Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor
“Quite,” Chrysanthe had said, crisply, drawing herself up straight, tilting her neck back as well; she looked the machine over, from the pit where the glass cool enough to be worked was stored, all the way up along the rollers which drew the glass the better part of seventy feet into the air, encased in red brick. “I shall have the process updated and ready to go on the machine by morning.”
Strange, Chrysanthe thought, hours later, surrounded by a mess of rollers, the chimney of the machine open before her, her hands covered in blackgrease, and the containers for the application of sulfur dioxide no closer to having been incorporated than they were hours earlier, how something you had wanted – had wished for, had prayed for, had argued for – could feel so very much like a punishment.
She had argued; she had drawn up a presentation for Mr. Pargeter himself, and shown him – shown him! – what good results they had had in the laboratory, how all the spells confirmed that sulfur dioxide, applied to the surface of the glass ribbon as it cooled, should make the glass higher quality and more durable both. The last of these presentations she had made in Dentis, and he had taken the sheath of papers she had prepared, thanked her for her efforts, and dismissed her.
By last week, of course, Chrysanthe had expected to be fired. After the incident with Howard, which had left Mr. and Mrs. Pargeter’s youngest son doubled over and pale faced and her knee throbbing painfully, Chrysanthe had taken it as nearly a given that she would, in fact, be fired. She had not tendered her resignation, as she had wished to force them to say it to her face – that she would be fired because their son was a lecher and a lout, who could no more accept a no than he could manage the quality of the glass their own factory produced.
Mr. Pargeter had called her into the office, and Chrysanthe had sat, straight-backed, and stared him down.
Instead, he had told her that they wished to try the sulfur dioxide process in one of the factories in the Rose – that she was to go, herself, and oversee the application and the initial trials. Chrysanthe thought, bitterly, that she should have been glad, except that it was so transparently his wish to get her out of Vienda; she was grateful, at least, if bitter, that they had not let Howard stand in the office and smirk at her as Mr. Pargeter delivered the news.
Fine, Chrysanthe had thought – fine.
She simply could not get the pieces to fit together; worse, she had removed more of the rollers than she ought to have, and she had not the least idea how she would put them back together – particularly, Chrysanthe thought, despairingly, by morning. Mr. Jeneway would send a nasty report back to Mr. Pargeter, although Chrysanthe rather had trouble caring about that just now; it was, rather distractingly, the foreman’s worried frown she thought of.
Chrysanthe rose with a muttered “Tocks,” and stomped away from the bits and pieces on the floor. She had sent the night watchman for a mechanic nearly an hour ago already; she had thought he would be back in minutes, but instead she was all alone in the enormous, dark factory. Chrysanthe set to work heating water, and began to brew tea. She sat on a chair at the table, and closed her eyes – for just a moment, she thought to herself, resting her forehead on her arms. Her long, blonde braids were pulled back in a looping bun; the wispy strands of hair which liked to escape them and trail about her face were held back with a sleek brown velvet headband.
Just a moment, Chrysanthe thought, her eyes fluttering shut, already losing track of the tea steeping nearby. Just a moment.