RATCHETMARE: Chapter 7: Dusty Beginnings (Patreon)

Author’s note: Hi guys.

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Enjoy the chapter!

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Chapter 7: Dusty Beginnings - Link: https://www.patreon.com/posts/98649485

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Chapter 7: Dusty Beginnings

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[11:30-12:00 Meal Preparation]

[12:00-13:00 Lunch Break]

Perched on the dusty bed, I glared at Faulkner’s schedule, wondering if he expected me to cook for him already today. What more, in only half an hour? I may not have been a chef, but I knew enough to understand that even the most seasoned cooks couldn’t prepare a three-course meal that quickly.

Now, the one-hour lunch break was a different story. Back in the mines, gulping down a meager lunch and diving back into the grind was the drill. Time meant coins, and I had no intention of dining with the street dogs.

Giving the dusty room another once-over, I pinched my cheek for the umpteenth time. A job, a roof over my head, decent clothes, and a room of my own - so spacious, too - no matter how I looked at it, this felt like a dream. There had to be a catch, a price to pay. The alchemist, Faulkner, had to have an angle, a hidden agenda; he just had to, otherwise . . .

It just whispered too good to be true.

Chewing my lower lip, I shrugged off these suspicions, dragged myself out of bed, gave my ass a quick dusting, and cast a final glance around MY room. Time to make myself useful. At least that was what I decided, not having the means to follow the alchemist’s schedule to the minute.

The kitchen itself, taking up half the floor, was twice the size of my last room - admittedly, that was a glorified broom closet. In other words, the kitchen was huge. And also incredibly well-equipped. Gleaming copper pots and pans dangled from a brass wall rack, and shelves held an array of vials, herbs, and exotic spices. The cabinets held so much cutlery that I wondered why one person needed so many forks, knives, and spoons. The same was true of the tableware. There were so many plates and cups that a dozen people, maybe more, could have sat at the table. Not to mention that it was all pottery, not some cheap wooden plate or iron forged by a blacksmith.

And then there was the stove - an iron heart of the kitchen decorated with bronze ornaments. Of course, it was cold as the heart of the Collector in the mines, but fed by coal from the cellar, the alchemist’s workshop, I could imagine it breathe life to the finest food.

Yet any enthusiasm I had for the food took a nosedive at the sight of the pantry. Faulkner spoke the truth about the pitifully scarce supplies. There were hardly any - a mere hunk of bread, a half-eaten salami, and a modest lump of butter. What did he expect me to whip up from those scraps?

On second thought, probably not much - considering the amount of time he allotted me for cooking. Still . . .

KNOCK, KNOCK

“Yes?” came from behind the door of the alchemist’s study.

“Apologies for barging in so early, sir.”

“It’s something I factored in today, Miss Ratchetmare. What’s on your mind?”

“About – well, the lunch . . . ” I stammered, unsure how to tiptoe around the issue.

His eyes flashed with understanding. “I’ll have a slice of bread spread with butter, topped with a few slices of salami. Deliver it here to my study, and by all means have the same.”

The urge to punch him surged within me for many reasons. The audacity to act so lofty when his meals weren’t much grander than mine just a few days ago. Sickening. And then there was the whole thing about cooking for him. It just felt so wrong.

“Hold, Miss Ratchetmare,” he halted me as I turned to leave. “I rummaged through my drawers - actually, they were right where my memory insisted they’d be.” He held a pocket watch. “Here, these are yours. However, they will need to be looked at by a gearsmith. I’ll put a visit to him on your schedule for tomorrow.”

Receiving the timepieces from Faulkner, I inspected them closely. In the palm of my hand rested an old watch, its once shiny brass now aged to a warm, worn patina. The glass face, now fogged with the passage of time, obscured the intricate gears within. The hands, frozen in a moment long gone. Despite its silence, the watch held the charm of Grand Wokings.

Of course, I was aware that they had nothing to do with the wonders of a time long past. They had no magic to power them, just complex gears set in motion by the spring. Still . . . it felt like I was holding something so incredibly precious. And what’s more, Faulkner said it was mine.

“Th-thank you,” I stuttered, unable to keep my voice steady.

“It’s nothing special, Miss Ratchetmare. If I had my way, I’d mandate a watch as a necessity for everyone. I remember how often Lawrence used to make excuses for not knowing the time when he started here. It was so bothersome. Now, if that’s all, please go. I’ll see you with the lunch break.”

I clutched my pocket watch to my chest, bowed my head, and left his study. The most sensible thing to do would be to put the watch in the drawer of the bedside table in my room. Why carry around something that doesn’t work, right? Yet, years of experience cautioned me to keep my valuables close to me. So I tucked them into my vest’s inner pocket, pondering how to tell lunchtime.

Typically, I relied on my stomach rumbling or the whistle of the mines to signal a break. But here? I couldn’t count on either. Faulkner certainly wouldn’t appreciate my dining whims dictating his schedule. Thus, I racked my brain for a temporary solution, and eventually cracked open the kitchen window to catch the tolling of the tower bell.

To my horror, as I did so, the ringing of the bells echoed through the streets. I was already late. I rushed to the pantry, only to freeze as the last bell tolled. Only eleven bells? Did I mishear? Maybe I hadn’t heard the initial bell? Or . . . was it not yet noon?

With my head out of the window, I peered toward the bell tower, only to curse. The buildings stood too high. The spire was barely visible, let alone the dial.

“My room!” I blurted, sprinting up two flights of stairs to the attic. Enveloped in the murky coal smoke that hung over the town’s rooftops, the bell tower rose high enough for me to see it.

Ah, sweet relief washed over me.

It was just past a quarter to twelve. I wasn’t late. Quite the opposite; I had more than enough time to prepare the meal for the alchemist.

Let me tell you, buttering a slice of bread for someone else was just weird. Like, seriously? Couldn’t the guy make his own meal? Was he some pampered brat? Of course, I understood the reason, so I swallowed my annoyance and delivered the grub on a silver plate - well, not literally silver, but you get the point - to Faulkner’s study as the clock struck twelve.

The alchemist expressed his gratitude and graciously granted me my lunch break. Oh, how I savored it. I prepared my own meal, not skimping on the salami, matching Faulkner’s portion slice for slice. Then, perched on an armchair in the dusty reception room, I pretended to be a snooty aristocratic lady. Sure, those snobby bitches wouldn’t tolerate a speck of dust, but I basked in my little charade, enjoying a meal fit for royalty by my humble standards.

Yet, barely fifteen minutes in, I was already itching to do something. Sitting idly on my ass, you see, was a waste of time. I did try to enjoy my time off. Yet, with at least half an hour left to the scheduled time to clean the shop downstairs – a task Faulkner had generously set aside for the remainder of the day – I trotted back up to the attic to familiarize myself with the stuff and get ready.

The alchemist wasn’t talking shit. Everything was neatly labeled, so I found the broom, bucket, rag, and detergent right away. Actually, there were several. For dishes. For clothes. Laundry.

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Dust Remover.

Recipe #029 - Home Essentials

Removes 73% more dust than a water-soaked cloth.

Use: Pour in a ratio of 1 decilitre to five liters of hot water - the bucket has a capacity of ten liters - pour four capfuls of liquid into a bucket.

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The detailed instructions for the simpletons felt a bit insulting, but damn useful. Likewise, I stumbled upon a guide to how and where to get hot water. The catch? It entailed hauling coal from the alchemist’s workshop to the second floor and heating it on the stove in the kitchen.

As the bell tower struck twelve, flames danced in my stove and pots of water simmered. Watching the coal burn felt odd, though - to say the least. It might as well have been the coal I toiled to unearth with my own hands. The backbreaking labor, the suffering in the mines - did people like Faulkner realize the toil that went into a single lump of coal before they could heat a pot of damn water to scrub off the filth? I wasn’t naive enough to think they did. They paid for the coal delivery and that was the extent of their concern.

It wasn’t long before I was standing in the middle of the store, armed with a bucket of warm water generously laced with Faulkner’s Dust Remover. One glance and I knew one measly bucket wasn’t going to cut it. Thankfully, more water was already sizzling on the kitchen stove.

“Okay, you can do this, Nika,” I muttered to myself, tying a handkerchief over my face. Dust, of any kind, was crap you didn’t want in your lungs. Masked and ready, I attacked the shop’s grime and dust.

Two things slapped me in the face right away. Cleaning wasn’t a walk in the park, and Faulkner’s cleaning concoction was damn impressive. A single swipe of a rag and the shelves were dust-free. The same magic worked on vials, jars, and boxes, though scrubbing them all was a tedious task.

Half done with the shop, the bell above the entrance rang. First customer! Panic tore through me. I didn’t know shit about what to do, as my previous career involved anything but retail and Faulkner didn’t explain.

Wiping my hands on my skirt, I straightened up and faced the door. There stood a blue-eyed lady in a beautiful floral dress.

“Hello, welcome to . . . ” Fuck! What was the shop called again? “ . . . Atelier.”

She giggled sweetly. “You might want to work on that.”

“Apologies, I’m . . . ” There was no need to say I was here the first day; that must have been obvious as a tax collector in the lower town. “How can I help you? I thought we were closed?” I scrutinized the sign on the door; the lettering OPEN faced the interior. The store was clearly closed. So, what the fuck was she doing here?

“Oh, you’re . . . closed,” she said without shame. “I just couldn’t help but notice - well, you - and curiosity got the better of me. Are you Alaric’s new assistant?”

“I . . . who? Alaric?” I asked like an idiot, just to remember the alchemist’s full name on the contract that bound me to five years of work here.

“Oh, you mean Faul - Alchemist Faulkner. Yes, I am. Nika Ratchetmare.”

“By the Gears, that’s wonderful news,” she gasped, her eyes bright with a mixture of excitement and relief, a broad smile gracing her full lips. In a blink, she snatched my hands in hers. “It’s so great that you’re here, Nika. Ever since Lawrence left, Alaric has been withering away. Have you seen him? He’s all skin and bones.”

I barely suppressed a grin. The lady had a crush on him. Did Faulkner have any idea? Probably not.

“Shall I tell him you’re here, Miss . . . ?”

She halted, embarrassment spreading like wildfire across her cheeks. “Forgive my manners. I’m Juliette Azalea Sterling, owner of Bloom Floral Boutique next door.”

Shit! Juliette wasn’t just some pampered lady. She was the owner of the shop on freaking Brass Street. Few could claim that.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Sterling,” I hastily responded, head respectfully lowered. Folks like her weren’t simple, with connections that could land me in a pit of trouble. Although I wondered whose word would carry more weight, the florist’s or the alchemist’s? If she wasn’t of royal blood, then certainly Faulkner’s. Though I could imagine he wouldn’t be happy if I got him into trouble on my first day.

“Hush,” she waved me off with a flick of her hand. “Call me Juliette. We’re neighbors now.”

“We are. Neighbors,” I said with a nod, tasting the word on my tongue. Two weeks was my usual stay anywhere. Either my pockets couldn’t sustain the rent, a wealthier tenant showed up, or the place was such a dump that even the rats had second thoughts. Rather than neighbors, I had temporary bunkmates, no matter how sorry the lot of them were. But now I was about to spend five whole years in one place, meaning genuine neighbors.

“How long will you stay, Nika? Five years?”

I nodded.

“I see. Alaric is a fool. Lawrence had likely the same contract as you. As soon as his term was up, he ran away.”

“Ran away?” That didn’t sound very encouraging.

Juliette offered a slightly apologetic smile. “Poor choice of words. He saved enough to open his own shop - in a cheaper part of town, of course. Said he used to be a cobbler’s apprentice, if I recall.”

“Oh. I had no idea.”

“Why am I not surprised? Alaric is tight-lipped about others, unless they’re in earshot. Finds it dreadfully impolite.”

“You clearly don’t – s-sorry, didn’t mean to be – impolite. I just grew up poor. I don’t know the – the proper etiquette.”

“Obviously,” Juliette replied, her tone as sarcastic as mine, but then a smirk crept onto her face. “Lawrence wasn’t any different. Of course, being a man, society throws different expectations your way and vice versa. I wouldn’t mind teaching you.”

“You would? Someone like me?” Not that I ever had any desire to learn etiquette, but then again, I never imagined I’d ever live on Brass Row. Yet, if I aimed to blend in, or at least avoid social blunder, there seemed to be no other choice. “I don’t have anything to pay you with.”

“And I’m not even asking for anything in return. Maybe just to keep you from making trouble for Alaric. And by the Gears, forbid you from trying to seduce him. Do you hear me?!”

“Yes, ma’am. I swear I have no such intentions.” I didn’t. I never even entertained the thought.

“Splendid. And it’s Juliette,” she huffed, crossing her arms beneath her bosom, feigning offense, then casting a critical eye over the store. “Lawrence did his best, but let’s be honest - this place is crying out for a woman’s touch. It’s good you’re here, Nika.”

“Thank you,” I stammered when I couldn’t think of anything better to say. “It’s good to be here” just wouldn’t roll off my tongue.

“Well, I better go before Alaric notices I’m here.”

“Why? Is he mad at you or something?”

Juliette let out a soft chuckle. “No. I’ve only witnessed him truly furious once, and that was at some fool who balked at the price of his potions and threw one on the floor. Naturally, the bottle shattered.”

“I see.” That would irk anyone. Hard to imagine, though, that no one else ever ticked him off - like his former assistant, Lawrence. They had spent years together. Surely in all that time something must have happened that . . . well, something that Juliette might not be privy to.

“By the Gears, I really should be going. Until later, Nika,” the owner of Bloom Floral Boutique declared, promptly making her exit as the telltale creak of approaching footsteps on the stairs reached her ears. The sound of the doorbell still echoed through the room as Faulkner appeared in the shop.

“Has anyone been here? I thought I heard someone. Don’t tell me you’re suffering from self-talk? If so, I think I might find a book in my study that might help you get rid of that bad habit.”

“No, sir. Miss Sterling was here, um . . . the owner of . . . ”

“Bloom Floral Boutique. I know. She’s . . . nosy and has too much free time on her hands. What did she want? Didn’t she see we were closed?”

We. A single word, and yet it threw me off. I hadn’t even been here a few hours, and he already considered me part of the shop. A not-so-subtle reminder of my five years of servitude, but oddly, it had a comforting ring to it, too.

“She noticed me and was concerned about who was in your shop, sir,” I explained, and seeing his disapproval, I tacked on, “she offered to teach me a little etiquette so I wouldn’t embarrass you.”

Faulkner arched an eyebrow. “Very thoughtful of her - I approve, and you might learn a thing or two about gardening from her while you’re there.”

Juliette owed me for that.

“Regardless, do continue. It would be most convenient to open the shop tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?” No matter how hard I wracked my brain, there was no big festival in town. The closest was King’s Day, but that was almost a month away. Not to mention the fact that I had no experience in running a store and only a vague idea of what this atelier had to offer, most of which I gleaned while dusting the shelves.

“The sooner the better, Miss Ratchetmare. I have a lot of alchemical ideas that won’t come cheap to explore.”

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