RATCHETMARE - Chapter 10: Delicate Matter (Patreon)

Author’s note: Hi guys.

Here today with another chapter of Ratchetmare. :)

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Enjoy the chapter!

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…and please read to the end! ;)

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Chapter 10: Delicate Matter - Link: https://www.patreon.com/posts/100042417

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Chapter 10: Delicate Matter

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Each bite of my morning snack melted on my tongue, treating me to flavors I thought unimaginable. Was this what real bread tasted like? Was the flavor of all fresh tomatoes this strong? And what happened to the sooty aftertaste of sausages I knew? In an effort to savor the food, I nonetheless felt like a hungry street dog pouncing on it. Before I knew it, I was staring at an empty plate on the kitchen counter, daring myself to go back to the pantry for more.

Just one more bite, one more tomato.

Surely Faulkner wouldn’t know I took more than he had. In fact, he never mentioned anything about a food limit or any kind of rationing system. So . . .

NO!

The temptation didn’t get the better of me. Instead of the pantry, I ran to hide in my room. Even if Faulkner hadn’t forbidden it, with his meticulousness, he would have known that there was one less tomato missing from the shelves.

*YAWN*

Like a cat, I stretched out on the bed, my stomach full, happier than I’d been in a long time. Despite a few misgivings, like the fear of being mugged or my bizarre encounter with the Caps, the morning was quite fun.

*DING! DING!*

“Shit!”

My blood ran cold. I must have dozed off, for the nine o’clock chime on the bell tower came into the room through the open window all too soon. Nevertheless, without waiting for the bells to finish their daily chorus, I shot out of the room and raced down from the attic to the ground floor.

Faulkner was already behind the counter when I arrived.

“Marvelous, right on time. Turn the sign on the door, Miss Ratchtmar; it’s time to do business,” he said with as much flair as if there were already a line of eager customers at the door. But none showed up, even when I turned the sign from CLOSED to OPEN.

“Now, come here,” the alchemist said, pulling out a large book from under the counter. “If you don’t want me to accuse you of misplacing any of my products, you must keep your accounts in order. What’s in the book has to match what’s on the shelves. Do you understand?”

“I do, sir.”

“Marvelous, I did the stock count myself yesterday. But you wouldn’t be wrong to do one yourself. In fact, I recommend that you do it every morning. That way I will have a perfect picture of my stock and can adjust my schedule accordingly.”

One look at the racks and shelves and my heart sank; there were dozens, if not hundreds, of different bottles, vials, boxes and bags.

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***

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The next hour was an ordeal. No customer came to distract me from the lesson in proper bookkeeping that Faulkner was determined to drill into my head. Lines upon lines of numbers made such a mess in my skull that I even began to feel sympathy for the Collector in the mines.

By contrast, dealing with the first customer, a normal-looking woman looking for a skin-nourishing ointment, was a breeze. All it took was to be nice, to hide the refined language of the lower town behind a smile, and to know what kind of Faulkner product to offer her and where to find it promptly.

“That wasn’t bad,” Faulkner judged my performance, looking over my shoulder as I wrote minus one in the book for [Skin Nourishing Salve] “I suppose you can see now the practicality of keeping track of the store’s inventory, Miss Ratchetmare.”

I wished so much that I could tell him that I didn’t, that it wasn’t necessary. But as much as I hated the book, I had to admit that remembering everything in the shop was simply not in my capacity.

“I do, Mr. Faulkner.”

“Excellent. I assume the same will be true for information about the products themselves?”

“I will do my best to read and memorize the catalog.”

The alchemist nodded, satisfied, but then frowned. “I sincerely hope these are not just empty words. I would hate to have to explain myself twice.”

“You won’t have to, though . . . ”

“Yes?” He asked when I hesitated.

“I don’t know how long it will take me to memorize all of that.”

“Ah, don’t be alarmed, Miss Ratchetmare,” Faulkner chuckled. “I don’t expect you to recite me line for line from the product descriptions by tomorrow. I understand that not everyone’s strength lies in their mind - Lawrence, for example, took a whole month before he was able to offer the right product to the customer without consulting the catalog.”

“I see,” I breathed out in relief. Even though a month wasn’t that long for how thick the catalog was, it was still more than one night.

“But be aware that I will test you on your knowledge of my products - AND until I deem your knowledge sound, I expect you to consult the catalog or, in the utmost of cases, me. You see, I hate to deal with cases like the Butt Sore salve being sold to someone who wanted oil for livelier hair.”

Stifling a laugh, I nodded as earnestly as I could. But what he said stuck in my head. “Sir, would that be . . . dangerous? The salve applied to one’s hair?”

A smile spread across the Alchemist’s face. “Fair question, Miss Ratchetmare. Not in the example I gave. I strive to keep the side effects of my creations to a minimum.”

Side effects!

A shiver ran down my spine at the mention of those, the baker’s words ringing in my skull. Faulkner had his assistants test his products. Fortunately, the Alchemist didn’t notice the flinch and continued: “So most products for external use won’t harm you if used externally, but - the same cannot be said if you ingest them. As for the ones for internal use - it’s just a waste of potions. On the other hand, using the pills on your skin would require substantial creativity. In any case, the correct use and the consequences of improper application are described in the catalog.”

Ah, the catalog - I was really starting to hate that thing, and I had only skimmed through it so far.

Anyway, my questionable hatred for the thick book aside, the morning went on and I served half a dozen customers under Fulkner’s guidance. To my surprise, most of them were looking for appearance-enhancing products. That was in stark contrast to what the people in the lower town were looking for from the alchemists. But I guess healing potions and nutrition pills weren’t in demand when you didn’t have to toil all day for a piece of bread.

Speaking of food, although not cooked, lunch was something I thoroughly enjoyed. The fresh bread, smoked meat, cheese, and vegetables simply toyed with my taste buds, dulled by the years.

The afternoon, on the other hand, played with my nerves.

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***

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“Excuse me,” a man cleared his throat, scaring the crap out of me. Seriously, I almost fell off the steps. The scare, however, seemed to go both ways.

“A-are you all right, miss? I didn’t mean to . . . ” The tall, handsome man in tailcoat and hat rushed to my aid. He wasn’t the first to do so. But after checking my pockets, he turned out to be the first to show genuine concern for me.

“I’m all right, sir. Thank you,” I said, cursing myself for the blush that crept across my cheeks. “How can I help you?”

The man straightened and cleared his throat again. “Um . . . I was wondering if Mr. Faulkner’s atelier was open, given the ongoing maintenance?”

“Maintenance? Oh, you mean the window cleaning - don’t worry, sir. We are open.”

“We? Alchemist Faulkner no longer works alone?”

“Not this again,” I stifled a sigh. “Sorry, sir. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m his new assistant, Nika Ratchetmare.” Whether I liked it or not, Faulkner claimed that knowing who his customers were dealing with made them feel safer - and it was also supposedly a good way to build future ties.

“A woman?”

“Yes.” Was that a problem?

“Oh, sorry. It’s just . . . ” he said, hesitating.

Shit!

Those eyes - was he thinking of leaving because he was used to dealing with Lawrence?

“Is there something in the shop you came for?” I blurted out at the thought of having to explain to Faulkner how I scared off a customer. Tossing the rag into the bucket of water, I wiped my hands on my skirt and squeezed past him to open the door. “C-come in. It’s my first day here, but I’ll do my best to help you.”

“ . . . an sh . . . ..he do . . . .an.”

“I’m sorry. What did you say, sir?” I asked, drenched in a cold sweat. My first customer, and I misheard him!

“A woman,” the man said, his voice raised and a little erratic, “should not open the door for a man, Miss Ratchetmare.”

What? Who said that? Ah, fucking etiquette. “My apologies, sir,” I said, lowering my head. “I grew up . . . without proper upbringing.”

“Not your fault,” he said, adjusting his collar before entering the shop. Barely accustomed to the light inside, his eyes widened. “Ah, like when Lawrence used to work here. Shame he’s not around anymore; he always knew exactly what I was looking for.”

“And what would that be?” I asked, clenching my fists. That he’d rather talk to anyone but me couldn’t be clearer.

The man cleared his throat - again. “It is a rather . . . delicate matter. I’d prefer to speak to Alchemist Faulkner.”

Shit! “Certainly. Could you at least tell me your name, so I know what to say to Mr. Faulkner?”

“It’s Barnett.”

“Well then, just a moment, Mr. Barnett,” I said, already missing the bluntness of the lower city. If I acted as uptight as the man in those parts of Greymare, my ears would be ringing with the grumbling of the clerk: “What the fuck do you want? Spit it out or get out.” But instead of venting my inner angst, I went upstairs to get the Alchemist.

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***

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“You’re here sooner than I had hoped,” Faulkner said, not hiding his displeasure as I explained the situation.

“Believe me, sir, I wouldn’t be here if . . . ”

“I know - if Mr. Benett hadn’t asked for me,” the alchemist sighed, getting up from his desk. “He would do better to bolster his courage with a sip of brandy - although that might have a detrimental effect on his problem.”

“Then perhaps something like a courage potion?” I asked, doing my best to put myself in the shoes I would be walking in for the next five years.

“That’s actually an exciting idea worth a thought, Miss Ratchetmare. But let’s not keep the young man waiting too long. People in uncomfortable situations are - let’s say - volatile.

He could leave the shop - with the potion in his pocket.”

“Shit!” a soft curse escaped my lips before I darted back into the shop. “How could I have been so stupid?” In lower Greymare, merchants never took their eyes off their customers, and yet, at the end of the day, they had to deduct the losses from the stolen goods from their earnings.

As I strode back into the shop, doing my best to hide my racing breath, Benett was standing right where I’d left him, his hands behind his back, seemingly waiting patiently, but - I couldn’t help but eye his pockets. No visible bulge in the fabric, not a hint of guilt in his eyes. Then again, he could have just been a good thief.

“So?” He asked after clearing his throat, acting all innocent.

“Mr. Faulkner will be here shortly.”

“Excellent . . . ah, greetings, sir,” he spoke politely to the alchemist who appeared behind me.

“Mr. Benett. Good to see you. I assume you’re here for the usual.”

“Yes, I am,” Benett said, hesitating as he looked at me. “May I ask . . . Lawrence isn’t coming back?”

“I’m afraid not. But I can assure you that I have every confidence in Miss Ratchetmare’s ability to fill his shoes.”

“Ah, how thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean to question the lady, only . . . Lawrence was understanding of my problem, if you know what I mean?”

“And so will Miss Ratchetmare. I assure you that you will hear no rumors from Faulkner’s Atelier, Mr. Benett.”

I’d have to be stupid to miss the subtle warning directed at me. No talking about Faulkner’s customers’ problems behind their backs. Racking my brains over what to say, or if I should say anything at all, I decided to just nod silently rather than say some lame shit. The man would obviously prefer me to be anywhere but here.

“I didn’t mean to imply . . . your service has always been honorable.”

“Glad to hear you feel that way,” Faulkner said with pride in his eyes. “Vigor Potion, then - will that be all, or are you looking for something else?”

My eyes widened. Vigor Potion?

One of the few that stuck in my mind when I looked through the catalog earlier. A potion that gave you energy when you felt down and could help you fight the flu. Its main use, however, was with men who had trouble getting their little guys to . . . well, hard.

“That will be all,” the man stammered, his cheeks as red as mine.

“Very well. Miss Ratchetmare?”

“R-right away,” I blurted out, hurrying over to said shelf.

“Any progress in finding a permanent solution, dare I ask, Alchemist Faulkner?”

“I’m afraid I have to give you the same answer I gave you last time. This is a delicate matter that requires further testing. Impatience can lead to undesirable results, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want your current condition to get any worse, would you?”

The man swallowed dryly. “No, definitely not.”

“Here, a Vigor Potion,” I said as I placed the square bottle of turquoise liquid on the counter.

“That will be . . . 5600 talons.”

The price was staggering. Over half a year’s worth of my services to the Alchemist for a few opportunities to get laid. Seriously, for that price, he could get half a dozen whores in the lower town willing to fulfill his every fetish for a month.

Of course, I tried to keep those thoughts out of my face as I accepted his coins and bid Mr. Benett farewell.

“Interesting,” Faulkner muttered to himself as the doorbell fell silent, his eyes fixed elsewhere in the distance.

“What’s interesting, sir?” Curiosity got the better of me.

His eyes refocused on me. “I forgot to consider the impact of your gender on the sales of goods in my store. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Miss Ratchetmare. I don’t fault you. My miscalculation. The young man was clearly uncomfortable in your presence.”

“He was,” I nodded, having no idea what Faulkner was getting at. Was I in trouble? The contract was signed, but - maybe there was a way to get rid of me that I didn’t know about.

“When Lawrence ran the shop, the same was true for the female customers. Interesting, very interesting. Which products will increase in sales? Well, we’ll see - if that’s all, I’ll be in my workshop.”

“W-wait, Mr. Faulkner,” I blurted out to stop him, not really having thought my question through.

“Yes?”

“Uh . . . why didn’t you recommend him a healing potion, sir?”

“That’s an insightful question - very good, Miss Ratchetmare. The answer is simple: Potions and elixirs have their limits. You are a perfect example.”

“Me? Ah, the scars?”

“Yes.”

“Impotence is the same as scars?”

“In a sense. Healing potions enhance your natural regeneration. Therefore, they can’t repair what your body doesn’t see as an issue.”

“Your potion removed my wounds, but . . . .”

“It left the scars as they are natural.”

“But that would mean . . . it’s not just my skin that’s scarred?”

“That is indeed the case. And before you ask, at the moment, I am not in possession of a product capable of removing internal tissue scarring. That requires further testing.”

Further testing! Testing! With those words echoing in my mind, a shiver ran down my spine.

“And . . . and how do you test it, sir?”

Or rather, on whom? Although I didn’t have the guts to ask for fear of the answer.

“That is not a simple matter and not something to be taken lightly. One miscalculation, one stronger side effect, and . . . ” Faulkner said, stopping short, eyes fixed on me, bright with realization. “Someone talked to you about Lawrence, didn’t they?”

Biting my lower lip, I nodded. “Only in a good way, sir.”

“That’s unlikely. The man had many faults,” Faulkner grunted, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Who? You know what, don’t tell me - I rather wonder if you’d be willing?”

“ W-willing to w-what?” I asked, unable to stop my voice from shaking.

“To test the effects of my products,” he said so bluntly that it took my breath away. “Not for free, of course. I would compensate you accordingly.”

I almost sneered out loud. Compensation, my ass. The bastard was so shameless it was sickening. Was he so sure I wouldn’t talk about the crap he did to people? No fucking contract could stop me.

“Ah, I see the distrust that makes it difficult to get hardly anyone in Greymare interested,” Faulkner said, heaving a sigh. “If only people were more rational.”

“Who in their right mind would let someone experiment on them?”

The bastard smiled. “You say that, and yet you let them, without even realizing it.”

What . . . shit! Did he put something in my food?

No, that wasn’t it.

He mentioned them.

But who? The other alchemists? Was he trying to tell me that he wasn’t like them? Granted, he wasn’t as bad as I thought, but his true colors were showing now. And the same could be said for me. Gone was the facade of a dutiful assistant. I just needed to know - to know what to expect from him.

So who was he talking about? The baker, Mrs. Crumbwell, and her experiments with recipes?

“You mean new dishes? New recipes? That’s hardly the same thing.”

“Is it? What if the cook adds an ingredient to the food that makes it poisonous?” he threw back and gave me an approving nod. “Glad to see you’re still using your brain. Excellent example.”

“Thank you,” I shot back with the same grace, laced with snark and sarcasm, racking my brain for a witty comeback. “That’s a pretty extreme case. Besides, a good cook would first . . . ”

“Taste what he’s cooking, right?” Faulkner cut in. “What makes you think I don’t?”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. Alas, a test on a single individual is hardly conclusive, not to mention that I have been consuming potions since a very young age. It’s like asking someone with ruined taste buds to cook food for others.”

“Ah, so . . . the other people? The ones you’re testing on?”

“All well informed, participating without coercion, and, as I already said, well compensated. The same goes for you, Miss Ratchetmare. I won’t mention it again until you ask me, but know that your help would be most valuable. Especially with the outlook of a change in our clientele.”

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Author’s note: I hope you enjoyed the chapter I really do... but now it's time to let you in on a little secret. Well, it's not really that much of a secret - rewrite of Lament if the Slave. What I want to share is that during my pondering about how to go about it, whether to even go through with it, what to change, and so on - I couldn't resist taking a shot at the first chapter. My heart was pounding, my hands were shaking, I was simply nervous as hell, but also incredibly excited. I ended up with a couple of lines, barely a quarter of a chapter, but I can tell you I haven't felt this fired up in a long time.

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Don't get me wrong, I love Grandor and Ratchetmare - perhaps too much and hence my inability to decide between one and the other - but this was like finding an old love. Of course, I try to keep my emotions in check as this could just be the initial spark followed by disillusioned sobering up.

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So while I can't yet say for sure that I'm going to fully embark on the rewrite, what I can promise is at least one chapter of it (at some time this month) - whether it will turn out to be just a shot/attempt or the start of something new/old remains to be seen.

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