Ch#78
“Launch your own store right beside Lake Valpide!”
“What?”
Gelfry’s bloodshot gaze bulged as he willed his bleary vision to focus on the page amid the pounding in his skull.
He yanked the magazine from Jamer’s grasp and raced through the story.
“No capital? Can’t read? Not an obstacle!
Got merchandise to hawk and the fire to attempt it? Step up as a vendor in the budding lakeside bazaar. … File at the Market Office lakeside. Eligibility vetted right there.”
Farther down, incentives for pioneers—precisely the terms they’d extended to the Merchants’ Guild.
“Unbelievable…!”
Rage seeped from Gelfry’s every syllable.
“It’s beyond the periodical! Placards blanket nearby hamlets. For the illiterate, criers roam proclaiming it!”
“Subsidies? Our filings?” Jamer shot back.
“Figure it out.”
Gelfry crumpled the Northern News in his fist.
“Bargains are kaput.”
“Kaput? You must be delirious. We stalled submissions on your subsidy vow!”
“Ease up!”
He cradled his throbbing temple.
“Applicants without the Guild? In your dreams?”
“Hear yourself!”
Jamer sucked his tongue, glancing at the traders arrayed behind.
“Guildmaster’s utterly oblivious!”
Gelfry’s brow furrowed in bewilderment until another merchant advanced, expression somber.
“We returned from the Market Office moments ago.”
“What? When I ordered everyone to hold—!”
His digit stabbed toward them in fury.
“You slunk off to file alone? Undermining us for paltry perks? You’ll fracture Guild cohesion—”
Merchants merely derided him.
“You grasp nothing. The queue stretched endlessly; we couldn’t even log our names.”
“What?”
“Prime incentives? Slots snapped up!”
“Survivors from waitlist or fresh evaluation.”
Gelfry’s queasiness swelled anew.
“Snapped up… this fast?”
Revulsion etched on their faces, the merchants flung parting barbs and filed out.
Jamer paused at the threshold, fixing him with a scorching stare.
“Lakeside booths were vital. I pressed you repeatedly: perks assured if we delayed?
Your blunder cost us dearly. Accountability awaits.”
They swept away like thunder, stranding a dazed Gelfry amid the wreckage, as if a tempest had ravaged the room.
Milo and his wife traded wide-eyed stares.
A novel marketplace would soon bloom lakeside. Any aspiring trader could vie for a spot.
The village crier had bellowed the news of late.
“Join the applicants?”
“Business smarts? We have none.”
Reading escaped them utterly…
She fretted aloud, but Milo’s mind raced elsewhere.
Sheep defined their days.
Funneling wool to traders scraped by, no matter their labors.
A shop, sans funds? They proclaimed it feasible…
To Milo, destiny dangled tantalizingly.
Bolstering resolve, the pair ventured forth at dawn to the Market Office.
It teemed with folk akin to them, yet fortune favored: they sailed through opening vetting stages into the ultimate reckoning.
Hearts hammering, they crossed the threshold. Officials ringed the space; prominent among them, a refined gentlewoman.
That face… familiar somehow?
Epiphany dawned—the benevolent soul from their inn tavern banter.
“The Grand Duchess…!”
Off flew his cap; he bent low.
His wife, his anecdote fresh in mind, dipped in haste.
“My! You know who I am?”
The Duchess of Blenheim radiated warmth their way.
Milo gaped mutely until her palms met in a snap.
“Ah! The ‘daily special’ proponent from before—you!”
Heat flooded his wife’s cheeks.
“Pardon, Your Highness. I hadn’t an inkling…”
“Think nothing of it.”
The Duchess brushed aside with buoyant grin.
“Your words brightened that encounter.”
Authentic joy lit her features at the reunion.
Her Highness overseeing probes firsthand?
Their history might tip scales, Milo mused. Yet the grilling commenced, and optimism plummeted.
“…Sheep herding presently?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Prior shop stewardship?”
“Never.”
“Neither literate?”
“Correct.”
“Wool purveying?”
“Y-yes…”
“Lakeside won’t favor fleece, though?”
“Likely not.”
Each response deepened his chagrin.
“Also goat milk, cheese…”
His wife interjected to bolster.
“Wool, milk, cheese.”
The Duchess’s brow knit in reflection.
No hope… Milo despaired silently.
Abruptly, she summoned her attendant.
“Aden?”
Scanning documents, the man grimaced.
“Adjacent cheese vendor slated.”
“Cheese redundancy…” she pondered aloud.
“Wool’s singular. Promising.”
“Even refined, summer wool sales?”
Mulling, she wheeled toward them.
“Sheep craft kits?”
“K…kits?”
“Precisely. Wool wisps, trinkets—let young ones sculpt play-sheep.”
“Oh!”
His wife dipped her chin eagerly.
“Scrap wool yields our doll figurines betimes.”
“Families arrive en masse. Parents tea-sipping, offspring occupied. True, Aden?”
“Quite, Your Highness.” He inscribed it.
“Kits and milk lead. Cheese platters to rivals. Bread parcels for you.”
“Clear.”
“Cecilia, sheep-emblazoned signage. Child-delighting.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Her gaze settled on the befuddled duo.
“Mere proposal. Refine with Administrator Aden. He’s your guide.”
“Er… Your Highness…”
Milo pawed his crown anxiously.
“Did… we advance?”
“Slipped my tongue!”
Nose crinkling impishly.
“Felicitations on lakeside marketplace entry.”
“But… deficits abound…”
Milo forged on, blind to her under-table nudge.
“Diligence trumps all. Allies here mend lacks aplenty.”
“…Our utmost, Your Highness.”
Hat mangled in grip, his gaze gleamed.
“Outpace every soul.”
“Excellent. I rely on you.”
Her smile suffused benevolence.
Though sheltered within, radiance beamed from her like midday sun.
In the Greenhouse
“My lord, are you hearing a word?”
Loic jolted, blinking alert and ramrod straight.
“Y-yes, absolutely.”
“Efforts exceed projections. Overseers falter, torn between desks and Market Office helm. Hence my notion…”
They claimed the heart-table in the glass pavilion.
Twilight yielded to night, neflas blossoms perfuming the breeze—Grand Duchess’s cherished bloom. Loic had stuffed the expanse with them, unnoticed amid her bazaar fixation.
Heaven-sent, at outset.
Her forays to his chambers for oversight? Ideal rationale for constant nearness.
Shrewd and commanding, she charmed the functionaries. His burdens dissolved.
Pushing too fiercely?
Mornings alone glimpsed her lately. Tonight’s greenhouse beckon: half-attired haste… only utter engrossment in blueprints.
Adorably so…
“Curiously, seasoned clerks scarce among hopefuls,” the Duchess mused, furrowing.
Thoughtlessly, Loic extended, thumb tenderly erasing her brow’s furrow.
Blue eyes flared wide at the unbidden caress.