ut of her mind as she left her room and jogged downstairs. Brushing past a young footman, she marched from the great house.
Near the wolf fountain, Sergeant Jenkins popped wheelies, his plastic front wheels clacking against the drive whenever he landed. He had a little black box in his lap, the size of a pair of shoes.
Jenkins winked as she approached and held out the box. Lila lifted the lid and fished out her bugged palm from the folds of a militia t-shirt.
Thank you, she mouthed.
Lunch? he mouthed back, his stomach grumbling so loudly that La Roux likely heard it on the other end.
She flicked a thumb toward the great house and returned the box. Stuff your face.
Grinning, Jenkins sprinted to the front door, his wheels carrying him away loudly on the stone. Chef had promised to feed Lila’s admin well for his troubles, not that she would know what those troubles were exactly.
Turning away, Lila marched along the gravel path toward the north gate, nodding to a militia patrol who broke away from the great house to follow her. She increased her pace, not to lose them, but so that she would not be late for Wolf Tower. She didn’t rush for her mother, though, for her matron had no idea that she’d be coming. She rushed for whomever La Roux would send to intercept her.
She had a pretty good idea who it would be.
Sliding her tainted palm into her pocket, she stopped before the mirrored skyscraper in the center of the estate, which rose forty-five stories into sky and dwarfed all other structures on the compound. Most people considered Wolf Tower imposing, with its jagged angles, mirrored sides, and steel beams that crisscrossed in sharp triangles up and down the structure.
Perhaps it was imposing, at least from the outside.
Lila opened the door and slipped inside. The warm interior had little in common with the exterior. Thick woolen rugs dyed to match the family’s colors dotted the smoked oak floors. Lush green plants lined the side of every staircase and covered whole walls, filtering the air, providing a bit of calming greenery as though a garden had been cut from the world and nailed to the wall. Priceless works of abstract art hung in each room. Very little light was needed, for sunlight streamed through the glass walls.
Here and there members of the Randolph family, as well as some highly paid and contracted workborn, bustled throughout the building, dressed in crimson finery that crossed from formal business attire into fashion. There was no such thing as casual dress in a Randolph office building, much less the main tower.
As it was the Saturday after the senate’s Closing Ball, attendance was sparse. Many highborn had likely not gotten out of bed yet, still tired from the night’s activities. Lila’s mother, on the other hand, would have been in her office by ten o’clock. She’d leave at six for dinner, returning for a few more hours before bed.
Six days a week and a half-day on Sunday.
That would be her life in a few days.
Leaning on the front desk, she smiled at the receptionist, Mr. Fitzgerald, who was engaged in redirecting a call on his computer. He nodded pleasantly to acknowledge her presence, but his eyes popped wide as soon as recognition hit. Shaking fingers hopped to the keyboard in his haste to pause the call, but Lila merely gestured for him to finish his work.
Before he could even end his conversation, the front doors to the building opened. Two blackcoats marched across the foyer, uniforms a collection of black and burgundy piping. Golden roses had been stitched upon their chests, and empty holsters protruded from their hips, tranq guns absent, short swords missing.
The Randolph militia had not escorted the pair inside.
“Inform Chairwoman Randolph that we need to speak with her,” the first officer drawled with his highborn accent, ignoring the fact that the receptionist was busy with a call. The man’s deep voice matched the body that went along with it. He had not bothered to shave that morning. His silent colleague was slight of stature, though equal to his partner’s bearing.
Neither man betrayed any hint as to the reason for their visit.
“Actually, Mr. Fitzgerald, I will take care of them myself,” Lila said. “Send someone into the Red Lounge with a pot of chocolate at your first opportunity.”
The receptionist bobbed in his seat.
Lila led the two officers through a long hallway and ushered them into a room that had been painted in Randolph red. It was as though the designer had dipped it straight into the paint bucket, shook it out, and shoved it deep inside the building away from the windows. The little crimson couch and plush sofa chairs inside matched the walls exactly, and had been cut several years out of fashion, with frayed cushions and a few missing buttons. The coffee table was missing a leg, but its designer had ensured the family that it would remain perfectly balanced up to two hundred kilograms. The room looked so shabby that most any highborn would deem it an insult to step inside.
The Red Lounge had been designed to provoke such feelings.
Lila sat upon the couch and gestured for the men to sit on the chairs across from her. Sergeant Muller, clearly the superior, withdrew his palm and set it on the three-legged coffee table, studying it uneasily.
“I am the chief of security for Wolf Industries,” Lila told the men as a slave entered in crimson breeches and a matching coat. A pot of hot chocolate perched on a tray at his shoulder. He poured it into china and served her guests. Lila did not reach for her own cup. The hot chocolate served inside the Red Lounge would be thin, cheap, and cold.
The slave bowed his way out of the room.
“We are well aware of you who you are, Chief Randolph,” Muller said curtly, and winced as he sipped the cold chocolate. He put down his cup, eyeing his partner, who did the same. “It’s lucky we caught you en route to see your mother. You’re much more suited to answering our questions than she is. I’m Muller. This is Davies.”
“Good afternoon, Sergeant Muller and Sergeant Davies.” Lila’s eyes flicked to the lone star on each of their collars. “Is there something specifically that I could do for you today? Are you here about the logins? If so, you are wasting your time. I have not changed my mind, and this is borderline harassment.”