Olar was motionless. Bertra started to stand, but Fleur saw that Olar stopped her.
“Perhaps you should rest for a while. Miss Bertra, if you would…”
Olar addressed Bertra and had her move the crate into the storeroom, while he said he was going to check on the severity of the rain and left the room.
And then Fleur was alone.
Rain continued to fall outside, and now that she was alone the sound was oppressive. No one would notice the sound of a couple more drops falling.
She found her own excuses pathetic as she held her cup and cried. She was frustrated, of course, and felt utterly useless. But worst of all was her rage at the fact that she was still going to have to trade with these despicable merchants.
She couldn’t. She couldn’t do it.
Fleur wanted to call Olar and Bertra and tell them so plainly and definitively. But even if she did so, she had no idea what she would do after that. Hell was behind her, and hell awaited her.
She wanted someone, anyone to save her. She would do anything. Fleur called out to God. And then the very next moment–
“…?”
Fleur looked up suddenly, but not because Bertra or Olar had returned.
There was a strange sound. Cats and mice tended to seek shelter on rainy days like this one, so she wondered if that was what she was hearing – and then the sound came again.
It was a knock on the door. Someone was there.
“–!”
Fleur wiped her messy face and quickly blew her nose with a kerchief. There were only a limited number of guests that could be expected on a rainy day.
And if so, there was really only one person it could be. Another person hurt just as she was hurt, afraid, and anxious.
Fleur stood. This was impossible to bear alone, but perhaps with another…
Clinging to that hope, she put her hand to the door, drew the bolt back, and opened it. For a moment she wondered if water had splashed her eyes, blurring her vision.
She did not immediately recognize the individual at her door.
“May we speak for a moment?”
Fleur stared and was at a loss for a reply, which was hardly surprising. It was not Milton at the door.
It was the man responsible for putting them in this predicament – Hans himself.
“You and Mr. Post – I cannot imagine you failed to draw up a contract to provide him with funds, correct?”
He had a vexing voice, like a snake coiling around its prey.
“What of it?” growled Fleur, the loathing boiling up from her stomach and forming hoarse words.
“Post had no assets, which meant you were the investor and he was responsible for sales.” The rain rolled off his fine leather coat. Out from under a hood not too different from those worn by monks, Hans looked at Fleur with oily eyes.
“S-so?”
Hans struck a frightening figure, but the reason Fleur’s voice was so hoarse and hesitant was because she had absolutely no notion of why he had come.
He had taken all of their money and given them useless goods in return, so he ought not to have any further business with her. So why had he come all the way, and in such weather, to talk to her?
In her heart, Fleur never wanted to see Hans’s face again, nor enter into his field of view. But there he was, looking at her. Like a snake unwilling to let its prey escape.
“In that case, I can’t imagine you assumed all the risk. You must have let him take on some. So how much? One hundred fifty percent? Two hundred?”
Her hand trembled as she held the door, but not because of the chill. It was anger that moved it so as she squeezed a growled answer from her throat. “I’m not like you. I’m not that greedy.”
“How much, then?”
Hans was insistent, and Fleur’s rage at him made her dizzy. “Half. Because I trusted him,” she managed to answer, somehow controlling her temper.
Hans pressed his lips together and tilted his head. “Goodness. It seems you’ve taken quite a loss, then.”
Fleur had her limits. She saw red and drew a deep breath in preparation to scream her rage at him – but as though he’d been waiting for that precise moment, Hans took a step forward and spoke in a smooth and even voice.
“I’d like to purchase your share of the contract you signed with Mr. Post.”
Fleur’s mind went white. “Wha–?”
“This sort of thing happens all the time. It’s a simple transfer of liability. Whether or not you asked for interest, it’s clear that Mr. Post owes you a debt. And I want to buy that debt. At a price that will leave you losing absolutely nothing.”
As the clear explanation sank in, Fleur finally understood. She understood what he was thinking – no, what he had been thinking all along. His whole plan had led up to this moment. This had been the goal from the start.
He wanted to buy Milton’s debt. It would allow him to collar and control a brilliant clothes salesman.
“Perhaps I should make the offer more attractive. After all, you’ll have to live the rest of your life somehow. With that… sweetness of yours.” She felt the phantom sensation of the snake’s tongue licking her neck. “What about using that money as a dowry and finding yourself a husband? I’d be more than happy to help–”
It was the first time Fleur had ever hit anyone.
“… Very well.” Hans wiped his lips with his hand and closed his eyes for several seconds. “When you’ve fallen as far as you wish to fall, feel free to knock on my company’s door with that hand. No harm will come to you.”
He licked the blood from his lips with a strangely red tongue, glaring at her rudely.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned and began to walk back out into the rain, but then suddenly looked over his shoulder. “Don’t hesitate to call on me when you change your mind.”
Merchants.
Her rage had left, and that single word was the only thing occupying her mind.
Merchants.
They pursued profit to the point of cruelty. And for what? What drove them to such lengths?
She watched Hans as he went, stepping lightly through the rain down the deserted street, and wondered. She didn’t understand. It was as though he wasn’t human.
Fleur collapsed on the spot, and perhaps hearing the sound, Bertra gave a cry and came running.
She was sure that Bertra was calling for Olar, but Fleur only stared at the puddles in the falling rain. She felt utterly helpless and wanted to cry, but with Bertra’s help, she managed to stand again, whereupon she began to walk unsteadily out into the rain.
Bertra was looking at Olar, who had come down the stairs to see what was the matter, and she hastily tried to pull Fleur back inside.
Profit changed people.
There in the rainy street, as the downpour strengthened, Fleur beheld a strange sight.
Despite the rain, a single wagon came into view along the street that ran directly next to the house.
The driver’s face was concealed by a hood that came down to his chin, yet the wagon bed was filled haphazardly with goods – as though it had been loaded in a great hurry.
That instant, Fleur cried out in a ragged voice, “Milton!”
Though her vision was blurred by tears and rain, she could still see the driver of the wagon freeze for a moment.
“Milton!” she cried again. Her voice would surely not withstand another cry.
Olar rushed out of the house, grappling her into a bear hug and pulling her back inside.
“Milton… It’s Milton. He’s…” Fleur mumbled deliriously, but she could hear Olar and Bertra’s exchange quite clearly.
“Check the storehouse. The door was broken.”
“Most of the clothes in the storehouse are gone.”
“Milady.”
When she came to, Olar’s serious face was the first thing she saw. “What happened?”
He was holding her face between his hands, so neither escape nor shaking her hea
d were possible. She closed her eyes, hoping desperately to pass out.
But reality did not change.
“Milady.”
She began to sob like a scolded child in response, but Olar continued his questions, like a kindly old priest.
“That was a man from the Jones Company? So… the one who took the clothes was…”
Fleur nodded. There was no mistaking it.
Milton must have realized what Hans’s goal was immediately after they had been taken by the Jones Company. And then he had waited for his chance to steal the clothes. If he was lucky, they might be worth half what they had been bought for.
So he could steal them, sell them, and if all went well, pay back his part of the debt.
Fleur gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. Milton had never trusted her. If he had, there would have been no need for him to steal the clothing, even if he did plan to repay her. Fleur had never blamed him for her loss or demanded immediate payment and would never have dreamed of selling his debt to someone else.
Profit changed people – as did loss.
She had wanted to believe that it would not change her. But Milton hadn’t trusted her.
“Milady.” It was something akin to a dog’s faithfulness that finally prompted her eyes to open. Or perhaps it was just that this voice had always supported her through difficult times.
Yet it was not Olar’s usual face, the one that had always led her to safety. This was a stern old man.
“Milady. You must be resolved!”
For a moment, Fleur forgot to cry. “Re… solved?”
“Even so. You must resolve whether you will be ignored, robbed, kicked, smeared with mud, or stand up on your own strength and walk forward.”
He was telling her that if she wanted to continue on as a merchant, she had to get the clothes back.
“Milady!” Olar shouted when Fleur tried to look away. A scolded dog, even when terrified, can never look away. “Milady. I brought you into the world of merchants because I pitied you. Because your former role was simply to exist, you were washed away and had no choice but to rely on others. I wanted to give you the chance to make your own fate, to stand on your own two feet and walk,” said Olar. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and continued.
“No… I cannot be dishonest about my feelings now. The truth is… I wanted you to take revenge for me.”
“… What?”
“Before I worked for your former husband, I worked at a famous trading company. But before that, I was something of a noble myself.”
At those words, everything stopped. Fleur felt as though her heart ceased to beat.
“And I swore that I’d surpass all other merchants and make those perfect nobles fall to their knees before me.”
Olar did not look into her eyes as he spoke, and he suddenly seemed very old.
“Then before I knew it, I had gotten old. Too old to sit on some golden throne. On top of that, the man I’d taken as my master had ruined himself. I had no children. And… selfishly, I suppose, I wanted to entrust my dream to you.”
Bertra came and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, then placed her hand on Olar as he delivered his painful confession.
“This is all due to my selfishness.”
Everything was so sudden that Fleur had no idea of how to react.
As his eyes swam this way and that, Olar took a deep breath and stood. “Miss Bertra. Fetch some coin and my coat.”
Fleur looked up sharply, realizing what Olar was planning to do.
“So long as I am alive, I will not allow you to suffer, milady. If I may be allowed to atone for my sins, by force if necessary…”
Fleur could not prevent her face from distorting with her sobs. If she were to content herself with what he was saying, then she truly would be a pointless doll, whose only job was to exist.
In the past, she had had her family name. Now, having lost even that, if she couldn’t stand on her own feet, then what would she become? The thought terrified her, and she clung to Olar’s leg as he stood.
She could not decide between either path – and the thought that she might take neither was still more horrible.
“Milady.” Olar’s voice was gentler than she had ever heard it. He reached down and gently took hold of her hand, pulling it free from his leg, finger by finger. “Please refrain from selfishness.”
From these words, she knew he had seen right through her, and she clung on still tighter.
“…” Olar sighed, regarding her wordlessly.
In that instant, Fleur realized something. Loving eyes and scornful ones were separated by a hairbreadth. After all, the reason one extended one’s hand to help another was because they were weak.
“Do not mock me!” Fleur shouted. She glared at Olar’s frozen face, stood, and shouted again, “Do not mock me! I am sick of this! I am sick of letting myself be carried along by life! Your dream? Don’t be absurd! I am not your child! I will decide for myself where to go – because I have nowhere to go home!”
She railed at him, shouting everything she felt, then stood there glaring at Olar as her shoulders shook from her ragged breaths.
It was true that continuing to cling to Olar and allowing him to protect her was an attractive notion. But even Fleur knew it was not so simple.
Things were fine now – but what about after Olar died? The world was merciless, humans were unkind, and when money was involved, any trust might be betrayed.
There would be no more afternoon naps in the sunshine, wrapped up in a soft blanket. And yet humans had to continue, to live on.
“So, what will you do?” Olar’s voice, face, eyes – all were calm.
Fleur erased the smile that had risen unbidden to her face. “I’m going to get it back.”
“Get what back?”
“The clothes. No…” She looked down, took a deep breath, and then looked back up at Olar. “… My resolve. Bertra!” Fleur turned to Bertra and began giving the dazed woman commands. “Bring me all the money I have left and my coat. And my sword.”
A good servant was a servant before all else. Once ordered, Bertra regained her composure immediately, nodded, and left.
“Milady–”
“I thought I told you to stop calling me ‘milady,’” said Fleur, interrupting Olar with no hesitation. “I’m going to get it back. If he’s using a wagon, we have more than enough time to catch him on horseback. It’s not hard to guess where he’s heading. Not many roads lead to the noble quarter.”
Olar voiced not a single objection, nor twitched so much as an eyebrow. Yet she still knew what his gaze meant.
“Is this what you want?”
She didn’t consider the question a meaningless one.
“It is. I’m going to be a merchant. I’m going to regain my resolve.”
Atop the folded coat was a motley assortment of coins – truly all they had left – and a short sword. Bertra held the items out, which Fleur accepted with a slight bow.
“I’d rather be shivering in bed, neither going nor retreating, hoping this all was a dream. But when you die, I’d be lost, and then Bertra would go next and finally I.” Fleur cocked her head. “To the Jones Company, I mean. I’ll bet they’d pay a tidy sum.”
In point of fact, noble blood was worthless without money.
“So I have to go forward. And anyway, I know now.”
“Know… what?”
“I know what’s at the end of the path of profit that merchants walk, merchants who believe in nothing, for whom money is their only solace.”
Olar’s eyes widened, and he drew his chin in. He looked like a parent whose child had discovered some forbidden treasure.
Fleur alone smiled, putting her coat on and fastening her sword at the waist. When she put her scarf on around her head, her heart pounded with such force that it was painful.
“If there’s something out there that will bring me peace, I want to chase it. Olar–”
“Yes?” her fa
ithful tutor and bookkeeper replied, straightening.
“I want you to help me. I won’t cause you any more trouble.”
“Very well.”
“Bertra,” Fleur said, fastening her scarf. “I’m off.”
Fleur tossed the money at a nearby stable, rented horses, and sped out into the rain.
If Milton managed to sell off the clothing, she would surely never see him again. All that would be left for her would be whatever clothing Milton had decided he couldn’t sell and a huge loss. She would catch him and get her clothes back, then decide how to deal with him.
That was all she could see.
In any case, retrieving the clothes came first.
“Olar, do you have your sword?” shouted Fleur through the din of the rain and the pounding of the horses’ hooves. Of course, she was not just asking if he had brought his sword – she wanted to know whether or not he would need it.
“If he’s as you saw him before, I think we’ll be fine!”
Her former husband had walked a dangerous path. He had certainly gotten into a couple of tight spots, and as the man who had kept his books, Olar could be counted upon in such situations.
“Are you quite sure about the way?”
“There were only a few nobles that Milton talked about! I can’t imagine he’ll go somewhere unfamiliar if he needs to sell in a hurry, which means this must be the way!”
The road was muddy, and the horses had stumbled several times. Though Fleur did know how to ride, she was far from an expert. She mostly avoided using the reins, instead merely clinging to her mount and praying as they sped down the road.
There was no anger for Milton in her heart. No grudge.
Why? Fleur asked herself and came up with an answer.
It was loneliness. Bottomless loneliness.
“Milady!”
The rain had ruined part of the road. Fleur nearly wound up in a large hole that had been gouged out of the earth. It was not skill that saved her, but simple dumb luck.
The horse jumped, and as she clung to it and looked down, she saw the hellhole filled with mud and water.
“Milady!”
Her horse stopped, and she nearly fell – it was all she could do to right herself. Embarrassed and frustrated, she found his usual manner of address suddenly very irritating. “I told you to stop calling me–”
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