Good Friday.
Today I wake fresh, even though Ashlynn isn't by my side. The cold bed feels lonely.
One thought anchors my morning:
Men of wealth want to feel unique. Give them rarity, not praise.
I take a quick bath, enough to start the day clean.
I start with a white shirt and blue trousers. Over it, a purple frock coat—the kind that speaks of wealth and commands respect. An ornate belt cinches my waist. A matching purple fedora finishes the look.
I sling the cylindrical bag over my shoulder, already packed with my registry and essential documents.
I descend to the lobby, nodding at the occasional guest, then step out into the morning light, ready to move on.
A carriage takes me to the Western Outskirt, traversing the city and its bleak buildings. The industrial smog of the Northern Outskirt fades behind us, replaced by the sea salt air of the West, where the streets are clearer.
The carriage slows and stops. I step out in front of Market Port and walk through the crowds of merchants, sailors, and laborers. Soon, I arrive at Rehanza Lockhart's office.
Knock. Knock.
"Come in, it's not locked," a voice calls from inside.
I open the door and step in, turning left.
Rehanza rises from his desk and approaches.
"Good Friday, Monsieur Thadeo," he says, smiling as he reaches for my hand.
We shake. His grip is firm, the motion smooth.
"Good Friday, Rehanza."
He gestures toward the table at the center, inviting me to take a chair. I settle in and place my bag neatly on the table.
"Tea?"
"Yes, please."
While he steps away, I reach for my bag and pull out my documents, arranging them neatly on the table.
Moments later, he returns with a tray. On it are two cups and a teapot, blue with golden birds painted across the surface—a set of art in itself.
He sets the tray on the table in front of him and takes the seat opposite me.
"These documents are for my new house. I want you to register it under my name."
He slides the papers toward himself, picks them up, and begins reading. His eyes move smoothly across the pages, turning them with practiced ease.
After finishing, he sets them down.
"Monsieur, your documents are almost complete."
"Almost?"
"You still need to provide a verifiable source for this purchase." He taps the stack once.
"Can't you alter last month's revenue to match it?"
He inhales, then exhales slowly. "If you're thinking about altering the financial statement of Lockhart Fishing Enterprise…" A pause. "You can't."
"Why?"
"Because I have already finalized last month's income per your instruction." He straightens slightly. "But don't worry, Monsieur. I have an idea."
His smile turns into a smirk.
"I found a transportation company that is struggling."
"Oh? You already found one?"
He nods.
"How much share are they willing to sell?"
His hand rises, three fingers extended. "Thirty percent. But…" He leans closer. I do the same. "We can push it to fifty."
He leans back, his smirk widening.
My lips curve in response.
We both chuckle.
He pours the tea into our cups and places them before us. I pick up mine; he picks up his. We hold the porcelain close to our lips.
"Cheers," we say in unison.
I wait for him to drink first. Once he gulps twice, I take a sip. The tea is bitter, layered with a floral aroma and a faint fruity scent.
"Mmm… this is good."
"They came from the continent," he says. "After all, the Inglessians prefer their tea fruity."
From the continent…
"They must be exotic," I add.
"Indeed they are, Monsieur. I can give you some as a gift."
"Oh? Thank you. Can you wrap them in something… decorated wood, perhaps?"
"You want to send tea as a gift?"
"Yes. To someone important."
"Tomorrow, I will prepare the most exotic box and my personal favorite blends from the continent. Whoever receives them will respect you." He taps his chest proudly.
We continue our small talk as we finish the tea. When the cups are empty, we rise and leave his office together.
He leads me through the market and toward the warehouse district. Massive ships line the piers beside long rows of storage buildings.
Near one of the warehouses lies an open yard. At its center stands a single building—tall despite being only one floor, its doors wide enough to swallow a carriage whole.
Carriages without horses line the yard. Many are worn and untended. Some have broken steps. Others have wheels that creak when shifted. The horses nearby, however, look well fed.
We step inside. The space is wide, filled with craftsmen of various trades—carpenters and smiths alike. Some repair carriage frames; others polish lacquered bodies until they gleam.
A man spots Rehanza and immediately hurries toward him.
"Charlo," Rehanza calls.
"Rehanza," the man replies as he approaches.
Rehanza gestures toward me. "This is Monsieur Thadeo, the investor I told you about."
He turns to me and bows once. "I am Charlo."
His body and clothes are stained with black, dried oil. Sweat glistens through his blonde hair and along his temples. His blue eyes stand out beneath the grime. His smile is bright despite the darkness covering him.
"I am Thadeo Owright," I say, extending my hand.
He glances at my clean glove and leans back slightly. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I'm too dirty to touch someone like you." He lifts his stained hands to show me.
I reach forward anyway and take his hand.
He is startled, caught off guard by my grip. He bows again and again while we shake.
When I release him, I lift my hand and inspect it. It smells faintly of oil.
Rehanza claps once. We both turn to him.
"Back to business. Monsieur Thadeo wants to invest in your company, Charlo."
"Really?" Charlo asks.
"Only if…" Rehanza adds.
"If?"
"If Monsieur Thadeo receives half."
"Half?" Charlo stiffens. "Are you mad—"
"You can always find a different investor," I cut in calmly.
I do not blink. My eyes lock onto his and remain there—steady, unyielding.
Silence stretches between us. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just pressure.
His jaw tightens first. Then his fingers curl slightly at his sides. He looks away before I do.
And that is answer enough.
"Excuse me." He steps away, putting distance between us.
He paces among the craftsmen, hand on his chin. Occasionally he scratches his head. His lips move, but the noise of hammering and sawing drowns out his muttering.
After a while, he returns.
"Half of the company," Charlo says. "But…"
"But?" I ask.
"You only take a quarter of the income for the first year."
I pause. My eyes drift across the workshop—the worn carriages, the strained frames, the men working with quiet urgency. Then back to Charlo. The oil on his skin. The stiffness in his posture. The tension in his jaw as he waits.
"Deal."
His shoulders drop in relief. "Thank you. Thank you so much, Monsieur."
"I have a condition."
"Anything, Monsieur."
"You will record the income for the last two months as two thousand phens. And the Owright Firm will be listed as owner for the past three months."
"But we don't have the money for that," he says.
"Don't worry," Rehanza assures smoothly. "We can arrange it."
"One more thing," I add. "Prepare an elegant carriage. I want it ready by Sunday."
"I can do that, Monsieur. Thank you. Truly."
We discuss further details before agreeing to meet again tomorrow.
When everything is settled, I return to my hotel room and sleep.
Good Saturday.
I wake early, wash, and dress as neatly as yesterday. The only difference is my frock coat—today, it is red.
I sling my cylindrical bag over my shoulder, already filled with registry papers and other documents. In my other hand, I carry a second bag.
When I step out of the hotel, I begin picking up rocks along the street, filling both bags as I walk. They grow heavy as the sun rises.
I load them into a carriage.
The carriage moves west.
After a while, it stops in front of the market.
I move to the open yard by the warehouse district. The workshop and office of the transportation company. It's still quiet here. There are no people working.
Rehanza is already waiting outside the workshop, carrying a bag.
He approaches and extends his hand.
I take it. "Good Saturday."
"Good Saturday," he replies.
We exchange brief morning pleasantries.
Then—
The workshop door opens. Charlo steps out, dressed in clean, neat clothes.
"Come in," he calls.
We follow him to his personal office. Inside, the smell of oil is gone, replaced by wax and a faint trace of perfume.
"It smells nice," I comment.
"Of course. You're coming," he says with a chuckle.
I place my bags on the wooden table. I open them and flip them over.
Rocks spill out, spreading across the surface.
Charlo's eyes widen. His gaze shifts between the piles of rocks and me.
"That's a lot of phens, Monsieur."
Rocks scatter across the table.
Charlo stares.
"…Monsieur?"
"They cover my investment and the revenue for the past two months," I say, gesturing toward the pile.
He swallows and nods.
The two of them begin counting. Each rock is moved one by one. They clink softly as they're placed onto another table.
Time passes.
Eventually, every rock has been sorted and moved.
"Five thousand phens," Rehanza announces.
Charlo stands and retrieves papers from his desk. I pull my own documents from my bag, while Rehanza produces his as well.
We lay them out before us.
Rehanza reads aloud as he works through the documents—the clauses, the ownership division, the revenue arrangement for the first year.
When he finishes, the three of us sign. Each keeps a copy. Rehanza gathers the remaining papers, including those needed to finalize my ownership of the Eldenmere house.
Now, the Owright Firm owns half of Bellingham Transport Enterprise.
Then Rehanza reaches into his bag and pulls out two boxes.
Polished wood. Ornate carvings of birds and flowers etched along their lids. Painted in deep, muted tones. Refined. Deliberate.
"A gift for you two," he says.
We accept them. I place mine carefully into my bag. Charlo opens his at once.
"They're tea!" he exclaims.
Rehanza smiles and nods.
"Then let us drink it properly," Charlo says.
So we do.
A small tea gathering in the quiet of morning. Cups poured. Steam rising. The scent of leaves unfolding in hot water.
We drink to the agreement.
"To partnership."
"To prosperity."
"To growth."
And to numbers that can always be rewritten.