidion-related teen deaths in the past five years, detailed spreadsheets that received only cursory glances from the committee members, and the reports of the estimated future results should they approve my petition. I shove everything into my bag and march out the door without a backward glance.
Good riddance to the lot of them. I’ll find another way to save this country from going to hell in a bloody hand basket.
This is the problem with a class system so deeply entrenched that even a century of modernism hasn’t completely rooted it out. There are those who think social status is the only thing that matters, the ultimate protection, even from the law. Rumors trickle: a military deserter who got off with only a hefty fine because he was a member of the House of Lords; a baroness whose temerarious driving endangered innumerable lives, but her record remained spotless.
And there are those of us who believe in earning our merit, in equal opportunities for everyone, regardless of how many times their family is mentioned in A History of Wesbourne.
Despite our differences, Wesbournians fight with a relentless determination for what we believe in, and we’re proud of having one of the strongest monarchies to survive the twentieth century. This nation isn’t perfect, but it also isn’t afraid to confront its problems.
Which is exactly what I’m trying to do.
My car takes a wheezing breath when I turn the corner onto Browning Street. I make a mental note to call the garage. It’s been making funny noises the past few days and I promise it a full detail if it’ll last a little longer. I just need it to get me home in time for my mother’s dinner party. I’m twenty-five years old, hold a dukedom for crying out loud, but that woman can still put the fear of God into me.
St. John’s Cathedral comes into view on my right. My heart gives a little burp of anticipation. Just four more months and I’ll be walking through her doors in an exquisite white gown.
My phone trills from my bag. I hit the button to connect the Bluetooth.
“How was the meeting?” Maisie doesn’t waste time.
“Stellar.”
“Sooo, not well?”
“If you consider wasting my time and effort in front of a bunch of spineless prats who don’t give a damn about anything other than their pocketbooks, who then insult me simply because I’m a woman, going well, then it was a smashing success.” I accelerate through the intersection as the light changes from yellow to red. Orange, my mum always calls it.
“Yikes. Do they have any idea what they’ve done?”