RATCHETMARE: Chapter 8: Shopping List (Patreon)

Author’s note: Hi guys.

Another chapter of Ratchetmare is here.

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As for next week, on Tuesday Grandora+Poll (still need to give it some thought) Thursday Lament of the Slave: Chapter 309 and on Saturday or Sunday Ratchetmare.

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Enjoy the chapter!

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Chapter 8: Shopping List - Link: https://www.patreon.com/posts/99118881

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Chapter 8: Shopping List

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It wasn’t until a few minutes after six, the start of my free time, that I managed to get the shop into a presentable state. Was it perfect? No! Far from it. There were still a few things to do, like cleaning the windows. One might think that two months would not be enough time for grime to claim the glass, but this was Greymare, the coal town of Veridium Commonwealth, shrouded in a never-fading plume of smoke.

Seriously, even the heaviest storms could not dispel the dark veil of fog hanging over the rooftops. Instead, all the rain did was send all the soot and crap up there from the coal burning down into the city streets. The windows, or in some cases what could hardly be regarded as such, bore witness to this sooty reality. Coupled with the ever-present shroud of smoke, the outcome was dim and murky rooms.

A problem for another day, though.

At the earliest opportunity, which meant after making dinner - the same stuff that was for lunch - I retreated to my room as scheduled. To be fair, the schedule didn’t limit me to my room; it merely said I had some free time. However, given the sorry state of my attic room, I saw fit to spend it cleaning it up.

Sure, I had grown used to the ever-present dust, that fine black executioner. Nevertheless, the prospect of sleeping with a filter mask didn’t appeal to me. Thus, I devoted my free time to cleaning my room.

In all honesty, I had never done as much cleaning in my life as I did today. For the first time in my life, I cleaned the windows - of my own room - beat the covers to get rid of the damn dust, and even changed the sheets. Thanks the Gears, I found some clean, dust-free sheets in the attic closets.

All worth it though.

As the night draped its inky shroud over Greymare, I lay in my underwear into a clean bed, hands behind my head, staring through the windows at the moon hidden behind a blanket of smoke over the town, as tired as after a day’s work in the coal mine.

“Not half bad so far,” I whispered, a wry smirk dancing on my lips. Perhaps, and I shrank from saying it out loud for fear it would all go to shit tomorrow, a speck of that elusive luck seemed to grace me after all.

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***

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Dawn played its cards earlier than my slumber desired - a sign of a good night’s sleep. In fact, I hadn’t slept this well in a long, long time. And surprisingly, judging by the gloomy dawn outside, I hadn’t even overslept. The drill of waking up at the crack of dawn, ingrained in my bones, obviously still stuck with me.

With a stretch that could rival a cat’s, accompanied by an early yawn, I perched myself on the bed’s edge. And then I yawned again. The mornings were vicious. Nevertheless, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I cast a glance around the room, half expecting it to dissolve into the haze of a delirious dream. But if so, why would I dream of my lower body being covered in a web of scars?

“No, I’m actually here,” I muttered, surprised at how relieved I was by the fact. After all, this house belonged to an alchemist. Heck, I signed on to slave for him for five years. Then why the fuck did I feel so damn lucky?

Shaking off the bizarre feeling and the jumbled mess in my head, I made my way to the little wonder of the house - the toilet. Not a rustic outhouse or a simple seat with a bowl underneath; it was a genuine flushing toilet. And it was also a colossal waste of water. One pull of the string hanging from the cistern under the ceiling, one mighty flush, and all that waste went into the sewers beneath the town, making the whole affair quite pleasant. But the amount of water it required?

Well, let’s just say I was glad it wasn’t my coin flushing down the drain.

“Good morning, Miss Ratchetmare.” Faulkner’s unexpected presence in the kitchen caught me off guard. I half expected him to demand breakfast in bed like some pampered lord or lady. “I trust your sleep was refreshing.”

“It was, and yours?” A polite phrase usually translated as ‘I couldn’t care less.’ But truth be told, Faulkner had taken me aback - a second time. I hadn’t had a morning greeting like that since my parents died.

“Slept adequately. The sheets could use a change, though.”

“Want me to . . . ?”

“Eventually, yes - but don’t worry, I’m not blind to the demands of taking care of the shop and the house at the same time. Speaking of which, I’m working on your schedule for today. I’m curious to hear your thoughts.”

“Err . . . .what do you mean, sir?”

“Whether you have noticed the work that should require your attention today - first and foremost.”

“Buy food,” I blurted, blaming my growling stomach and the fact that we were standing in the kitchen.

“Already on the list. I also prepared a list of goods, their price range, and places to buy them.”

“Oh, then I don’t know . . . ” I trailed off. The house needed more attention than I thought. “The store windows.”

“Are any of them broken? You’d have to see a glazier.”

“No. At least I don’t think so. What I meant to say was that I didn’t have a chance to clean them yesterday. But . . . but that’s something I can do while the store is open.”

“Good thinking. Just so you know, my atelier is open from 9 to 12 in the morning and 2 to 5 in the afternoon. Any questions?”

Shit . . . shit, shit, shit! I’ve had so many. “Why are you opening so late?” Fuck! That was the dumbest one of all.

Faulkner flashed a smile. “As you can see, I’m not one to linger in bed when the sun is high. Which is more than I can say for my clientele. Opening early is therefore pointless.”

“Ah, I see. But your clientele . . . don’t they send their servants?”

“More often than not. But they don’t come here to buy my products on a whim - if you know what I mean?”

I nodded. Someone must have sent them; to give them an order, and that was hard to do when said lord or lady was asleep.

Still, his clientele - the word echoed in my mind. “Sir, would it be possible to open until tomorrow?”

“Is there a problem with the shop?”

“No!” I blurted, hesitating. “You see, I’ve never done this before - never run a shop. I don’t even know what you sell.”

“Naturally. I have prepared an updated product book. I expect you to study it diligently during the moments free of customers. Of course, that doesn’t include the window cleaning time you mentioned. I’ve also set aside time in my schedule this morning to show you the basics.”

“You’ll be there with me, sir?” I couldn’t help but stare, eyes wide. Just yesterday, he was telling me how precious his time was when it came to ordinary activities like cooking. And now he was telling me that he was going to waste the whole afternoon teaching me the ropes. By the Gears . . .

“I have to ensure that you don’t besmirch the name of my atelier.”

It would be easy to argue that he’d already done that himself by neglecting the shop, but I clamped my mouth shut. Instead, I lowered my head. “I understand - and thank you, sir.”

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***

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A slice of stale bread, slathered with butter, and thirty minutes later, there I stood in front of Faulkner’s Atelier: Potions & Elixirs, a wicker basket dangling from one hand and several sheets of paper in the other, bearing a shopping list and all sorts of information and scribbled notes on Brass Row. Frankly, with all the things he wanted me to fetch, I’d be amazed if three trips cut it. A wooden cart would come in handy. Unfortunately, Faulkner had none of those lying around.

Regardless, it brought back memories of the coal mine grind. If they’d bothered to maintain proper paths and assigned everyone a cart and decent tools, everything would have been so much smoother and more efficient. But no, even a small improvement would have cost too much in the eyes of the talon-pinching Greymare Coal Company. Instead, anyone keen on working there had to scrounge up their own tools and dance over rocks with a coal basket like a mule.

This mule, however, was now without her tools.

The basket was surely ruined by the goo, and if my trusty pickaxe hadn’t suffered the same fate, it had probably already found a new master - hopefully a more deserving one.

For my part, I hoped I wouldn’t have to use that cursed tool again. Speaking of coin, Faulkner handed me a pouch filled with enough talons to make a king jealous - well, enough to keep me going for a year or longer if I were thrifty. Though I’d rather he hadn’t.

It felt like I was wearing a target on my back screaming, “Rob me, I’ve got something worth your while!” It nestled in the pocket of my so-called skirt, weighing heavier than a guilty conscience. Hot as blazes, too. I dared not touch it, afraid it might catch eyes better left unattracted.

Brass Street might have seemed almost deserted at this hour, but my time in the grimmer parts of Graymare had taught me better. Shadows were never empty, and this town was full of them.

Rule number one: Don’t draw attention; make them believe you’re not worth the trouble. But leaving an alchemist’s atelier made that a hard sell. No one would buy it, even if I paraded around in my knickers.

So it boiled down to rule number two: look so damn sure of yourself that muggers would think twice. It didn’t matter if you were scared shitless, like I was now - seriously, Faulkner’s money was on the line. If you had balls the size of boulders, you could make it through the sketchiest alleys unscathed.

Carrying some sort of weapon did wonders too - rule number four, by the way.

Of course, swords, large knives, or pistols were off limits in the town, and getting caught with one was a one-way ticket to jail. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t lug around a stick, a hammer (if you had a good excuse), or a pickaxe. I had it slung over my shoulder all the time. Might be why my right shoulder used to be so damn stiff for the better part of a year. Not anymore, though. Faulkner’s elixir took care of that.

I massaged the shoulder, grumbling under my breath. Annoyingly, I longed for the weight of the pickaxe on it now.

See, rule number three was all about looking intimidating, being a hunk of muscle - no matter how much I toiled in the coal mines, I never pulled off that look. And that was then, now I was dressed in clean clothes, flaunting a skirt like some noble lady.

Doing my damndest to shake off the gloom of my situation, I glanced at the papers again; first stop - Curd & Clove, the cheese sellers. Just three doors down, at the intersection of Brass Row and Willowbrook Lane. The house stood tall, even at first glance better maintained than the Alchemist’s.

Now, whoever Curd & Clove were, they weren’t dabbling in just one type of cheese - stepping inside, my nose got hit with a medley of smells. Unfortunately, that was all I could make out. Cheese was a luxury, and my old pockets knew it.

“Good morning, miss,” the guy with a belly as big as his beard said, giving me a moment’s pause. Most shopkeepers I dealt with usually started with a curt “What do you want?” or something less pleasant.

“Welcome to Curd & Clove,” the man continued, a beaming smile on his face. No wonder, considering the prices he charged for piece of cheese - enough to pay for a lavish lunch just a few blocks away.

“Um, good morning, Mr . . . ?”

“Clove, just Clove. Curd is my brother. And you are?”

“Nika Ratchetmare.”

“So a local. Interesting, I haven’t seen you around here before. Have you moved in?”

“You could say that.”

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that we don’t get new faces around here very often.”

“I see.”

“Not very talkative, are you? Curd keeps telling me I talk too much, but that’s why I’m behind the counter and not him. So, how can I help you? We’ve got the best cheese around, imported from as far away as the Cogshire Highlands, made from pure milk, not the local stuff fouled with brimstone and who knows what else.”

“That . . . that sounds really good. See, I have a list . . . ”

“Let me take a peek,” he said, practically yanking the paper out of my hand.

“But this is the alchemist Faulkner’s writing. Wait . . . are you perhaps his . . . ?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh - my - Gears.” The man’s eyes went wide, then he turned and hollered toward the back of the shop, “Curd! Faulkner secured himself a wife!”

“What? Wait, that’s . . . ” Before I could clarify, Clove’s brother stormed into the store, a mirror image of Clove, a twin, I would venture to say.

“Say that again. A wife? Who?”

“Her,” Clove motioned to me. When the twin’s gaze met mine, belatedly recognizing my presence, he promptly composed himself.

“My apologies for the outburst; I am Curd Steamwell.”

“Miss Nika Ratchetmare, brother. She is Alchemist Faulkner’s . . . ”

“Assistant. I am his new assistant.”

“But you said . . . ” Clove said, looking perplexed and slightly let down.

“If you’d let me finish, I would have told you,” I growled, holding back my temper. This wasn’t the lower Greymare, where a guy like that would earn himself a punch from me.

“Not this again, Clove,” Curd sighed, apologetic eyes directed at me. “My brother has . . . a tendency to jump to conclusions. Please accept my sincerest apologies, Miss Ratchetmare.”

“Hey, not my fault . . . look at her, she’s lovely.”

While his insistence on passing me off as an alchemist’s wife grated on my nerves, his compliment managed to bring a blush to my cheeks. I’ve been called many things in my time - fine, good-looking, fuck-able - but never once has anyone said I looked lovely.

“That you are, Miss Ratchetmare,” Curd concurred with his brother, a warmth peeking out behind the unkempt thicket of his beard. “Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.”

“Thank you,” I stuttered out, unsure of what else to say, a tad intrigued and somewhat fearful. “Why would you think I’m his wife?” Were my first assumptions correct, and the alchemist had his eye on my body, after all?

“I would say - wishful thinking,” Curd remarked.

“You see, Miss Ratchetmare, Alchemist Faulkner has a certain reputation on this street,” Clove began to explain. “Not a bad one, mind you.”

“Depends,” Curd interjected, eliciting a chuckle from his brother.

“Indeed. If you’re a lady pining for his affections, it spells ill tidings for you. Owing to his alchemy, the man has no room in his mind for dalliances with women. Who would have thought he’d find one as an assistant?”

“I bet Miss Sterling won’t be happy.”

“We’ve already talked,” I admitted, not quite sure why. I couldn’t give a shit what anyone thought of me. Except that wasn’t exactly true. Now it wasn’t just my reputation at stake, but the Alchemist’s as well.

“You did?” Curd raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. She seemed like a nice lady.”

Hearing that, they both breathed a sigh of relief, telling me how she had been trying to win Faulkner’s heart for years, while trying to fend off the competition, which they said was fierce. On reflection, I had to admit that the Alchemist wasn’t a bad-looking guy, a little too old for my taste; but on top of that, he had a house, money, and potions. It was rumored that among the nobility, the eighty-year-old hags looked like they were in their forties.

Well, in the end, Curd and Clove turned out to be pretty nice guys. I ended up getting the cheeses on the list at a small discount, along with their well wishes for my service to the Alchemist.

Spending more time in the cheese shop than planned, I rushed to the butcher’s shop. Thankfully, the butcher, Mr. Brassmare, gave me everything on the list without any nosy questions. The same couldn’t be said for the baker, though.

The woman, Mrs. Crumbwell, towered a good head and a half above me, her hair hidden under a white scarf, while her arms, marked by the effort evident in the muscles, were exposed. Either she liked to work out, or kneading dough from dawn to dusk was more drudgery than I thought. Regardless, she must have some secret recipe - there was no conceivable way her tits, swelling under her white apron, could be so ample otherwise.

“So . . . Nika,” she drawled, resting her elbows on the rough-hewn counter, a playful smirk on her lips. “Spill the beans. How did Faulkner rope you into his service? A potion?”

“Yeah. It saved my life.”

“No kidding?”

“No.”

“Damn. People tend to exaggerate, you know. Like my husband, he says he’s dying, but all he got is a cold,” she said with a chuckle, never once averting her gaze.

“Well, think what you will, but two guys with the same injury died. I still have the scars . . . I can show you.”

She smirked, a mischievous glint in her eyes that almost made me think she was actually going to ask me to lift my skirt and roll up my pants.

“Nah. No need. Would be dumb to argue about something that can be checked so easily. But spill, has Faulkner asked you yet?”

Huh? “Asked me what?”

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Author’s note:

A shameless cliffhanger… :D

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