Special thanks goes out to Tinker of Fiction. Honestly, this wannabee writer has been sitting on this idea for years, and it turns out that all he needed to actually follow through with it was finding a system whose homework he was willing to copy.
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Today was a day that redefined mundanity. The chill of winter was doing its best to hold out as long as it could, sinking its claws into spring in spite of how it was supposed to have fled weeks ago. It was a weak and feeble grasp, barely managing to frost the morning grass before being dispelled by the lengthening days, but it was trying.
The shop smelled of the same indescribable amalgamation of scents you had long grown used to, that to you always smelled of 'home'. The smells of the dozens of different powders- the pigments you'd ground, ready to be mixed into different colored inks -layered over the scent of the old wood that somehow always cut through the mix without calling attention to itself. The best you'd ever been able to describe the combination was a faint overtone of iron and something vaguely spicy that fled whenever you tried to pay attention to it, but it failed to grasp the nuance that only you really appreciated. It also had a tendency to coat your tongue in a taste like particularly bland eggs if you breathed too deep or talked too long.
Alexander must have started tasting eggs 20 minutes ago. The boy would not stop chattering on about one thing or another he'd heard around town or from someone passing through. Rumors and gossip every last bit. Another law being passed you could hardly be bothered to care about. Someone in town you haven't spoken to in years is having a baby. Yet another story about somebody or another's epic battle against an absolutely terrifying pack of wolves.
You nodded along absently, making vague noises of acknowledgement or interest at the appropriate times. You don't think Alexander has noticed you've been reading through your ledger for the last fifteen minutes, not even looking at him as you try and calculate how much you'll need to spend on necessities for the next month, how much you can afford to put in the store's savings, and how much you can squirrel away in your actual savings. If there's not enough in the store's savings, Dad might be tempted to try and find your stash again (as if you hadn't learned your lesson to have more than one stash by now).
Your attention is dragged back to the present as you catch your name amongst the endless drone. "Hey ***
[][Name] Andrea
[][Name] Charlotte
[][Name] Eliana
[][Name] Taylor The faint scent of ESCALATION
[][Name] Write in
, I haven't seen your dad in forever! Is he around? I should say hi, for old time's sake!" You blink owlishly at Alexander. That was a hell of a landmine Alexander just stepped on. You knew that Alexander knew it was a landmine. But he'd just willingly stepped on it, tried to play it off as something completely casual, and even did a pretty decent job at acting like he didn't know what he was doing. Honestly, only the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and the slight tightness of his shoulders gave him away.
You were honestly a little impressed. You didn't think he had it in him to be that bold.
You were a better actor than he was though, and slipped on your most pleasant customer service smile like a glove. "Oh, sorry about that Alex. Dad's still feeling a little under the weather. I'll tell him you said hello though!"
You looked into Alexander's eyes. Alexander looked into yours. He blinked first.
"Oh, uh," his eyes dropped, and he rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck, his brief moment of bravado spent, "that's a shame. I- uh- I hope he feels better soon?" He tries not to make it a question, really he does, but he can't help it. You both know how long your father has been 'under the weather'.
Your smile doesn't crack.
"Yes, well, was there anything else you needed Alex?" You don't glance at the inkwell on the counter. You don't need to. Its presence dominates the silence, bearing the weight of the 30 minutes it sat there since being paid for, without Alexander making a single move to take it.
Alexander sputters for a few seconds, but you don't even need to listen to know no words made it out. Alexander wasn't the worst guy you knew. He was relatively harmless, too timid to be cruel, and while he wasn't even the smartest person you'd grown up with, he was a lot smarter than most kids his age. He was even kind of cute, in an awkward way. You could admit to being a little bit flattered by his exceedingly obvious crush on you.
It's just that, well, even if him being 17 and you being 20 wasn't totally unusual by societal standards, you couldn't help but feel like an adult looking at a child. Those three extra years had aged you far more than the number alone would imply. He had a lot of growing up to do before you could see him as a man. Plus, what would your life together even look like? Alexander's perpetual frantic energy would leave him tearing out his hair at the methodical process of calligraphy and illumination. He wouldn't do well at your family business. And if you had to work at his family's business you knew you'd languish at the banality of working as a grocer. If you even got to have a profession at all, and didn't the fact that was in question make you seethe.
Also, the fact that Alexander had just tried to go straight to your father for permission without making you want to be with him first somewhat soured your opinion of him. You could understand being young, impulsive, and impatient, and how having what felt like an easy option in front of you could make you do stupid things. And yet that understanding only goes so far when your entire future is what's being seen as the easy option.
After some more sputtering and deflecting and inane attempts at restarting the conversation, Alexander finally took his ink and left. Once you were sure he was out of sight of the windows the tension left your spine and you slumped onto the counter. You hated that you needed people like Alexander to keep your family fed. Business was slower than ever nowadays, and you were reliant entirely on the good will of your neighbors to stay afloat. Not that you or your father would let your family stoop to the level of taking handouts (at least not while you had any other options, you thought to yourself), but anybody in town who decided to shop at your store was practically doing charity work. The ink your family made was better than what was available to buy from the travelling merchants that passed through, but it was pricier as well, and most people didn't actually need as nice of ink as you made for their everyday tasks.
It hadn't used to be this way. Your family's business had been on the rise. You had never quite been famous, but you had been getting there. You would swear to hell and back that your mother had been the best illuminator on the continent, if not the planet. She'd said you were biased, but you'd known it was true. You were pretty good yourself, but she'd had a way with the quill that made the most complex designs look effortless.
You wished that was the only reason business was flagging, because you could always practice more. It was more than that though. The real fact of the matter was that the business just simply used to have more hands. You would man the front, dad would use his charm and cutthroat acumen to track down new clients, and mom had penned the commissions. Now you were filling all three roles, and split as far as you were you weren't doing so hot at any of them.
You pushed yourself up from the counter in a sudden surge of motion. Enough wallowing. I need something to do. You went to check your stores, for lack of anything better. Backup quills? Check. Baseline cow leather for the covers? Check. Gryphon leather for the orders that wanted extra durability and could spend the extra gold? Check. Salamander skin for the wizards who never seemed to grasp how wielding copious amounts of fire around precious books could end poorly? Check. Plenty of black ink? You weren't completely full, but you had enough for two or three orders. You'll have to stock back up soon, but for now, check. Colored inks for illumination and illustration?
You clicked your tongue. You were almost entirely out of silver-grey ink. Genuine silver ink was too pricey for all but the most grandiose of texts, but your family recipe got close enough, minus the shine, which was enough for most. You'd had a commision a few months back, taking an alchemist's chicken scrawl notes on attempts to find a cure for lycanthropy and turning it into something fit for academic consumption. You'd managed to talk him into paying extra to get all the optional illustrations, but you'd honestly not expected the sheer number of illustration's he'd want once you talked him into it. You'd used up almost all your grey ink on the many many illustrations of all his various silver concoctions he'd asked for. Your hand ached at the memory of it.
How had you forgotten to restock? You scowled in the privacy of the storeroom. No, you remember why you hadn't restocked. After looking at so much silver, over and over, page after page of the minor tweaks he'd made to his formulas. Every tiny adjustment to the recipe attempts was an ask for a new illustration of the fractionally different results. You knew science was supposed to be thorough but still. You'd felt sick with the color and vowed to not even look at your silver pieces when you fished them out of your coin purse for the next few days. The challenge of differentiating the coins by feel had been sort of fun for a while, but it had been simply too impractical to keep up.
If you were going to make more of the pigment, you'd have to get some more Dwarf's Beard. The good news was that the lichen (named for growing in large clumps of long, thin, grey strands) grew in the forest nearby so you'd be able to gather some yourself. A lot of ingredients for your pigments did, the forest was particularly rich in interesting (and useful) flora. It's why the business had chosen to open its doors here, over a hundred years ago.
The bad news was that to save that pocket change you had to go walk to the forest and back, and being 'close' to the forest was a relative term. While you could see it from the rise at the edge of town, you still had to cross almost 40 minutes of rolling hills to reach it. After all, forests that have interesting flora tend to attract interesting fauna as well, and finding the right distance to balance the dual needs for 'ease of access' and 'not being constantly beset by wild monsters' was less an art and more a process of trial and error. And the town herbalist would probably have some Dwarf's Beard in stock…
[][Ingredients] Go to the forest
[][Ingredients] Go to the herbalist (It's not even a question. Your feet will recover faster than your funds will)
You hesitated for a moment before you set about closing up shop. Dad is here, but letting him man the counter is... unwise, so you might as well close up for today. Willam was responsible for his age and could have watched the shop if he was around, but he'd still be in the city right now. Nowadays it was safer for Will to go alone to the city than it was for you.
The ledger gets closed and fastened, then stored safely. The storeroom gets locked and you pocket the key. Various odds and ends that you set out each morning to make the store look 'busy' get moved aside before they can get knocked over by incautious movement. You find your large knife for defense/gathering purposes and attach it just behind your hip where it's in easy reach. Finally, you throw a shawl over your shoulders and grab your basket to hold your spoils. Maybe if you're lucky you'll even find some mushrooms while you're at it.
"Dad! I'm heading out to find some Dwarf's Beard! I should be back in time to make dinner!" You wait in the doorway long enough to give your father a chance to reply, and just barely catch the unenthusiastic grunt you earn in return. You can't help the sigh that escapes before you pull the front door closed firmly (it doesn't quite fit its frame, and honestly, it sticks hard enough that it's a better deterrent than its shoddy lock) and hop down the front steps, basket in hand.
