In the wake of our announcements, the merchant guilds were in uproar. Of course they were. Access to fresh goods would be more heavily regulated, independent contracts with farmers dissolved, and any excess foodstuffs seized and delivered to Food Management. But in spite of several furious petitions, there was nothing they could do to stop us. The Sisterhood held complete control over access to Ceyrun, and large quantities of food could not get inside the walls without our permission.

The clamour only grew louder when we announced that we were instituting a freeze on all produce prices. Merchants attempting to overcharge would lose their trader’s license and find Enforcement knocking at their door.

We weren’t stopping business. We were just making it arduous and less profitable. Meanwhile, Food Management would expand emergency stockpiling operations for non-perishable goods in the Field silos. If matters came to the worst, we would establish food depots all over Ceyrun, where citizens could collect daily rations.

In addition—and despite Verje’s grumbling—Water and Sanitation had agreed to decrease water pressure within the city, and would start implementing strategic rolling water outages in the next week.

Finally, and on top of everything else, I had to prepare a presentation for the symposium. I found all of Zenza’s old files and reports on my desk, along with a note from Reverend Somme thanking me for my help. That bothered me. She could have at least asked.

Nevertheless, I applied myself to the task, collating figures from our alternate food source programs, calculating the volume of water these projects would require going forward, outlining worst-case scenarios and possible outcomes. Zenza had done much of the math already, and I was determined to honour her work. The finished presentation would be accurate and comprehensive, and it might finally be alarming enough to convince Water and Sanitation of the seriousness of the situation.

I didn’t sleep much that week. Or eat. I became so absorbed by the avalanche of work and stress that I began to forget about the little things.

“Elfreda?”

I looked up from the file I’d been reading on soil quality. Reverend Somme stood in front of my desk. I hastily gestured reverence.

“Can I see you in my office please?” she asked.

That did not sound promising.

“You aren’t in trouble,” she added.

“Right.” I closed the file and got up. “Of course, Reverend.”

Somme’s office was tucked into the corner of the second floor; a large, wood-panelled room with a varnished desk, and drapes in the colours of the Food Management insignia: pale orange and mauve. The Reverend’s robes hung loosely, and her face had gained a new gauntness, but her hair and make-up remained immaculate.

“Won’t you close the door behind you?” she asked.

I did so.

She gestured at the chair across from her. “How are you holding up, Elfreda?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Yes, Reverend.”

“I want to tell you to take the week off, but Food Management cannot afford to be short-staffed at the moment.”