Lillian stood and offered her hand. Frye shook it, smiling, and sat down at a right angle to Lillian, so that they were both leaning on the arms of their chairs to speak. It felt conspiratorial, and this gave Lillian hope. If she had a choice, she’d rather join the Frye administration, since she seemed to know what she was doing better than Saeger did.

“I hope you were able to get a little rest yesterday,” said Frye. “I know how hard you’ve been working.”

This meant Frye had been keeping an eye on her. That was good. “I had a slower day than usual. Which isn’t saying much.”

“I wish half my team had half your work ethic,” said Frye. “We’d be polling three times as high.”

Lillian sipped her coffee and shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the praise…”

“But?”

“I’m not sure you have what Saeger does. Even if you put in more hours and more money, you’re missing something vital.”

Frye cocked her head, touching her pearls with one contemplative finger. “She does have a … an aura. A pull. I’m not sure what I’d call it. It’s not enough to run a country.”

“No, but it might be enough to win her an election.”

Sighing, Frye dropped her hand back to her lap. “Sometimes I hate how sentimental folk can be.”

“You may hate it,” said Lillian, “but you’d better learn to use it or you’ll end up giving a concession speech.”

“And you have an idea.”

“Several.”

That got her the small nasal huff of Frye’s laughter. “Start with one.”

“Nostalgia is a strong emotional hook,” said Lillian. “And Saeger doesn’t even have to work for hers: She stands for the lights on Temple Street. For the cherry trees on Talbert Row. She ousted the Ospies from power, and not metaphorically. To at least a third of the country, she’s a folk hero.”

“And the other two-thirds?”

“Half of that’s your base,” said Lillian. “People angry at the collateral damage caused by the Catwalk. People suffering from the destroyed infrastructure. People who don’t like the idea of their taxes funding welfare. Maybe a few people with some lingering Ospie sentiments.”

Frye made a despairing noise at odds with her conservative pearls and the refined appointments of her parlor. “Those stone-sucking sow-shits just won’t lie down and die. One fart out of them and a whole room’s foul.” She sighed, heavily. “I apologize for my language. They just gnaw at me. As I’m sure they do you.”

“In different ways, I think. If you want to keep their votes, you have to make them feel sure of you without pandering, because pandering will lose you the rest of Gedda. You have to balance on the edge.”

“And you?”