Epilogue Roots
Epilogue
Roots
Six Months Later
Hasan, Arun, and Poppy sat in the viceroy’s office—Poppy’s office—late on a Friday evening.
While she’d been away on her inaugural tour, she’d ordered all the rugs and furniture changed, instructing the cleaners to scrub the floors twice.
Though the room still reeked of wood polish, sometimes Poppy could have sworn she’d stepped in a puddle of blood, only to look down and see her own reflection in the hardwood floor.
Many had tried to dissuade her from touring, but her reasons were threefold: First, it was just before the monsoon season, so her storms in the farmlands could be passed off as an early start to the season.
Her position with the lords and representatives was too tenuous to openly expose herself as daivyakt, and she could not lose the few allies she had if she was going to bring about change.
Second, she needed the common people to see her, their new vicereine, and know that their voices had been heard.
And last, the Sutherland estate was haunted.
The smell of rust and gunpowder followed her everywhere. Sometimes she would catch a glimpse of white hair reflected in the window, only to realize it was a cloud. The nightmares had subsided while she was on tour, but since her return, the visions had only gotten worse.
“Cotton exports are down another percent,” Arun announced, bringing Poppy back to reality as he snapped the report closed. “But import figures are still high.”
She’d expected that much. Since becoming vicereine, she’d been able to incentivize more local cotton growers to sell their yields to local factories instead of sending the raw material to Welkish factories.
Theodore, newly appointed to the Council of Lords, had helped advocate for the law, though the Alderforts and the Montroses had fought it at every turn.
“We’ve also seen an increase in employment in the cotton industry,” Hasan said. “We’ll likely see more if we can get the labor reforms to go through. How’s that coming?”
Poppy gritted her teeth. “It’s not,” she said. “We’re talking thousands of crowns for safety inspections, plant maintenance, employee training. No one is willing to shell out, least of all the lords.”
“What about Oakbury?” Arun asked. “Or Wainwright?”
“They’re hesitant, but even so, they’re a minority. Now that we have six council members, I need three signatures to pass the motion.”
Arun sighed, and the three of them went quiet again.
In the silence, Poppy’s gaze drifted down to a locked drawer in her desk.
It contained just two letters, both marked with the seal of the emperor, one addressed to the office of the viceroy, the other addressed to her by name.
The first one she had received only two weeks after her inauguration, too soon for it to be her royal assent.
When she opened the letter, she realized that it had actually been intended for her father.
We have heard concerning rumors in Welkland that your Virian ward is campaigning to be named heir to your office.
While we respect that the adoption was an extension of your devotion to the Founder’s teachings on assimilation, we are greatly concerned about the future of the colony should it pass into the girl’s hands, and will advise you strongly that if you name your daughter as successor, she will not be granted royal assent, and her rule will not be considered legitimate.
The letter had been signed by a man named Lord Granfort, on behalf of the emperor.
When months had gone by without any royal assent, she feared that the emperor was serious.
What would they do to her now? But then, three months after her inauguration, she received the second envelope, which, to her great relief, contained the royal assent.
Her relief was short lived, for in the same envelope, Lord Granfort had written a letter to her personally.
Though politely worded, his message had been sinister in nature.
The royal assent had been provided not as a vote of confidence, but to maintain temporary stability in the colony of Viryana.
While the emperor decided what was to be done, Poppy would be permitted to hold control of the island.
Until then, the Imperial Family was watching, very closely.
She had told neither Arun nor Hasan about the letter, hoping that the emperor had chosen to leave it be and respect his late cousin’s final wish. Lifting her gaze from the drawer, Poppy focused on the conversation again.
“There must be a way to crack one of the Council members,” Hasan was insisting. “Poppy?”
“If there’s a way, then I don’t know it.” She spread her arms helplessly.
“Is there any dirt on the lords?” Hasan mused. “We could try blackmail.”
Arun cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t resort to underhanded tactics so soon. Let’s ask Zephyr,” he suggested. “He may have a more tactful way of dealing with this.”
Hasan and Poppy stiffened. Despite their trepidations, Zeyar had managed to join the delegation, winning over enough of its members for them to overrule Hasan on the decision.
She’d never admit it to Hasan, but Zeyar’s plans had a subtlety that his lacked.
Though his schemes had worked well thus far, she remained wary of them, unsure of whose ends they served—hers, or his.
“Okay,” Poppy sighed. “I don’t think we’re going to get any further. Go consult with the rest of the delegation. We can talk about this on Monday.”
Arun and Hasan rose obediently, gathering their papers. Arun left first, tipping his hat on his way out.
Poppy glanced up and saw Hasan lingering, his hand on the doorknob, his features taut. “Is there something you need?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Hasan said quickly. “I just . . .” His gaze searched her face. “Are you okay? I saw you lose focus during our meeting. You look . . . troubled.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. “Truly. Just a little tired.”
Hasan hesitated, doubt clear on his face. “Well, if you need anything, I’m here.”
When she didn’t say anything further, he took the hint.
After his footsteps faded away, she rose from the desk, stretching as she made her way over to the window.
Night blanketed the island, moonlight cresting the waves crashing into the beach that backed onto the estate.
For a moment, she recalled her childhood, walking along those same waves with Nanny and Samina as Nanny told them tales of magic and maharajas.
Poppy had been too young and ignorant then to understand how courageous that act of storytelling had been, but now that she knew, it was her obligation to continue Nanny’s work in preserving Virian tradition.
She pressed her aching head to the cool glass, eyelids drifting shut.
No one ever talked about how hard it was to erase a legacy, only how hard it was to build one.
If Welkish rule over Viryana was an invasive tree, then appointing Poppy as vicereine had only felled it on a surface level.
The roots were still in the earth, tightly entrenched, choking the native plants, leeching water and nutrients.
Poppy opened her eyes, staring across the horizon, where the Welkish continent lay. No matter how weary she grew, she would tear every last root out. Even if it made her hands bleed.
And she dared someone to try to stop her.