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“Right, but here’s the thing. Last year at the ball, Torkel was working as head of palace security. I might be mistaken, but I wonder if a dedicated invitation addressed to him would make him feel a bit less like the poor country cousin. He’s very proud.”
“Ah, yes. I understand.” Matteo was sorry he hadn’t thought of it himself. “Of course. I’ll see to it personally when I get back today.”
“Good man, Benz.”
Matteo returned his attention to Ms. Delaney, almost against his will. It was as if his eyes, of their own volition, sought her out before his brain could make other arrangements for something else—anything else—to look at. This was an unfortunate tendency: looking at Ms. Delaney was rather... destabilizing.
The steward from Riems who had been badgering Ms. Delaneyearlier suddenly appeared at her side. He wasn’t a board member, but he also wasn’t the type to let that stop him. Matteo glanced around, wondering if he should eject the man. He moved nearer, close enough to eavesdrop.
“Ms. Delaney. Leon Bachmann from Riems.” Leon Bachmann. Matteo made a mental note. “I asked you some questions out there.”Asked you some questions.As if she wouldn’t remember his heckling. “Might I have a quick word before your meeting starts?”
“Of course.” She gestured to the empty spot next to her. For god’s sake, did she have to be so accommodating? Perhaps she would like to fetch the man a cup of coffee, too.
“I’m sorry if I was a pain in there. I’m the union steward from the Riems plant, so it’s my job to be a pain, you understand.”
She smiled. “I do. And I don’t mind people keeping me honest.”
“I can tell. Which is why I’m going to do you a good turn.”
Matteo didn’t want to be seen listening in, so he pretended to be surveying the food. He adjusted the plate holding those odious little sugary donuts, as it was too close to the edge.
“The factory in Riems is smaller than this one,” Mr. Bachmann said. “And of course we don’t have the corporate office attached, which if you ask me is a blessing.” Nobodyhadasked him, but of course that wasn’t going to stop him. “But it also means we’re out of range, so to speak. News takes a while to reach us. This has created a perception that we’re an afterthought.”
“Ah.”
“I’m going to level with you. Folks there are quite concerned about their jobs. Some people are saying that since you’re not coming to have an initial meeting with us until the end of next week, it means we’re in trouble, that we’re going to be the first togo.” Ms. Delaney made an indistinct noise Matteo thought signaled objection, but Mr. Bachmann interrupted her, as was apparently his modus operandi.
MatteodetestedBachmann’s persistent interrupting of Ms. Delaney. His hatred of it was so strong, he could feel his own rude interjection rising up through his body, from his diaphragm up his throat. Alarmingly, it was like a sentient being, this objection, a palpablething—a thing he didn’t have control over.
He grabbed a donut and stuffed it in his mouth to prevent himself from speaking.
Oh! This was not as bad as he would have thought. The sweetness of the sugar melted on his tongue and gave way to a fresh, soft pastry leavened with just the right amount of airiness.
“Even if that’s not true,” Mr. Bachmann said to Ms. Delaney, “even if you’re not planning to close up the Riems shop, there’s already an underlying perception, you understand?”
“I do. Well, I didn’t, but I do now, thanks to you.”
“I can’t imagine why I’m helping you.”
“Perhaps because you understand the task at hand.”
“I don’t want to see any layoffs or concessions. I’ll fight them with everything in me.”
“Of course. That is your job, after all. Still, thank you.”
Matteo could not deny what Mr. Bachmann had said was true. Ms. Delaney’s trip to Riems was scheduled for next week because she was also scheduled to take a meeting with Max von Hansburg—she was holding one-on-one meetings with all the board members over the coming week—and bundling that meeting and her visit to the Riems factory saved a trip over the mountains. But Matteo could see how a simple logistical decisionwould look like a slight from a certain point of view. Perhaps it evenwasa slight, albeit an unintended one. Perhaps theydidn’tpay enough mind to the Riems operation. He resolved to assimilate this information and consider it further later.
The king cleared his throat, and everyone stopped talking.
Matteo turned, intending to make his way over to the king, but of course his eyes found Ms. Delaney first. To his surprise, she was already looking at him. She made a quick, restrained gesture, pantomiming wiping her face, and to his utter horror, he realized she must be signaling that he had icing sugar on his. He whipped out his handkerchief, dragged it over his face, and, with his head held high—what else could one do when caught out enjoying tawdry American pastries?—said, “If everyone has everything they need, I shall excuse myself.”
“Please stay, Mr. Benz,” the king said. He looked around the table. “Unless anyone has any objections.”
No one would. The king was here in his capacity as a member of the Morneau board, but he was still the king. And Matteo was widely viewed as the palace’s chief executive. He waited the requisite few beats, though, pretending he was entertaining the notion that someone might suggest the meeting be closed-door.
The meeting did not begin as he would have predicted, mostly because Noar Graf started talking. “Ms. Delaney, might I ask what became of my suggestion that we postpone the CZT visit until Bradley Wiener is recovered?”
“I was happy to come. It looks as though Brad’s recovery is going to be a long one. The break was complex and will require more surgery.”
