geneva salt, district eight | finished {cbd3}

Even before the industry shift, the Salts wanted for nothing.

Geneva knows the taste of the sweetest buttercream icing from the most premier bakery in Eight. She knows the feel of satin and chiffon gliding comfortably across her pale skin. Her mother has even allowed her to partake in a glass of mulberry wine on occasion. Each night, a new gourmet dish is presented to her on a plate of fine china, and each morning, she occupies her routine with the delicate crescendo of opera music playing on vinyl. The house attendants are quiet shadows, coloring the faded walls of her youth.

She allows them to pass without notice.

The factory conditions in Eight have never been spectacular, even when all that was being made were fine garments, but the lives of the factory owners have always been privileged. Powerful. Maybe there's blood on her father's hands, but there's also gold glittering in his palm. So long as Geneva doesn't see the despair, she thinks, what's the harm in a little ruthlessness? If everyone could live this way, they would. That's the simple fact of the matter. There are worse sins than being content.

But it takes a certain kind of ambition to claim this lifestyle, a balance of luck and wit. The misfortunate never stroll down her driveway, they never even make it past the iron wrought gate. As far as she can see, there is a freshly pruned rose garden and a sprawling front yard surrounded on all sides by towering hedges. Songbirds perch in the willow tree just outside her bedroom window, and the smog of the city proper does not reach this far to the outskirts of Eight. The devastation left behind in the wake of the Salt family's endless pursuit of influence cannot be seen for miles. It doesn't trouble her.

The luxury of her homeland is evident.

And the fruits of the Salt family's labor are a rare and sweet morsel indeed.