Chapter 019: Blueprints and Broken Floorboards
[Time will pass anyways.]
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{MIDDAS, SOLYRA 25, 999 – 07:05}
{LUCIAN GILFORD}
The morning light angled through the grimy front window and laid bare every problem I'd tried to ignore. The counter had a gouge where the old till must've scraped it a hundred times. The shelves along the wall, a mismatched patchwork of stained wood, listed left or right depending on the weight of the stock. A faint water stain in the ceiling threatened to bloom into something alive the next time it rained.
I traced a finger along the edge of the display, brushing dust away from a crack that hadn't been there two days ago. For all the talk of new beginnings, this place still belonged to someone else in spirit—half museum, half junk drawer, every board and bracket carrying a history that wasn't mine.
If I wanted to build something lasting, I couldn't just stack bottles and hope for the best. I needed a real storefront, not a glorified storeroom with a view of the gutter. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the growing sense that my luck wouldn't hold if I kept treating this business like a temporary favor from the gods.
Either way, I needed permission before I started tearing up floors or repainting walls. This wasn't my building—yet—and the woman who'd spent decades running it still lived just down the lane.
I considered rehearsing my pitch, but the truth was, I didn't know Yora well enough to predict how she'd take it. We'd made a deal—cheap rent in exchange for keeping the doors open and a couple bottles of water. Anything beyond that would need negotiation.
No amount of cosmic warehouse membership would fix the roof if the landlord didn't like my face.
I pulled on my coat, cast a final glance around the cramped shop, and made a mental list of every creak and blemish that needed fixing. A lifetime ago, I would have called a contractor and written a check. Here, it meant bracing myself for a conversation that could decide the future of the whole venture.
If Yora said no, I'd be back to selling bottled water out of a handcart by sundown.
I locked the door behind me and set off down the lane, the worn key still warm in my hand.
The lane behind the shop curled away from the main road, losing the clangor and traffic in favor of low, sloped roofs and gardens run wild. Laundry flapped behind stone walls. I counted three different doors painted the same shade of blue and realized I had no idea which one belonged to Yora's daughter. I hadn't even bothered to ask for an address, just an offhanded "I'll be down the lane if you need anything," as if everyone in Orario came stamped with a postal code.
I glanced from one stoop to the next, weighing my options—knock on every door and look like a vagrant, or wait and hope someone recognized the confused new merchant. The street felt quieter than the market, voices kept behind closed shutters. Every now and then, a dog barked from some unseen yard. My boots sounded too loud on the stones.
It wasn't the sort of place where strangers went unremarked. The houses were close enough that I could hear a child crying from inside one, the clatter of a pot being set on a windowsill in another. I passed a row of potted herbs and an abandoned broom, then doubled back, second-guessing myself.
At the third house—older stone, a rose bush nearly swallowing the entryway—I paused, forced myself to straighten my coat, and rapped twice on the sun-faded door. My reflection stared back from the warped glass above the knocker. I tried not to look too much like a man about to ask for a favor.
After a beat, the door creaked open half a span, and Yora peered out, squinting against the light. "Store's not open yet?" she asked.
"Not… exactly," I managed, shifting awkwardly on the step. "I, ah, had a question about the building. If you've got a moment."
She looked me up and down, lips pressed into a thin line, then opened the door wider and nodded me inside.
The entryway was dim and cool, the smell of wood polish and baked bread clinging to the air. Yora led me into a narrow sitting room, motioning for me to take the battered chair near the hearth while she perched on the edge of a low stool, the posture of someone not sure if a conversation will last ten minutes or an hour.
She didn't offer tea. I didn't ask. I fumbled with the keys in my pocket, scanning the shelves lined with faded ceramic jars and trinkets whose uses I could only guess. The table bore a runner, carefully patched but clean, and an empty plate with the telltale rings of a hurried breakfast.
Before I could get a word out, a young woman ducked in from the kitchen—hair pulled back, sleeves rolled, the exhaustion of a parent in her eyes. She stopped short at the sight of me, then glanced at her mother for explanation.
Yora gave a stiff nod. "The new shopkeeper," she said, as if that answered everything.
Her daughter made a polite noise and retreated, only to be followed by the shuffling patter of two small children. They stared at me from the doorway, wide-eyed and silent, the way kids are when they sense adults might start arguing about money. I offered a cautious smile. The older one ducked behind her sibling, but the younger simply kept staring, thumb in mouth.
Yora cleared her throat, drawing my attention back. "Well? You've business with the building, then?"
I tried to find my place, mindful of the audience. "Yes. The shop's… standing, but not by much. Floors are warped, counter's about to collapse, roof needs seeing to. If I'm going to run a real business, I'd like to invest in some improvements." I hesitated, trying not to sound like I was negotiating from a position of arrogance. "I wanted your approval before I did anything permanent."
Yora folded her hands over her knees, considering me with a merchant's skepticism. "Most new tenants don't care. Few even notice the floor. Place has been good enough for a generation—good enough for me."
I nodded, forcing a bit of humility into my tone. "It's more than good enough for what you needed. But I'm dealing in things nobody's ever seen before. I can bring more customers, maybe even more money to this lane, but only if the shop can handle it. I'd like to invest in repairs—and, if you'll allow, draw up a new lease that lets me make some improvements without having to bother you every month."
There was a long pause, broken only by the sound of a wooden spoon clattering in the kitchen and the older child's whispered question—"Who is he, mama?"—half-lost in the air.
Yora's expression didn't soften, but it shifted from resistance to calculation. "What do you want to do first?"
"Floors and shelving. Maybe repaint, patch the roof if it'll hold another season. I'll pay for materials, local labor, anything beyond that, I'll ask you first." I tried not to sound desperate, but I needed her signature more than her sympathy.
She looked past me toward her daughter, who shrugged in that way people do when they don't want to be responsible for the outcome.
Yora finally nodded. "I'll have the old lease ready by tomorrow morning. You pay for what you break, and you keep the place standing. If you move, the improvements stay."
"That's more than fair," I said, trying to keep the relief out of my voice.
She stood, dusted her hands on her skirt, and motioned me toward the door. "If you need help finding a roofer, talk to Toma at the carpenters' guild. Tell him I sent you."
I thanked her, offered the children one last awkward wave, and stepped back out into the sun, already planning the first order of business—and the next bottle of water I'd need just to get through the week.
My head was already swimming with numbers—repair estimates, lease clauses, how many days I'd lose closing the shop for carpenters. Every step back toward my storefront felt heavier, weighed down by the knowledge that running a business meant juggling ten problems before breakfast.
I barely noticed the figure rounding the corner ahead—small, black-haired, darting from shadow to shadow like she was looking for somewhere to hide from the morning.
It was only when my shoulder clipped soft fabric and I stumbled back a half step, muttering a reflexive, "Sorry—!" that I really saw her.
She was tiny. Maybe five feet, maybe less. Blue eyes, almost too large for her face, blinked up at me from under a cloud of black hair tied with white ribbon. Her dress was clean but plain, and she clutched a woven satchel close to her chest as if the world might snatch it away if she relaxed her grip.
I froze, caught between apology and curiosity. She froze, too, startled but not exactly frightened—more like a cat interrupted in the middle of a daring escape.
"Sorry about that," I tried again, stepping aside and making an awkward half-bow that I immediately regretted.
She blinked at me, eyes darting down the lane and then back to my face. "It's fine. I should watch where I'm going," she said, her voice a little breathless. Definitely not local—her accent was off, her vowels too rounded. Not Orario-born, then.
I gave a polite, slightly nervous smile. "You're new around here, aren't you?" I didn't mean it as an accusation, but it came out sharper than I wanted.
She straightened, clutching her satchel tighter. "Is it that obvious?"
"Just a little," I admitted, feeling the sting of my own awkwardness. "I'm new myself. Merchant, just down the lane." I gestured back toward the shop, realizing I sounded more like a door-to-door salesman than a respectable businessman.
She relaxed a little, a trace of suspicion giving way to curiosity. "Oh. What do you sell?"
"General goods, mostly." I hesitated, then added, "Water, spices, odds and ends. Whatever I can get my hands on."
She tilted her head, the faintest smile on her lips. "That's… useful." She hesitated, then, in a smaller voice, "Is it hard? Starting over?"
The question caught me off guard, the earnestness in her tone cutting through the usual posturing of city life. I shrugged, feeling suddenly seen. "It's exhausting. But better than standing still."
She nodded, her grip on the satchel easing just a little. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not being like the others," she said. "Most people just look through me." There was a hint of gratitude, something that felt both fragile and unpracticed.
I cleared my throat, embarrassed. "Well. If you need anything, the shop's open most days. Name's Lucian."
"Hestia," she replied, almost shyly, as if unsure whether she ought to give her name at all. "I'll… remember that."
We stood awkwardly for a heartbeat more, two strangers in a city too big for either of us. Then she dipped her head and hurried down the lane, almost vanishing into the next patch of sunlight.
I watched her go, still wondering if I'd imagined the whole encounter, then shook myself back to the business of repairs, the moment lingering like the echo of a bell long after she was gone.
Rose stood beside the door, arms crossed, watching the comings and goings of Weaver's Lane with that air of careful detachment she wore like armor. She caught my eye before I'd crossed the street, and by the time I unlocked the door, she was already straightening, the set of her shoulders making it clear this was more business than visit.
I nodded by way of greeting. "You're either a regular now, or I'm being audited. Should I be worried?"
Her mouth twitched at the edge. "If I were here for the Guild, you'd know. This is just habit." She didn't quite smile, but the tension that marked our first meetings had faded, replaced with something like mutual skepticism.
I held the door open for her, then slipped inside after, dropping my keys on the counter and looking over the battered interior with a sigh. "You ever deal with Toma at the carpenter's guild?"
She stepped in, glancing at the listing shelves as if she'd been mentally cataloging every flaw since the moment she arrived. "A few times. He's reliable—if you're clear about your budget, and don't let him talk you into add-ons."
I arched a brow. "So, trustworthy in the way a cat is trustworthy: as long as you don't leave out the roast chicken."
That earned a low sound—almost a laugh, almost a warning. "You could do worse. He values Yora's word, for what it's worth."
"Good to know." I moved behind the counter, running a finger along a splintered groove I'd stopped noticing days ago. "You ever notice how everything in this city looks fine until you actually have to pay to fix it?"
Rose shrugged, stepping around a loose floorboard. "That's Orario. The only people who can afford perfect are gods, and they'd rather build temples than repair roofs."
"Guess I'll just have to be content with 'sturdy and not actively falling in on my stock.'"
She looked at me, her eyes sharper than her words. "That's more ambition than most shopkeepers. Don't let the city beat it out of you."
I smiled, just a little, and turned toward the storeroom. "No promises. But I'll try not to embarrass myself too badly in front of Toma."
"If you do, he'll just charge you double," she said, deadpan. "Or tell Yora."
"Truly, the city runs on fear and petty threats."
Rose's tail flicked, the closest she'd come to amusement yet. For a moment, the battered shop almost felt like it could become something worth rebuilding.
I slid a crate of empty bottles back beneath the counter, then glanced at Rose, who was studying a faded ledger pinned to the wall as if it might start leaking state secrets.
"So," I ventured, "did you come by for something specific, or is this the part where you ask for a cut of the profits?"
She didn't look up. "I was… passing through."
"Uh huh." I leaned on the counter, unconvinced. "You're the only inspector I know who takes her walks through the merchant quarter. Must be fate."
Now she looked up, mouth set in a line just a hair too careful. "Actually, I was assigned to you—well, to your case—for tonight's event."
I blinked, waiting for the punchline. "Event?"
Her ears twitched. "The gods' banquet. There's a seat reserved for your 'storefront representative.' Royman is… indisposed." She hesitated, glancing at a spot just past my shoulder as if the right words might drift down from the ceiling. "I've been asked to serve as liaison for the Guild. For you."
"So you're escorting me to the world's fanciest dinner party because your boss is still mad about the paperwork?" I tried to keep the amusement out of my voice, but couldn't quite manage it.
She cleared her throat. "Yes. I mean—no. I mean, you're invited, and the Guild requires… accompaniment. It's tradition."
"Tradition." I repeated, rolling the word around like a loose tooth. "Is it also tradition to send the city's sternest werewolf to keep me from embarrassing the Guild, or did I just get lucky?"
She bristled, then forced her posture straight. "You're not the only merchant invited, just the most… recently scrutinized."
I folded my arms, thinking. "And I suppose it would be scandalous to turn down the invitation?"
"It would be noted," she said quietly. "But it's your choice. I'm only here because Royman… is not available."
I smirked. "Royman's not available because I gave him an ulcer, isn't he?"
Her mouth flickered in something almost like a smile, but she didn't answer.
I let the silence stretch, then sighed. "I'm not exactly used to big public events. And going as 'just friends' with the Guild's favorite enforcer is… a bit conspicuous."
Rose drew herself up, dignity folding around her like a cloak. "It's not a date. It's a professional engagement."
"I know." I softened my tone. "But you're right—if I want to keep the Guild off my back, I'd better show up and play nice."
She nodded, relief almost visible in her shoulders. "I'll meet you here at sundown. The carriage leaves from the Guild."
I saluted, mock-formal. "Yes, ma'am."
She turned to leave, but paused in the doorway, tail swishing once. "Wear something… appropriate. The gods are not fond of surprises."
"Neither am I," I called after her, but she was already gone.
I stared at the battered walls, suddenly very aware of how little in this shop—and in my wardrobe—qualified as 'appropriate.' If Royman wanted a show, I'd have to give him one.
Maybe I'd even enjoy it.