Chapter 31: Worth Investing

  The dye shop owner did not send her to the vats.

  He motioned once.

  “Come here.”

  Ivaline obeyed, stopping in front of his desk.

  He looked her over—brief, clinical.

  “Can you read?”

  “…Simple words.”

  “Write?”

  “No.”

  “Count?”

  “Small numbers. Addition.”

  He snorted.

  “Figures.”

  He reached under the desk and pulled out a slate board and a piece of chalk, pushing them into her hands.

  “Sit there.”

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  He pointed to a chair in the corner.

  “Watch.”

  She hesitated.

  “…Watch what?”

  “Everything.”

  He turned back to his ledger.

  “I won’t teach,” he said flatly.

  “You observe. You remember. You adapt. Make it yours.”

  Then, as if she no longer existed, he began to work.

  Orders were placed.

  Accounts checked.

  Merchants argued.

  Workers complained.

  Measurements were adjusted.

  Errors corrected without explanation.

  “Ignore her,” he told the staff without looking up.

  “She’s not here to be helped.”

  Ivaline sat still.

  She watched hands move.

  Listened to numbers spoken aloud.

  Tracked who interrupted whom—and who waited.

  Chalk scraped.

  Her board filled with lines that made sense only to her.

  Chronicle murmured explanations when she faltered—quietly, sparingly—but most of the work was hers.

  Memory stacked upon memory.

  By the end of the shift, her fingers ached.

  “Time,” the owner said.

  She stood and returned to the desk.

  He glanced at the slate.

  “…That mess?”

  She swallowed.

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head once.

  “You didn’t write anything useful.”

  “…I remember it.”

  He paused.

  Then looked at her again—longer this time.

  “Learn faster,” he said.

  “So I can give you better work.”

  She hesitated.

  “…Why?”

  That earned a grin—thin, sharp.

  “You ran three thugs out of a bakery,” he said.

  “My people talk.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “You had a debt there. You paid it—without asking for reward.”

  Silence.

  “Someone bold,” he continued,

  “and who understands gratitude—”

  He closed the ledger.

  “—is worth investing in.”

  He reached under the desk again and placed two pouches on the table.

  Jerky.

  And another—lighter.

  Dried fruit.

  “Take it,” he said.

  “Go.”

  She bowed.

  “…Thank you.”

  “Hm.”

  He waved her away.

  Outside, Chronicle spoke once.

  “That was not kindness.”

  Ivaline nodded, gripping the pouches.

  “…It was trust.”

  Chronicle recorded the distinction.