Frye had thrown them a cursory smile and a couple of lines—too formal, blatantly rehearsed—and begun to circulate in groups where she clearly had friends. Lillian stalked like a big cat after faltering game and caught her in the back corner of the room, sheltered from the press. They were just circling around a concrete time and date for lunch when a large hand closed on Lillian’s shoulder. She jumped and had to play it for laughs.

“Mr. Makricosta,” she said, when she turned and saw who it was. “You nearly made me spill my drink!”

“An egregious offense,” he said, sliding effortlessly into the act. “Though I would’ve gotten you a new one.” Then, as though he had just noticed Frye—she was certain this was not the case—he said, “My goodness, is this who I think it is? Ms. DePaul, do you mind making introductions?”

“Of course not,” she said, quashing her irritation. “Ms. Frye, this is Aristide Makricosta: imports and exports, and an old friend.” She bent the meaning of her words like tent staves, so they would support her manners. “Mr. Makricosta, Emmeline Frye, Neo-Federalist ministerial candidate.”

Frye had a smile like salt flats: dull, arid, alkaline. Even her eyes seemed sun-bleached: faded hazel, like the brush that grew in the Porachin desert. She couldn’t stand up to Saeger’s youthful flash, her passion; the trick would be to play on that spareness, build it into a platform of appealing pragmatism.

“I’m not sure we ought to be talking,” said Aristide. “I’ve got a sizable quote from WCRC sitting on my desk right now.”

Of course he had an agenda. He was not being charming for nothing. Anger froze her into paralysis. Grudgingly, she admired him.

“I’ve pulled all my fingers out of that and wiped them clean.” Frye flicked the relevant digits like they were wet and she had no towel to dry them. “And anyway, if you want to move something through Gedda, you haven’t got many other choices, at the moment.”

“Something your infrastructure plans would fix, I’m sure.” Aristide examined his nails, campy and casual. “Doing your competitors a good turn. Very altruistic. Of course West Cultham would benefit from an improved and expanded railway system as well. And you’ll be well ahead of the pack coming around the bend.”

Frye shrugged. “Throw corn for the flock, each goose gets a crumb.”

That farmland, black earth, flat-vowel relatability—that was what would get her votes. Though where it came from, Lillian wasn’t sure. Frye was a suburban Nuesklender born to well-off middle-class types. Nothing close to a farmer. She’d been at university in the state capital and built a small fortune dealing in commodities—enough to throw in with a couple of partners, build a successful railway company, and buy them out just in time for the Ospies’ rise to power.