The sun hung heavy in the sky, mocking me with its brightness. High noon, the streets were alive with chatter and footsteps, yet not a single soul had crossed the threshold of my shop. Booming business, I thought, lips twisting into a grimace. Absolutely thriving.
A dry chuckle escaped me. All that preparation—the polished shelves, the meticulously arranged goods, the sign painted with painstaking care—and for what? To stand here like a fool, watching the world pass by without so much as a glance in my direction.
"Patience," I had told myself this morning. "It takes time to build a reputation." What a load of horseshit. Time was one thing, but dignity was another, and mine was rapidly dwindling with every minute that ticked by.
A shadow fell across the doorway, and for a fleeting moment, hope flickered—only to die just as quickly when it was just some street urchin darting past.
"Ah yes, the grand opening," I muttered under my breath. "A spectacle for the ages."
I clenched my jaw. This was temporary. A setback. I hadn't poured every last karmapoint into this venture just to be laughed at by some wrinkled peddler who hawked second-rate vegetables.
Still, the emptiness of the shop gnawed at me. Maybe I'd been too ambitious. Maybe the location was wrong. Maybe—
No.
I shook my head sharply. Doubt was a luxury I couldn't afford. This would work. It had to.
Another minute passed. Then another.
Finally, with a sigh, I turned back inside, adjusting a perfectly straight jar on the shelf just for something to do.
Fine. If the customers wouldn't come to me, I'd just have to find a way to drag them in myself.
The silence in the shop was a living thing, thick and suffocating. Every tick of the clock on the wall was a mockery. I clenched my jaw, fingers tapping against the counter—once, twice—before forcing them still. Patience. A merchant's greatest virtue. A lie I kept telling myself.
Across the room, Mira, Garret, and Jake huddled near the spice barrels, whispering like conspirators. I caught fragments—"stand outside," "call out prices," "draw them in." Amateurs. As if shouting like fishmongers would suddenly make this shop the envy of the district.
I was about to snap at them to stop fussing when the door swung open.
Light spilled in, framing the figure of a noblewoman, her gown too fine for this part of the city, her posture too straight, too aware of her own importance. Behind her, two children—a boy, wary-eyed, and a girl already bouncing on her toes, curiosity winning over decorum.
Her gaze swept the shop, lingering on the shelves against the far wall. Assessing. Judging. Her lips tightened, a flicker of dissatisfaction I knew well—the look of someone accustomed to better.
Before I could speak, Vale materialized from the storeroom, wiping his hands on a cloth. He froze mid-step, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. A heartbeat later, he was at my elbow, his whisper sharp as a blade against my ear: "That's Lady Thorne. The Marquess's wife."
Thorne. The name slammed into me. The Marquess whose brats I'd fished out of that rotting cell. The ones tangled in riverweed, screaming for their useless nursemaid.
Lady Thorne stepped forward, her composure cracking like thin ice. The haughty mask dissolved, replaced by something raw—gratitude, edged with fury.
"Master Eamond," she said, my name soft on her tongue but weighted. "I've come to thank you."
I kept my merchant's smile fixed, wary. "My lady honors us with her presence. Might there be some… misunderstanding?"
Her laugh was brittle. "Misunderstanding? That my children were snatched off the street like beggars' pups? That they nearly sold while my husband's guards napped at their posts?" Her voice hitched, knuckles white where she gripped her son's shoulder. The boy flinched. "I only learned of it yesterday. I was visiting my parents in the North when it happened. My head maid—bless her terrified heart—finally confessed when I returned. She couldn't bear the lie any longer."
She took a shuddering breath, her gaze pinning me. "And he—the Marquess—hid it from me. Claimed it was 'handled,' that I needn't be distressed. As if my children's lives were a ledger entry to be balanced!" The fury in her eyes was volcanic. "He told me a 'passerby' intervened. A nameless soul. It took me half a day and three terrified servants to drag your name from his lips."
The little girl, oblivious, twirled a sapphire ribbon Mira had given her. The boy stared at his boots, jaw tight.
Lady Thorne stepped closer, the scent of jasmine and iron resolve cutting through the shop's dust. "You pulled them from that filthy place. You gave them back to this world. To me." Her voice dropped, thick with emotion. "My husband may think gratitude beneath him. I do not."
She gestured sharply, and a liveried servant I hadn't noticed stepped inside, placing a small, velvet-lined box on the counter. It clicked open, revealing a heavy signet ring—onyx set in silver, engraved with a crest I didn't recognize.
"This is not payment," she said, her eyes locking onto mine. "Payment implies a debt settled. This is a promise. Show this ring to any merchant in the city bearing the Thorne hawk insignia. Your goods will move to the front of their queues. Your credit will be honored without question." She paused, the ghost of her earlier fury returning. "Consider it… a mother's defiance against a world that thinks her children's saviors should remain anonymous."
Silence stretched. The clock's ticking roared in my ears. Garret had stopped pretending to dust books. Jake gaped. Mira's hand hovered near the book display, frozen.
I looked from the ring—cold, gleaming power—to the woman whose aristocratic poise barely contained a tempest of maternal rage and relief. Then to her children: one playing with stolen sunshine, the other bearing the weight of a trauma his father tried to bury.
A slow, genuine smile spread across my face—the first real one all day.
Well, Eamond, I thought, picking up the ring. It felt cold, substantial. Looks like the Marquess's secrets just became your grand opening.
"Lady Thorne," I said, the words tasting sweet. "How about you help in another way?"
Lady Thorne's gaze snapped to mine, sharp as a dagger. "Oh? And what may that be?"
Perfect. The hook was set. I gestured toward the shelves lining the back wall, where Vale had meticulously arranged the books—unfamiliar titles bound in rich leather, their spines gleaming under the lamplight. "I believe you have influence in both noble parlors and merchant guildhalls, my lady. A word from you about our... unique inventory could open doors even your husband's signet ring cannot."
" I believe you have some friends in both the noble circle and the merchant circle. May you help advertise some of our goods to them? I believe you have influence in both noble parlors and merchant guildhalls, my lady. A word from you about our... unique inventory could open doors even your husband's signet ring cannot."
She arched a brow, intrigued despite herself, and drifted toward the display. Her fingers hovered over the embossed title: Sherlock Holmes: A Study in Scarlet. She lifted it, turning the volume in her hands like a relic from another world. "Extraordinary," she murmured. "These bindings are exquisite. But Sherlock Holmes?" She met my eyes, curiosity cutting through her polished composure. "I pride myself on knowing every significant work from here to the Imperial Archives. Yet this author, this title—it's utterly foreign to me. Pray tell, Master Eamond, how does a humble shop in the Lanes acquire such rarities?"
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. The scent of her jasmine perfume clashed with the shop's dust and dried ink. "Let's call it... specialized sourcing, my lady. A discreet network of collectors who unearth manuscripts lost to time or distance. This particular series," I tapped the book's cover, "comes from a land beyond the Sunset Sea. A place where logic reigns like a god, and a detective solves crimes by reading the very air itself."
Her son edged closer, drawn by the promise of mystery. "Detective?" he whispered.
"Indeed, young Alfon," I said, seizing the spark of interest. "A genius from a world without magic who sees what others overlook. A single drop of ink, a misplaced glove—clues woven into a tapestry of truth." I leaned in conspiratorially toward Lady Thorne.
Lady Thorne's eyes lingered on Sherlock Holmes, her thumb tracing the gilded letters. "A land without magic... where truth is uncovered not by spells, but by observation?" She sounded intrigued, almost disbelieving. "It's radical. Audacious."
"It is, my lady," I agreed, leaning in slightly. "Imagine the tension – a killer's footprint in the mud, a coded letter, a single inconsistent alibi... Holmes sees the human puzzle, not the mystical one. It's a different kind of power. One born entirely of the mind."
A spark ignited in her gaze. She set Sherlock Holmes down with deliberate care. "And these others?" Her hand swept over the nearby shelves. "Are they equally... singular?"
"Each a world unto itself, my lady," I said, stepping alongside her, sensing the critical moment.
" Shall I tell you all about each of the books' unique story?"
" You already got me this intrigued by the first one, so of course I want more about the rest."
" Very well, Garret, Mira, Jake. Bring every book with a different cover here. It seems we will have a very expensive purchase." I said with a fox-like smile on my face.