There was a building in the middle of town --
-- not really a building, no, but an eyesore --
-- and today Petronela Kaczmarek, in green and gold and pearl-laden hair-pins, surrounded by five of her teahouse girls, her brother Dominik and four of his masonry-crew, are working to clear the site. Dominik pauses every so often to check the plans, the beautiful plans, the glorious plans -- and Petronela and the girls stop everyone they can in the street to solicit support for the teahouse owner's new venture. It will be a wonderful place, she says, with soaring rafters and beautiful carved tables, where people who could not afford to eat well would be served like kings. They would be dressed in wonderful clothes and taught proper manners. They would be guaranteed food. They would be taught to exceed their station, not simply meet it.
My family was once like yours, she would say to the poor women, their teeth knocked out and their knees a-knock with scurvy. We were like yours. And then we met Rhaena Burnie. Yes, she's my sister's best friend. She was the one that brought us out of darkness. She can help you, too!
That's not exactly how it happened, thinks Dominik, wiping stone-dust on his pants. But he says nothing to his sister about it. Not right now, at least.
Because there is wonderful work to be done.
For many of the passersby, rattled by the heat and frightened that the crops might wither, any guaranteed food is wonderful news.
Isn't it?