The scent of fresh plaster and sawdust still hung in the orphanage halls, a comforting reminder of progress. Last night's frustrations with Yan Meigui and her 'gifts' of textbooks and letter-writing manuals felt distant in the morning light, softened by the sound echoing through the corridors: laughter. Real, unburdened laughter. Kids chased each other in a game of tag, their footsteps thudding on the solid, repaired floorboards. Through the new, uncracked windows, others shrieked with delight in the garden, kicking a makeshift ball. The sight, the sound of it… it banked the embers of irritation. Maybe the goddess enjoyed jerking me around, but this? This was worth it.
I found them clustered in the dining room, now boasting sturdy tables and benches instead of the rickety horrors they once were. Jake, already looking fiercely protective, Mira with her quiet watchfulness, Garret radiating earnest helpfulness, and… Vale.
"Well, this is a surprise," I drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "Did the Marquess get cold feet about investing in our humble enterprise? Sent you to repossess the new window panes already?"
Vale turned, his expression as unreadable as granite. "No, Eamond. On the contrary. The Marquess sent me to ensure the safety of you and the orphans during this… transitional period." His gaze flickered towards Jake, who was scowling fiercely.
"Ahh," I sighed dramatically. "So he sent one more mouth to feed. Marvelous. My Wallet is weeping."
"Don't worry!" Garret piped up before I could fully savor the complaint. "He doesn't have to pay! There's plenty! And he can sleep in my room! I have the extra bed now!" He beamed, clearly proud of his newly acquired space and his offer of hospitality.
"Hmph... I can keep Eamond safe myself..." Jake muttered, crossing his thin arms, looking pointedly away from Vale.
"Okay, enough dilly-dallying," I declared, pushing off the doorframe—time to unveil Phase Two. "Let's go. The new store awaits its grand inspection." I gestured grandly towards the front door.
We trooped out into the crisp morning air, the sounds of the orphanage fading behind us. Just as we reached the gate, Lysandra materialized, her arms crossed, a familiar look of wary assessment on her face.
"Where are you off to?" she asked, her gaze sweeping over Vale with raised eyebrows before settling on me.
"Good! Perfect timing," I said, flashing her a grin. "We're off to inspect the new store. Your mission, should you choose to accept it," I continued, adopting a mock-serious tone, "is to man the jam stand at the market today. Keep the legacy alive!"
Lysandra blinked. "Jam? We're still doing that?" Her puzzlement was genuine. "Eamond, we have a whole store now. And an orphanage to run. And... him." She nodded slightly towards Vale.
"Of course we are!" I insisted, throwing an arm around her shoulders (which she promptly shrugged off, but not before a tiny smile touched her lips). "But think bigger! Think better! Fresher ingredients! Premium positioning! It's not just jam, Lysandra, it's the name… and profit." I winked. "The store is the future, but the jam stand is… tradition. And cash flow."
She looked at me, that familiar mix of exasperation, confusion, and reluctant trust warring on her face. Finally, she let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking her head. "Alright, alright. Fine. I'll trust your… decisions. Again." She fixed me with a stern look. "But you be safe out there. All of you. And try not to buy anything too ridiculous for this new store." Her gaze flickered meaningfully towards the still-mysterious Vale.
"Safety first! And sensible purchases! Scout's honor!" I saluted mockingly. Lysandra just rolled her eyes and turned back towards the kitchen, muttering about berries and sugar.
"Right," I announced, turning to my mismatched entourage – bodyguard, orphans, and all. "Onwards! To commerce!"
The walk to the storefront wasn't far. It was located on a decently trafficked side street near the market square, far enough from the worst slums but not yet in the truly affluent districts – perfect for our 'semi-middle' aspirations. I stopped before a freshly painted door, forest green and gleaming. Above it, a simple, elegant sign I'd magically 'encouraged' a signwriter to produce overnight: "Eamond's Emporium". Subtle? No. Accurate? Absolutely.
I produced a heavy, new key and unlocked the door, pushing it open with a flourish.
"Ta-da!"
The scent that hit us wasn't orphanage sawdust, but the clean, crisp aroma of fresh pine, beeswax, and new paint. Sunlight streamed through two large, sparkling clean front windows, illuminating the space perfectly.
The interior was cozy and homey. The floors were smooth, wide-plank oak, sanded and sealed to a warm honey glow. The walls were painted a soft, inviting cream, making the space feel bright and airy. Along the left wall ran sturdy, deep shelves crafted from the same honeyed oak, empty now but waiting for treasures. On the right, a long, polished counter dominated, its surface gleaming like dark water. Behind it were more shelves, perfect for displaying smaller, more valuable items or, perhaps, beautifully bound books. A discreet door behind the counter likely led to a storeroom or small office.
At the very back, separated by a charming half-wall with a latched gate, was a dedicated space. Shelving units lined the walls here too, but interspersed with counter space and a large, deep sink fed by a hand pump – a proper little kitchenette. This was the heart of the future 'Saintly Orphanage Reserve' jam operation, ready for its upgrade with those fresher ingredients.
Garret gasped, his eyes wide. "It's… huge! And so clean!"
Mira wandered silently, running a hand along the smooth countertop, a rare smile touching her lips.
Jake immediately started inspecting the door hinges and window latches, his protective instincts kicking in. "Sturdy," he pronounced gruffly.
Vale simply stood near the entrance, his sharp eyes scanning the room, assessing sightlines and potential threats with professional detachment. His presence felt less like a guard and more like a particularly vigilant store fixture.
I stepped inside, the solid floor firm beneath my boots. This wasn't just a store; it was a stage. A physical manifestation of the climb from the gutter. A place to sell jam, yes, but also stories, knowledge, and perhaps a carefully curated illusion of respectability. The empty shelves were potential. The clean counters were possible. The little kitchen in the back was a continuity.
"Welcome," I said, spreading my arms, the faintest shimmer of gold dancing unseen around my fingertips, "to the foundation of the next empire. What do you think? Needs a few strategically placed rugs? Maybe a potted plant Yan Meigui would hate?" I grinned, the frustrations of the night before momentarily forgotten in the tangible reality of this.
The polished oak shelves gleamed like liquid amber under the morning sun, their stark emptiness almost echoing in the pristine space. Garret, his initial awe shifting to practical concern, pointed a stubby finger at the deepest, most imposing shelf unit facing the entrance. "It's so... bare, Eamond," he observed, his brow furrowed like a plowed field. "What are we gonna put here? More jam jars?" He glanced towards the little kitchenette at the back, as if picturing shelves overflowing with sticky preserves.
Jake, finished prodding the sturdy door hinges with a critical finger, snorted. "Doubt it. He probably wants to fill it with shiny rocks he finds in the gutter. Or maybe that weird, squishy fruit that fell on his head last week." He crossed his thin arms, radiating teenage skepticism.
Mira, her fingers tracing the cool, flawless edge of the countertop, lifted her head silently. Her eyes fixed on Eamond, a silent question hanging in the air, patient and unnervingly perceptive. Even Vale, the stoic sentinel near the door, shifted his weight almost imperceptibly. His impassive gaze, previously sweeping the room for tactical vulnerabilities, now settled squarely on Eamond. One eyebrow didn't quite arch, but the intensity of his focus sharpened – a silent, professional demand for clarification.
Eamond's grin widened, sharp and full of mischievous delight, a spark of pure, unadulterated showmanship igniting in his eyes. He pushed off the doorframe where he'd been leaning and sauntered towards the imposing, empty shelf, his boots clicking softly on the honeyed oak. "Jake, Jake..." he sighed, the name drawn out with theatrical pity. He stopped before the shelf, running his hand along its smooth, deep surface as if caressing a priceless artifact. "Such a tragically limited imagination." He paused, letting the clean, crisp scents of pine resin and warm beeswax fill the expectant silence, his gaze sweeping dramatically over each face: Garret's open confusion, Jake's deepening scowl, Mira's silent intensity, Vale's unnerving focus. He could practically taste their bewilderment, and it was delicious.
He tapped the shelf firmly, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "This, my dear, perpetually pessimistic Jake," he declared, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial register, rich with promised revelation, "isn't for preserves. This isn't for gutter-gleaned treasures or questionable fruit." He leaned back against the solid wood, crossing his arms in a mirror of Jake's stance, but where Jake's was defensive, Eamond's radiated supreme confidence. "This," he paused again, milking the moment, letting the tension build until Garret fidgeted and Jake looked ready to explode, "...is prime real estate. The centerpiece. The beating heart of Eamond's Emporium!"
He pushed off the shelf, taking a single, deliberate step towards his small, captive audience. His grin hadn't faded; it had transformed, becoming sharper, more challenging, edged with the thrill of unveiling something audacious. "So?" Jake finally burst out, unable to contain his impatience any longer. "What junk are we peddling from this fancy hole? Spit it out!"
Eamond threw his head back and laughed, a sound that bounced off the clean walls. "Junk? Oh, Jake, your vocabulary wounds me! We're not selling junk." He let the word hang, letting its mundanity contrast with the gleaming potential of the space. He took another step, lowering his voice to a near-whisper, forcing them to lean in unconsciously, even Vale shifting his stance minutely. He looked each of them directly in the eye, one after the other, his own eyes alight with a fervor that was part madness, part genius. "We're selling..." Another deliberate pause, stretching the silence until the air itself seemed to hum. He spread his hands wide, encompassing the empty shelf, the clean store, the very idea of it. "...culture."