A Fitting Finale Chapter 2: Favourable, an octopath traveler fanfic

Yes, this is Tressa and Ali! FEAR MY SHIP.

Once again, the uncensored version of this is on AO3, in case you're feeling up for some lewdness.

Love,
CM

A Fitting Finale

Part 2: Favourable

Tressa put the box down and stood, looking around.

The warehouse was empty, but Tressa didn't see the emptiness. Under the beams and between the sturdy stone and plaster walls, Tressa saw... She inhaled― potential.

Propping her hands on her hips, she took another breath, exhaled.

Yes. She nodded to herself. Opportunity!

"So…" The port authority representative said, interrupting her moment of appreciation, "Is everything to your... satisfaction?"

Tressa turned to him. He was short and squat and clearly more suited for scriptorium duty than showing young merchants around to new warehouse allotments. And he looked a little smarmy. But she shot him her most brilliant smile. "Yessiree."

The man nodded, a small edge of annoyance to the tilt of his head. "Very good, miss, but I need your signature if we're all fine and dandy."

"Right!" She hopped over to him, picking up his quill. The line was marked with a helpful X in red ink, so she laid out her full name in her most flowing letters. Tressa Colzione, registered Grandport merchant, signing for the Colzione Concern. Her parents would be proud.

The man studied her signature with a thoughtful pout. Maybe he was surprised she knew how to sign her name. Maybe he himself couldn't read. Maybe he took offence at the flourish under her flowing 'z'. Maybe, like all the others, he believed she was too young to do this. But he eventually shrugged. His duty discharged, he tilted his hat at her and strode out the door. Mikk and Makk stepped aside, watching him go. Then, Mikk turned back to Tressa and frowned.

"So, ye want me to fetch the Cap'n, miss?"

"Whenever he has a moment," Tressa said. She turned back to her warehouse. Her warehouse. "If he's busy with the dockmaster and porters, I can wait."

Mikk and Makk left with a shrug. For the first time since entering the warehouse, Tressa was well and truly alone.

She looked at the great expanse before her, and smiled. Not for the first time since the near-end of the world, she found herself filled with the clear sensation that she was on the right path, and her heart swelled with pride. Even her parents hadn't reached the point of being Grandport merchants. They were content with their lovely Rippletide, and Tressa didn't blame them, but she had always longed for more.

And here she was, years after setting out on that eager journey, not much older, but so much wiser.

More or less.

She was still, Primrose liked to remind her, the baby of the bunch. The dancer always said it fondly, though, with a dimpled smile and a nose-tweak, but Tressa was hard-pressed not to scowl.

She was competent― none of them would deny it. She had kept them all well and comfortably fed, lodged and equipped during those months on the road, all out of her own pocket and canny money-making skills. She wasn't the best cook ― H'aanit had that honour ― and she wasn't exactly the best at collecting information or rallying the masses or defending them all, but she had her uses, and she knew how to play to them expertly.

So it was fine if they liked to baby her a little. She knew what she was worth.

She was dusting the vast expanse with a wide broom when the sound of footsteps echoed once again in the warehouse.

"Well, well," a familiar voice said, behind her. "How far the lady has come."

She turned, smiling. "Captain Leon," she acknowledged, cheerfully. "You got here faster than I thought."

"I couldn't wait to see it," he said, warmly. He was, as always, impeccably but soberly dressed, the blue of his captain's coat made of thick but warm wool. He owned other clothes, more elegant ones, but she knew he dressed this way when he was in Grandport, if only to convince would-be preceptors of his lack of funds.

Leon Bastralle stepped into the vast warehouse and studied it. "Well, I'll be. They said you found a prime location, but I couldn't credit that you'd actually snatch up a place on the Grand Quay."

"I'll be the first to see incoming wares this way," Tressa said, though she knew it was unnecessary to explain that to an experienced merchant captain like him. She liked to say the obvious. She did that a lot. "No one gets by the Colzione Concern without letting me have a sift."

"A clever move," Captain Leon agreed. "But I thought the leases on these warehouses were the most expensive in all of Orsterra."

"They would be," Tressa snorted. "The ships that moor on the Grand Quay cross the Middlesea and the Opencean ― they're not just any ships."

Leon smiled at her gently. "Precisely, Tressa. How in the world did you come by the necessary sums?"

Oh. She let out a nervous laugh. "Well, I had to put up a third of my personal funds up for the first month." At his look of growing concern, she shot him her brightest, most convincing smile. "But I'll be making it all back in no time." Especially if she nursed her resources closely. If all went well, she wouldn't have to spend a single leaf of the Wyndham prize money. That, she kept for a truly rainy day.

"Perhaps." Captain Leon's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Was that wise?"

Tressa couldn't hold in another nervous chuckle. "Maybe not. But I had to try."

Captain Leon had a look on his face that spoke of his age, and his diminishing willingness to test his own mettle against the market. "Well," he said, at last, "I think it only fitting that I be the first captain to offer you a look through my wares." He narrowed his eyes. "Not for free, this time, though. I do have crew to pay."

Tressa nearly skipped with excitement and set the broom aside. "Oh, yes, let's."

The day was bright and sunny outside ― the world smelled of opportunity. As she passed by Captain Leon on the way out the door, he stopped her with a gentle hand to her arm. His eyes were on her neck, and he was frowning with curiosity.

"What is that―?" He gently nudged her dress collar aside, revealing the pendant, glinting in the sudden sunlight.

Tressa's hand automatically went to the stone, but Captain Leon had already recognized it. The Eldrite. A rare stone, of immeasurable value. One she had never sold, after all. A stone that rightly belonged to him.

But Captain Leon's gaze was gentle, and he smiled. "You've had it cut and set."

Tressa's hand closed around the pendant's familiar shape. The stone was warm from being against her skin day in and day out. "It's a reminder," she said. And, as always when her hand was on the stone, thoughts and memories flooded her.

The flipping of pages, the whisper of silk, the tinkling of phials, the sound of a muffled footstep, the whispering of prayers, the grinding of a whetstone, the purring of a leopard. When she touched the Eldrite, the sounds and images came back as clearly and comfortingly as the initial memories had been in truth. If she closed her eyes, she could see Ophilia's inviting smile, Cyrus' furrow of reflection, Alfyn's tongue sticking out in concentration, Olberic's set jaw, H'aanit's relaxed focus, Therion's annoyed scowl, Primrose's teasing grin.

The Eldrite was a comfort when Tressa worried about what to do. It gave her strength, as though they were here again, with her.

But Captain Leon did not ask what reminder she meant. In a way, Tressa would not have been shy to explain. And yet the admission felt personal.

"Come, then," he said instead, motioning into the bustle of the market and docks. "I believe you wished to browse."

And, pleased to continue down her path, Tressa stepped forth into the sunlight.

Ali bin Maruf followed the directions he was given, but did not believe he was in the right place.

He couldn't be.

The address he had in his hand was right ― warehouse number two, by the Grand Quay. It was, like all the other portside warehouses, a veritable hive of activity. Over the cries of seagulls and the everyday bustle of the Grandport market, only two blocks away, Ali heard the telltale sound of business: men hammering crates shut, the creaking of ropes under burden, the footsteps of workmen and workhorses alike, and the general hubbub of trade. Deckhands and porters moved through the streets with wares and boxes and sacks, while harried-looking wholesalers ran from one appointment to the next, determined to get the best prices before the day began to wind down.

The warehouse's large doors were open wide, the better to allow carts and wagons in for loading and unloading. The barrels and crates Ali could see all bore legitimate stamps and the insignias of distant lands. He ached to know what they contained.

But he didn't go through the warehouse doors. Instead, he continued along to the warehouse's frontage, which was on the cross-street, and looked in through the freshly cleaned shop windows. The inside of the concern was neat, a long polished counter dividing the front from the back, and new drapes had been hung. Familiar, bright canary yellow. They lended the shop an air of cheer in an otherwise dusty and grimy quarter of Grandport.

Above the door, the words Colzione Concern confirmed he was in the right place, though he could hardly believe it.

He pushed the door open, triggering the bell. The place was deserted, so he tucked his directions into his pocket and straightened his vest.

There was a decided air of bustling disorganization about the room, like things moved too quickly for even the most enterprising maid to make any headway in cleaning. Still, some token objects had been put up on display, and Ali browsed through the low shelves with only passing interest ― here, a set of fine Sebbai crockery, there, an elaborate Isaran mantle clock. Further down, there were more mundane objects ― sample bags of grain and seeds, dried herbs and roots. Neat little rows of well-identified bottles of exotic and ordinary oils. Examples of flatware and various bits and bobs in different alloys and designs. Buttons. Buckles. A few rolls of silks and cottons with unusual colours.

The counter had a full catalogue of machinery pieces for order, from pulleys to cranks and levers, bolts and screws and ratchet clamps, nails and hammers, gears and flywheels, skids and straps.

Behind the counter, a full wall of jewels and jewellery.

Ali turned to study the emporium. By Bifelgan, it had everything.

Everything except the person he was looking for.

The double saloon doors that led out back flapped open with an oiled creak, and Ali turned.

"Sorry for the wait―" the diminutive merchant said, her face hidden behind a stack of books.

The pile looked precarious in her hands, so Ali leaned over the counter and lifted half of the pile off, pushing wares aside on the counter to make room.

"Thank you," the girl exhaled, and Ali found himself once again face to face with Tressa Colzione.

Only she wasn't a girl anymore. Not really. Her face had not changed much, except it had ― her features were less rounded, her eyes more experienced. She had grown a short braid instead of her messy bob from three ―no, nearly four years ago.

She recognized him with a start. "Ali!"

And something wondrous happened then: her expression shifted from harried cheer to a look of genuine joy, with a smile that reached all the way up to her eyes. Before he could say anything, she lifted the counter's flap and reached for him. Her arms closed around his shoulders in a sincere hug, and Ali felt his entire rib cage fill to bursting.

"Hi, Green Pea," he said. "Been a while, huh?"

She pulled away, her smile as broad as before. "Yeah! I was sure you'd forgotten all about me!"

Ali managed a weak smile. Where to begin telling her how wrong she was?

"Come and see!" She said instead, grabbing his hand. She had dusty calluses, no doubt from working long hours in the warehouse, but Ali was happy to have her narrow fingers entwined with his anyway.

She led him to the back, past an office and a staircase ― most likely leading up to her quarters, on the second floor ― and into the vast expanse of her domain.

"I moved in two months ago," she said, excitedly. "But I think I might begin to make a profit soon. I'm only barely covering the operational costs right now," she added, embarrassed, with a glance his way. "Grandport licenses aren't cheap."

Ali knew that only too well. Grandport expenses were legendary in Orsterra. "Do you have the funds to last until then?" He asked, his own merchant's mind taking over before he could stop himself.

She let out a wavering laugh, and didn't reply. Ali nearly rolled his eyes. I guess not. Always flying by the seat of her pants, this one.

"Careful with your funds, Tress," he said, hoping she didn't hear the note of fondness that wanted to sound in his voice. "Many an experienced merchant has been spat out of Grandport for skipping the fees."

"I know," Tressa said, exasperated. "Captain Leon keeps warning me of the same. You're all just a bunch of old finger-waving codgers, is what you are."

Old codgers? Ali tried not to laugh. He was barely two years her senior. And handsome Leon Bastralle was not yet forty. He was in the prime of his life. "I'm just trying to help."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Yeah, why are you here, anyway?" She brightened. "Not that I'm unhappy to see you."

Aside from the obvious. Ali shifted his weight. "Well, you know my father and I have a shop together."

She nodded. "Uh-huh―" Her eyes darted to the side and she frowned. "One second. Jasper!" She cried out, surprisingly powerfully, her bellow startling a team of workmen a few yards away. "Don't put your fingers under the skids, you'll lose them!"

The young workman seemed embarrassed, and the other men of his team grumbled agreement, nudging him good-humoredly.

"Sorry about that," Tressa said, turning back to him with a scowl. "I keep telling them to be safe, but they're reckless."

"How many employees do you have?" Ali asked, his admiration unabated.

"Five," she said. "Or rather, five full-time employees, which includes one warehouse superintendent and two shiftmates. The rest are dayworkers I hire whenever a ship drops anchor."

It was impressive. Far more impressive than Ali would have liked. He had come prepared for something altogether different, more manageable. Something that didn't dwarf his business proposal into insignificance.

"That's… I'm…" He decided for honesty and shot her a genuine smile. "You never cease to amaze me, Tressa."

"Don't be ridiculous," Tressa said, her cheeks flushing prettily. "I remember you could sell wood to a tree. None of this is worth a single leaf if I can't move it out."

Ali felt hope rekindled inside of him. "Well, then, maybe I can be of service after all. I came to offer what could be a mutually beneficial agreement."

It was gratifying to see the interest sparked in her eyes.

Ali was different, Tressa decided. He was more reserved than he had been. And the gangly limbs he'd sported years ago had filled out, so that he now looked like a man rather than a boy. Or he would, if he'd ever bothered to cut his hair. He'd tried to tie it back with a red ribbon, but it was to little avail. She'd only known one other man with such messy hair, and it had been Alfyn, and she'd long given up on taming that particular mess.

Still, when she handed him a cup of tea across the table in her humble lodgings over the shop and he looked up at her with those green eyes of his, she decided he was no less handsome than he'd ever been.

A shame he'd decided to cover up his chest, though. That Marsalim fashion, with its open linen shirts, had been a boon on the eyes.

"My father and I have a shop back home," he said, as she sat back down. "As you know." She nodded. "And he's… a talented merchant. Dedicated, hard-working, very persistent. But his ideas are a little old-fashioned."

"Old-fashioned how?" Tressa asked. Outside, the whistle blew to mark the mid-afternoon break, but she didn't budge. The workmen would take care of themselves.

"He's content with keeping things as they always have been," Ali said. He hadn't touched his tea. "It would be fine, except I have ideas for expansion that he won't consider."

"Such as?"

Ali motioned around them vaguely, smiling. "Opening branches across the world, for one." He raised a hand, but Tressa wasn't about to interrupt. "I know, it's expensive. It's not something you can begin without capital."

She knew it well. Her books testified to the immense financial stress this single entreprise had put on her accounts. "Saving up was pretty difficult," she agreed.

"The thing is," Ali said, "my father's obstinate refusal has nothing to do with money. I told him I'd take care of the venture myself, and front my own funds. He just doesn't want to try."

"Why not?" Tressa asked, frowning.

"Because he thinks I can't," Ali said. There was a note of bitterness in his voice. "He's used to doing things his way, and can't imagine that I could be more than a shop boy to him. So letting me become a genuine partner― he can't fathom it. I'll always be a child to him."

He wasn't a child, though. He hadn't been when they'd met, and he certainly wasn't one now. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, saddened for him. "Is that why you left Marsalim?"

Ali's head tilted side to side slowly, a universal sign. "More or less," he said. "I intended to find you and suggest we pool our resources and acquire a Grandport license." He laughed earnestly, revealing a row of straight white teeth. His eyes crinkled at the corners endearingly. "I realize I have arrived a little late to offer my help."

"I'm not above needing help," Tressa said, slowly, mesmerized by the sight of that grin. "But how would that fix the situation with your father?"

Ali leaned back. "If I could show him a functioning concern of my own, he'd be hard-pressed to refuse a partnership. I'm his son."

"But…?"

Ali's smile softened. He had long lashes. Not that she was looking at them. "But you've beat me to it. Clearly I underestimated both your speed and your means. Now I come to you with pitiful funds and no leverage to become your partner in trade."

Tressa's heart felt… hot inside her chest. The blood pumping through it suffused her chest, her neck, her cheeks. "Oh." She looked at the flakes of tea leaves at the bottom of her cup of tea. "Well, maybe all is not lost for you."

Ali's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

It was a good plan. Tressa knew good plans the same way she could sniff out a deal. Like many good plans, it had mostly nothing but upsides, and downsides she could manage without trouble. "I could use your help."

The way his expression brightened with barely repressed hope was one of the downsides. She had never been very good at dealing with whatever suffused her when he looked like that. "I'm listening."

"I need someone who can sell," she said, bluntly. It was an embarrassing thing to admit, but she hoped he wouldn't tease her too much. "The truth is that I am driving myself ragged trying to keep the Concern afloat. I need to handle incoming shipments and outgoing caravans, I need to handle the shiftworkers and the dockmasters, I need to manage the funds and the cargo and the inventory, and when all is said and done, I have practically no time left to sell. I was going to put out an ad―"

"You won't," Ali said. He had leaned in. "I'm the best merchant around the Middlesea and you know it."

She felt a tiny spark of irritation. "Now wait just a minute―"

"Tressa Colzione," Ali bin Maruf said, with a fire of determination she hadn't realized she missed, "Give me one day. One day in your shop. That is all I ask."

"You don't even know the inventory―"

"I saw your inventory," he said, dismissively. "I can handle it."

She wanted to protest. "We're seeing low traffic as it is―"

"One day."

"I can't pay you right now―"

"I'll do it for my meals. Just in the beginning," he added, when he saw she was about to say something. "Look," he continued, "it's like you said. You need to move your merchandise. And I need a place where I can work on deals for my father without being in the same city as my father."

She did have wares that would fetch higher prices in the Sunlands… "I guess I wouldn't mind if you used a corner of the warehouse for your own deals," she said, slowly, "but Colzione would have to come first."

"It will," Ali said, his expression honest, direct. Trustworthy.

Well, trust had never been an issue between them. Ali was as forthright as they came. Sneaky, sure, sometimes. And proud and competitive. And sometimes he called her Green Pea. But Tressa had many of the same vices, with a temper to match.

"One day," she finally conceded, and Ali's whole face changed to one of joy.

"You won't regret it," he swore.

Ali spent his single day with a fire in his gut.

From the moment the first customer entered through the door, he was alight with a single purpose: sell everything.

In fairness, he had cheated a little. Before the morning had even started, he'd sent runners out, using what small funds he'd brought with him, to spread the word about Colzione. Into every corner of Grandport they had run, to grocers and carriers and apothecaries and smiths, to tinkerers and other merchant concerns, to bookbinders and jewellers ― to every store owner that ever had exchanged a good for a leaf, Ali's runners carried the word of a new concern, a new opportunity.

It had taken every last penny Ali had. It was a reckless move, a potentially fruitless one. But he had banked all his hopes on Tressa giving him a chance, and there would be no other opportunity.

And, he was pleased to note, his strategy paid off. One by one they came, trickling into the shop front, looking for the wonders Ali had sown word about. Tressa's eye for quality merchandise was the selling point ― she had incredible wares. They sold themselves, really, if Ali were to be honest. But she didn't need to know that.

At noon, when she came downstairs to see how he was doing, she didn't interrupt. Ali was deep in negotiation with a chaplain to furnish an orphanage with proper pewter dishware, and he managed to find the perfect middle point between his profit and the chaplain's humble funds.

He sold mercer's items until his fingers were completely desensitized to needle pricks and his eyes saw four button-holes on every object he held.

In the afternoon, he sold a hundred woodworking toolsets to the Orsterran guild of carpenters, and twelve months' worth of ingredients to the biggest apothecary in town. He registered the sale of eighty bolts of cloth, sixty-two boxes of blank illumination-quality books, twenty-seven crates of grain, nine coffee presses, and seventy-three casks of first-quality Grennan and Firehaly wines.

By closing time, he was still taking notes for backorders from five different wholesalers, while the porters at the back waited around, twiddling their thumbs.

When at last he shut the shop door and locked it, turning the sign to display that they were closed, Ali had sold merchandises totalling some ninety thousand leaves, with another fifty-five to receive when ordered goods came in.

It was the best day he'd ever achieved. It was possibly the best day of sales anyone had ever known, ever. It sure felt that way, especially with the clapping that suddenly sounded from the back.

One of the warehouse shiftworkers whistled in celebration, and as the warehouse workers huddled in, he received another round of amused applause.

"That was the most amazing thing I ever saw," young Jasper said.

"It was," one of the superintendents agreed. "But now we'll need wares to trade tomorrow."

Tomorrow was not in his purview, technically, but Ali leaned against the counter, exhausted. "Tomorrow we'll keep the warehouse doors shut, and operate on backorder. No one needs to know that we're out of goods."

"We have that shipment coming in from Azurra," the warehouse team lead said. "And a few smaller skids of preserved vegetables and salted jerkies."

"I heard the boxes of hoopskirt and corset bones were going to be early," another said.

Hoopskirt and corset boning. Ali wanted to let out an exhausting laugh. That would be fun for a man to sell. Maybe he could invent himself a sister… But then, that would be a lie, and he did have principles.

Tressa appeared among the warehouse workers, her expression jovial. "Alright, everyone, your shift has been over for an hour. Don't you have families who worry about you?"

"We had to see the end of it," Jasper said, nodding to Ali, who was trying very hard not to look at the way Tressa's dress moved around her legs.

Tressa's eyes were on him. Ali peeled his gaze away from her boots. "I have to admit," she said, "I knew you'd do a good job. I didn't realize you'd do this good of a job."

It was a glowing assessment. It took everything for Ali to merely shrug, as though the effort hadn't drained him of every last coin and figment of energy. "I keep my promises."

"As do I," she said, smiling. "You, sir, are hired."

"Wait," Jasper hissed to his supervisor as he was milling out with the others, "that was his interview?"

Ali didn't hear the supervisor's response, because Tressa had joined his side, leaning against the counter. Before them, the shop and its shelves were woefully, bizarrely empty of most goods.

"You sold me out," Tressa said, as though she could scarcely believe it. "I thought I had enough wares to last me until next fall."

"You don't mind, right?" Ali asked. Sometimes not having enough products to sell was as bad as holding on to too many.

She shook her head. "I'll just have to increase inventory. Although…" She glanced at him sideways, pursing her lips, "I would appreciate a heads-up next time you decide to send runners out."

So she had heard about that. Ali buried his head in his arms. "Even the best merchant is useless without the ears of the masses, you know," he muttered to the counter surface.

She startled him by running a hand over his back, patting him through his shirt as comfortingly as she could. "It's alright, I'm only teasing you. You really outdid yourself."

He peered up from the cradle of his arms. "Thanks. But it would have been much more difficult if you'd selected poor quality items. As it was, I didn't have to extol on their virtues; they were obvious."

She smiled with pleasure; she had dimples when she smiled. "It sounds like we make a pretty good team."

Ali liked the way she said that. A team. It was exactly what he had hoped to become, with her. When he'd sent her off all those years ago, with that suggestion she grow more refined, it had only been to mask… what was it? Longing? Fear of leaving?

"Well," Tressa said, suddenly aware they'd been staring at one another a breath too long in silence, "um. Be honest now, do you have a place to sleep tonight?"

He didn't. His pockets contained enough to buy a few meals, but not enough for an inn room that guaranteed he'd wake up in the morning with all his organs. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again...

Tressa sighed, but there was a hint of fondness in her expression that comforted him. "I didn't think so," she said. "Come on, then. I have a spare bedroll."

Ali followed her up the stairs, into that familiar cozy living room, with its yellow curtains and its small dining table. She had arranged a bedroll by the fireplace, and Ali shot her a curious look.

She shrugged, rolling her eyes with embarrassment. "When I realized you'd hired runners― I figured you'd have nothing left."

"But you didn't know I would succeed," Ali said, tentatively.

Tressa eyed him with a look he struggled to decipher. Then she snorted, utterly unladylike, and muttered something that might have been 'idiot'.

He didn't get to ask, though, because she added, "Have you eaten? I have some passable stew, or some grilled fish."

"Either," he said, his mouth going dry.

She nodded, and chose the fish, which she plated along with a selection of fresh Grandport vegetables. It was simple fare, the likes that didn't betray her actual wealth. She set the plate in front of him as he took a seat at her table, and went back into her tiny kitchen, puttering about for fresh water.

"I wanted your opinion," she said, from within one of her cabinets, so that her voice was slightly muffled.

"About what?" He asked, the fork halfway to his mouth.

She re-emerged from the cabinet with an elegant glass ― Phenitian glass, by the looks of it ― and filled it at the pump, strands of hair now loose from her short braid. When she placed the glass in front of him, she straightened and put a hand to her waist. "Do I look like a guppy?"

Ali chewed. "A guppy?" He echoed, mouth full.

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "A guppy. Someone with no experience."

It was Ali's turn to snort. "Well, I know that you're not. No one wins the Grandport fair without some measure of mercantile skill."

She smiled ruefully, but Ali could tell she was still dissatisfied.

"Who called you a guppy?" He asked, frowning.

She pulled out the chair across from him. He motioned to his food with his fork, but she waved him off, with a mention that she had eaten already.

"It's just," she said, "When the port authority wardens heard I was twenty-one―"

"Nearly twenty-two," Ali corrected her, cutting off another morsel of fish.

"Right, but twenty-one all the same," she said, annoyed at his interruption, which made him smile, "they started calling me a guppy. They said I'd be out of here in no time. That I bit off more that I can chew."

Ali paused, frowned. "Well, they're wrong." Especially after today. "Clearly."

Tressa sighed, placed her cheek in her hand with frustration. "They said the previous renter of the warehouse would return with funds. They suggested I employ a money-lender, that I'd get some good advances―"

"Against what rates?" Ali asked, and she gestured emphatically. He snorted. "That's advice they give to every merchant. They probably thought you were too young to know any better."

"I know," she said, mournfully. "But it got me thinking. Maybe I do look… young. Too young. Not serious enough."

Ali's gaze lifted, went to her face.

Tressa Colzione did look young. She always had. With that sweet oval face, her short brown hair, her bright eyes, her pink lips, and that tendency she had to favour sunny colours, she had always looked several years younger than her age. Especially when she had been surrounded by her older friends, those seven travelers.

But the shapes that lurked under her dress, all feminine, had not a trace of childishness to them.

He looked away, but his throat felt tight. "I know plenty of women who'd kill to look as―" Lovely, pretty, sweet... "... young as you do."

She made a sound in her throat that was pure annoyance. "That's beside the point," she groaned. "Maybe wholesalers won't want to deal with me if they think I look like some inexperienced beginner."

"They won't have a choice," Ali said, grinning. "If you continue on this road, you'll be an inevitable staple of Grandport."

"With your help," she said, softly.

"If you'll have me until then," Ali said.

She was silent, but something of her spark was returning to her eyes, and at last she said, "Well, sure. I did hire you, didn't I?" She leaned forward on the table, both elbows propped on her yellow tablecloth. "So, enough business talk. How have you been?"

The days that followed were a blur. Mostly because Tressa was busy from dawn to dusk. After Ali's stunt, they had been up to their eyeballs in order requests, which had only just begun to trickle off when Captain Leon returned with another shipment, Bifelgan bless him.

Her days, busy though they were, began to follow a predictable, pleasant pattern. She'd rise to find Ali usually preparing breakfast, his eyes almost as bleary as her own, which was a great opportunity to admire the bare expanse of his back. Ali, she had discovered, liked to sleep without a shirt, a habit that most Sunlanders kept. Or so he said. She had never asked Primrose about it, and anyway the dancer was too far away to interrogate.

Once they both inhaled their breakfast, Ali dressed and went down to the shop, where he usually kept busy until lunch, while Tressa was off to the warehouse to go about her daily business ― management. At lunch, she'd return to prepare small sandwiches to share with Ali and whichever team lead was on duty that day. They'd discuss the accounts, the shipments, and Ali would ask for her input on his sales pitches, a kind intention that they both knew was just him being polite. He never needed her assistance, which was just as well, since her afternoons were usually spent out of the warehouse, scouring the docks, quays and markets for interesting goods or, better yet, interesting business opportunities.

By the time she returned, at dinner, Ali was done closing up the shop and had begun cooking a light meal, which allowed her to go over the books.

It was a little scary, really, how easily they'd fallen into their pattern. They would eat together, rarely in silence, chatting about their day, their ideas for the future of the Concern, or, more often, they'd tell the stories of their journeys. She'd tell him about the day Alfyn had offered to teach Ophilia how to fish, and the great splashes that had completely muddied the cleric's robes. Ali would describe in great detail the way a thunderstorm had once left a vast expanse of sand marred with little burned craters where desert glass could be found.

She told him about Therion and his terrible habit of filching goods out of people's pockets, and the way Olberic liked to glower at him for it.

"Sir Olberic is like a big brother," she had said. "Although I guess he could technically be old enough to be my father."

Ali had snorted, and traded his own story about the day his father had managed to buy an entire crate of unmarked bottles of plum wine, which made them almost worthless, and how a restaurant had taken them anyway for a ridiculous price because the owner had noted Maruf's reluctance to discuss them in his shop, and falsely assumed they were worth ten times their value.

That evening, Tressa had just finished telling him about the time Cyrus had spent a full day following H'aanit around, prodding her about her pet leopard, to the huntress' great annoyance, when Ali handed her a glass of pear juice and joined her in the other armchair, in front of the fireplace. His bedroll had been tucked out of the way, as it always was in the evenings.

"It sounds like you really had a good time with them," Ali said, smiling over the rim of his own glass. In the firelight, his skin looked even more tan, and his green eyes were bright with amusement.

"I did," Tressa said, fondly. Her memories were among the most precious thing she held. Absently, her fingers found the Eldrite, and she was awash with the recollection of Primrose laughing at something Alfyn had said, of the sight of H'aanit trying to dance, of Cyrus cursing as he tried to learn a new spell and instead ignited the corner of his robes. "Sometimes I miss them, but it helps to know we'll see each other soon."

Ali took a sip. "Is that so?"

She sank further into her armchair, content to put her feet up towards the fire. "I'll be heading out to Bolderfall in ten weeks." Two months and a half. A delicate time to step away from the Concern, but not negotiable. "We have an annual meeting coming up." There was no way she'd miss it.

Ali looked surprised. "Really? I didn't know."

Tressa nodded, pleased. "I'll probably take the opportunity to arrange for the transport of goods while I'm there." She glanced at him. "Hey, partner, you won't mind being in charge while I'm away, right?"

He snorted. "No, of course not. I'll take any chance to prove myself." His expression shifted. "Will you be gone… a long time?"

She laughed. "Don't you worry, I'll be back before you can get too comfortable."

But then her eyes went around the small apartment she kept, and her cheeks began to feel warm. She averted her gaze.

"Is something the matter?"

There was, of course, and like so many other matters Tressa felt woefully inadequate to discuss it. She didn't have H'aanit's poise or Primrose's easy conversation. And even Ophilia, who could be easily embarrassed, at least had some sort of graceful and gentle approach to delicate subjects. But as it was, Tressa's only skill was to blurt things out. "So, uh, listen, if you want to invite company over―"

"Company?" Ali echoed, lowering his glass.

She could feel her cheeks flush in the firelight, and couldn't meet his gaze. "You know, female company. Just, uh, if you could change out my sheets―"

"Whoa―" Ali said, suddenly straightening. He was visibly alarmed, and when he spoke he stammered, "Whoa, there, I'm not― I mean, I don't think that's―"

"It's completely natural," she said, barreling on, interrupting him, "I know men have needs. I may not be experienced, but I can― I wouldn't blame you if you took the opportunity of my absence to, uh… To find someone―"

"Tress," Ali said, and Tressa realized she had thoroughly embarrassed him. Well, at least that made two of them.

"Look, I know," she said, "it's a conversation that we're better off having right now, especially if we're going to be roommates for a while."

"I appreciate your concern," Ali said, flatly, "but I think I'd rather not."

"You can totally use my bed," she said, thinking she was more than generous, "really."

He muttered something she couldn't make out, and took another sip of pear juice.

Tressa knew she had a tendency to soar far beyond people's comfort zones. But like so many of her personal flaws, she couldn't stop herself. "It would just make sense," she said, hating her unstoppable babble mouth, "for an attractive guy like yourself― I mean, since you can't while I'm here."

Now he did look at her, and one of his dark eyebrows quirked. "Attractive?"

Gods. She probably looked like a pomegranate. "I mean―"

"No," Ali said, and now she saw a corner of his lips had quirked up. "Please, go on, Miss Colzione. You said I was attractive. Don't deny it."

She wasn't going to deny it. She couldn't. Not when he looked at her like that, like a cait in cream. Instead, she exhaled shakily and managed an uncertain smile. "I just meant that if, uh, some other girl, not me, some other girl, happened to notice― and if, uh, you liked her too, I guess ― then I suppose it's fine if you don't bring her home to a shoddy bedroll, is all."

"How generous," Ali said, but he was still grinning like a fool, his gaze dark and amused.

"I thought so," Tressa muttered, forcing herself to drink more pear juice. She wanted to sink into the armchair and disappear.

"Well," Ali said, at length, "I guess it's my turn to say that if you need me to make myself scarce, you just need to say so, and I'll find some other place to sleep for a night or two."

Oh, Bifelgan help her. That would be the absolute most embarrassing thing. She felt a rush of heat flush all over her. "That won't be―"

"I mean, I guess I can't blame you," Ali continued, talking to his glass, lightly. "That Captain Bastralle really cuts a dashing figure."

Captain… Bastralle? For a moment, she forgot her embarrassment, and merely eyed him with confused dismay. "Mister Leon?"

Ali wasn't looking at her. His eyes were on the fire. "Sure. Why not? He's handsome enough, right? I know he admires you."

For her business acumen, sure. Tressa wanted to shake Ali, protest with gagging sounds. Instead, she fetched a cushion out from behind her and threw it at him, missing by a mile. "Mister Leon is almost as old as Sir Olberic!"

Ali seemed surprised by her outburst, glancing at the cushion where it had come to rest on the floor, behind his chair, but barely moved. His gaze on her was scrutinizing. "It's been done before," he said, slowly.

Maybe by other people. Tressa wanted to dust the very accusations off herself, physically. "We're not like that," she protested. "He's not― he's not my type."

"Your type?" Ali echoed. Now a small smile pulled at his lips again. "I was unaware you had a type."

So had she, until she'd seen the way the firelight looked on Ali.

A type, then. Ali was trying very hard not to look interested. She was clearly flustered, which made it infinitely more difficult. When Tressa Colzione was flustered, she looked completely charming, all pink cheeks and bright eyes.

She rose from her chair before he could pry further, and mumbled something about going to bed, and Ali knew she'd taken as much teasing as she could for one evening. With a muttered good night, she wandered to the back of her apartment, to that place he would never dare enter without her permission, especially with a female guest. A moment later, her door closed, and he was left in front of the fireplace, wondering how in the world he'd just finished a conversation about sex with Tressa Colzione.

Tressa Colzione, who managed to look sweetly rumpled in the morning.

And who vehemently denied any infatuation for Bastralle.

Ali leaned his head back in the armchair, trying not to grin to himself and failing.

An attractive guy like yourself, she'd said.

Ali went to sleep that night in better spirits than he had in a long, long time.

He woke the next morning to an empty apartment. Tressa's door was open, but she was nowhere to be found. She'd had a quick breakfast, but he hadn't heard her. The clock on the mantle said he was up at his usual hour. So when had she gotten up?

He wandered downstairs half an hour later, but Tressa had left already, Jasper said, to answer a summons from the portmaster and, hopefully, catch a shipping corvette before it raised anchor. Of course she'd go herself, without sending a messenger.

Ali went about his day, forcing himself not to notice the voices in the warehouse out back, pretending he wasn't keenly listening for the familiar higher pitch of a certain young female merchant on her way back from her errands―

"Hey, boss, there's a guy here says he wants to talk to the man in charge."

Ali glanced over his shoulder at Don, the day's shiftmate, who was peering at him over the saloon doors.

Shutting the order book, Ali put the bell on the counter and strode out back. "You know I'm not the boss."

"Little miss said that while she was out and about, you was," Don flatly declared, as though the matter was settled. He motioned to a young man with a cart, standing in the embrasure of the warehouse doors, looking around him with awe at the bustle of activity. Around them, men were shifting cargo, making room for a large expected shipment. "That's the guy."

Ali dusted his hands on his trousers and extended his palm out. "Ali bin Maruf. Who are you?"

The young man shook his hand automatically, then said, "I need to speak to the owner― 's that you?"

"She's out," Ali said. "I'm authorized to do business on her behalf. What's that?"

"She's―" When he looked uncomfortable, the man looked even younger. Ali would have given him seventeen years, perhaps. At most. Nervously, the lad continued, "Sorry. I didn't realize― I was told I 'ad to deliver this to warehouse two on the Grand Quay―" He was clutching a crumpled paper in his hand. "To Mr. Gerard?"

Ali frowned, then turned. "Hey, Don―" He called, and the shiftmate turned, frowning. "Do we have a Gerard on the books?"

"No― I'm sorry," the lad interrupted, before Don could reply, "Mr. Gerard owned the concern 'ere three months ago. Is 'e― has 'e―"

"New ownership," Ali said, as Don returned to his business. "This is the Colzione Concern now."

The young man grew pale. He showed the paper, where illegible scribbles seemed to make sense to him. "No, I― No, I need to see Mr. Gerard. 'e promised." He looked at his cart in dismay. "'e promised 'e'd pay us."

"Well," Ali said, slowly, "this warehouse was repossessed and auctioned off again, to a new signatory. Whoever your Mr. Gerard is, he couldn't pay for his lease."

But the lad was hardly listening. He was muttered to himself with obvious dismay. "'e was― 'e said… 'e promised he'd pay if we got him a full shipment. This is the shipment. I told him it would take time."

Ali reached out, seized the lad's shoulder and steadied him. "Hey, it's alright."

"You don't understand," the lad said, and Ali saw he was suddenly on the verge of tears. "This shipment― We need that money, my brothers and I. 'e promised."

Ali's eyes slid towards the cart. It was covered with a thick leather tarp, but didn't seem overly full. "Well, maybe I can help you. What's in there?"

The lad shook his head. "I can't― I 'ave to find Mr. Gerard…"

"Mr. Gerard is no longer doing business here," Ali said. "You'll be lucky if you find him in Grandport, given the amount of debt businesses like these can rack up. Maybe try the taverns."

The lad looked speechless, his gaze vacant. Ali knew that look. It was the look he'd had after giving everything up and leaving his father. Being forced to start anew.

"Or," he said, more gently, "you can show me what's in that cart and I can decide whether or not Colzione can take your shipment instead."

"'e promised thirty thousand leaves," the lad said, suddenly hopeful.

Thirty thousand leaves? Ali nearly balked. No wonder Gerard had closed shop, if that was his going rate for half-filled carts. In his most optimistic voice, he said, "Well, uh, we'll see what you got first, and then I'll see if I can get you any good rates."

The lad nodded eagerly. He climbed on the wheel spoke and pulled back the tarp, revealing crates and crates and crates of tins.

Ali reached in, pulling one of the tins out of its crate, and pried the lid off.

And saw teeth. Plenty of loose animal teeth, rattling around in the metal can. Animal teeth, to judge by their size, but teeth all the same, in every size, from the sharp canines to the broad molars.

The next tin also had teeth, as did every tin in every crate. There had to be enough teeth to give dentures to a thousand creatures.

Resisting the urge to grimace, Ali closed the tin and said, "What are these?"

The lad blinked. "They're… teeth."

Not the brightest jewel on the necklace, this one. Ali sighed patiently. "Yes, but what for?"

The lad shook his head. "I don't know. Mr. Gerard wanted them. Lots of them. So me and my brothers went back to the Woodlands ― we live there ― and 'unted down as many of the werehares as we could."

"Werehares? What's that?"

"Giant hares," Don said, interrupting. He leaned on the side of the cart, clearly surprised by the number of tins. "Carnivorous, though, not like sweet bunnies from the farm. Folk stories say they steal children away from their beds. Hogwash. Didn't think they still existed."

"They don't," the lad said. "Not in the woods around Victor's Hollow, anyway. But deeper in the backforests, they're still around. Collars'll get them same as any other creature."

"Right," Ali said, slightly disgusted. He placed the tin back in its crate. "And werehare teeth are… did your Mr. Gerard say nothing about why he wanted these? He sent you off to... eradicate the species, by the looks of it, and he never told you why?"

The lad shrugged, utterly gormless.

Ali sighed. "Look, I don't know what purpose your Mr. Gerard had for a bunch of teeth. You don't know either. As far as anyone knows, these are useless― let me finish," he said, when the lad started to speak. "And I'll be hard-pressed to find any use for them. But," he continued, ignoring the churlish expression on the lad's face, "I get that you're down on your luck. I know what that's like. So if you want, I'll take your shipment for six thousand."

Don's eyebrows went up to his balding hairline. The lad gawped, but for a different reason.

"Six thousand?" He echoed, distraught. "But Mr. Gerard promised thirty!"

"Thirty," Don muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "At least twenty-nine too many."

"You can take it or leave it," Ali shrugged. "Maybe you'll find Mr. Gerard in one of Grandport's taverns, and maybe he'll have more than a tab to pay you with. It's up to you."

And then Ali gave the cart a hearty tap, and began to walk away.

"No, wait," the young man said, looking miserable. "I'll… I guess I'll take it."

Ali smiled. A quick look at Don, who was shaking his head, and he wondered how he'd explain his act of pity to Tressa.

"The little miss won't be happy about this," Don said, when the lad was gone, having donated even his cart and mule for an additional two thousand, which was more than generous, given the state of both object and creature.

They stood looking at the crates, and Ali sighed through his nose.

"Nonsense," he finally said. "Werehare teeth have got to be good for something, especially in this quantity." Especially if good old Gerard had been willing to buy them for thirty thousand leaves. Thirty thousand! A ridiculous sum. "Maybe we can sell them for the weight of ivory."

"Hardly any ivory to be salvaged from giant hare teeth," Don said, pursing his lips. "Maybe they can be ground into dust, sold to unwitting apothecaries."

"That," Ali said, "would be unethical."

"Yeah, like buying a cartload of crap with money that ain't yours."

Ali glanced at Don, annoyed. "What happened to 'boss'?"

Don shrugged. "I'm not explaining this one to the miss. You'll have to do that on your own."

"I was going to. Geesh. Will you at least help me unload the cart and take Finnula to the stable?"

"Finnula?" Don echoed, frowning.

"The mule. Finnula the mule." Ali gestured ineffectually, but Don didn't smile. He wasn't the smiling type. "Look, don't worry, if Tress doesn't want several dozens of pounds of animal parts, I'll repay her myself and offload them on my own time."

Don went off, muttering to himself, and called on several of the men to help. Then, Ali went back to the shop.

Only to find Tressa had returned, and, with her, the portmaster.

Tressa was not having a good day. Shipments were doing fine and the cash flow problems seemed on their way to being resolved, but an early morning summons to visit the port authority buildings never boded well, especially when the port authorities then requested to visit her Concern in person.

"It just seems… unlikely, Miss Colzione," the portmaster said. He was large and mustachioed and smelled faintly of stale sweat and tobacco. He reminded her a little of a walrus. "And you know that in situations such as these, we must investigate."

"Investigate what?" She asked, impatiently. "My business is all perfectly above-board. We haven't accepted any illegal merchandise, and we certainly haven't been selling counterfeit goods. I've respected all business curfews, I've paid all your supplemental fees on time, and I―"

"Miss Colzione," the portmaster's assistant said, with a note of disdain even Tressa couldn't mistake, "It would be best if you let us perform the necessary checks without further obstruction."

"Obstruction?"

"We must see your logs," the man continued, almost sounding bored. "Wherever your sums are coming from, they must be accounted for. Grandport does not tolerate rule-bending."

"Rule-bending," Tressa repeated, astounded.

This was ridiculous. First, they'd suggested she might wish to move to a smaller warehouse, one better suited for her stature. And then they'd suggested she was getting herself into incredible debt for nothing. And then the portmaster had given her a paternalistic pat on the shoulder that had given her the creeps.

Now this ― because she had refused all their suggestions to move out. The Colzione Concern was doing fantastically well, she had argued. But they still wanted to see the books. They didn't believe her.

It was unfair. She was young, that was true, but she knew how to keep books. And what was more, she knew how to turn a profit. Just because she was a young woman didn't mean she couldn't hold her own in Grandport, same as the others. Did they do this to any of the other merchants?

"Your books, Miss Tressa," the assistant said.

"I only have one copy―" She began, and the men exchanged looks. Looks that implied she was the very guppy they thought she was. So what if she hadn't hired copyists? Not everyone could afford their rates.

"We shall take your books integrally, then," the assistant said. Then, with insufferable munificence, he added, "Worry not, my dear. We shall take good care of them and return them in a week."

"A week!" Tressa exclaimed. "No, I need them."

"The rules," he said, firmly, "are the rules."

"What's going on?"

Tressa glanced at Ali, who had just appeared behind the counter.

The portmaster straightened. "Are you the shopmaster here?"

Ali's eyes flickered over to Tressa, and he nodded in her direction. "She is. I'm the financial backer."

The men exchanged another look. "Forgive me, sir, the financial backer, you said? From… er, private funds?"

"Yes," Ali said, crossing his arms. He looked supremely haughty in that moment. "From Marsalim. I'm the reason she's still afloat." His eyes narrowed. "Is that a problem?"

Clearly, the portmaster and his assistant had not expected this. In fact, they seemed perfectly thrown off-kilter. Tressa wanted to rip their heads off. Had they planned on bullying her into moving out? Were Ali's presence and lies the only reason they seemed so uncomfortable now and had stopped?

"It's no problem," the portmaster said, with a significant look at his assistant. He managed a polite smile. "And, ah, might we inquire as to when said funds will… er… run out?"

"Why?" Ali asked. "Are you that eager for the warehouse to be empty again?"

"Empty!" The assistant said, amused. "It would not be for long. Why, many other larger merchant concerns have already expressed an interest, for whenever Colzione shuts down. Especially the warehouse's previous tenant."

"At improved rates, no doubt," Ali said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing, gentlemen. This young lady has a very firm hand on my purse strings. We're not going anywhere."

The portmaster managed a polite nod. "Very well, sir, uh…?"

"You can call me Mister Ali," Ali replied, glowering. "And the next time you have an inquiry about where Miss Colzione's funds are coming from, you should meet with me."

The portmaster promised he would. In fact, he promised he'd return soon, to discuss the matter further. He and his assistant left with another tinkling of the bell.

At least they were out of her hair for now, which was good because Tressa felt ready to spear them through with a broomstick.

"What was that all about?" Ali asked.

"They want me out, obviously," Tressa said, in a black mood. She turned to him, frowned. "I thought you said you never tell a lie."

"I didn't lie," Ali replied. "You do have a tight hand on my purse strings, and I did back you with every last leaf I own. And you do owe your daily success to me." He shot her a cocky smile. "You're welcome."

Ah, technically right. Not a lie, then. She rolled her eyes. "You know, implications are lies of omission."

"It got them out of here, didn't it?"

It had. She sighed. "Yes. Thank you." She folded her arms on her counter and let out a pained groan. "Ali, the old owner wants his warehouse back. He's come into new money, and he's an old friend of the portmaster."

"What, Mr. Gerard?"

She furrowed a brow at him, confused. "You know about him?"

"Yeah," Ali said, reaching up to rub at his nape with discomfort. "So, about that. I might have done something stupid just now."

"More stupid than lying to the Grandport authorities about your cash flow?"

Ali hesitated, raised a finger. "Well," he began, with a breath, "technically, again, I must insist, I didn't lie. And to answer your question, yes. Potentially."

"Potentially," Tressa echoed, uncertain.

"I may potentially have purchased a worthless cartload of stuff for eight thousand leaves."

Eight thousand leaves for a worthless cartload of stuff. Tressa blinked at him. Ali bin Maruf was not stupid. So why was he confessing to something so astoundingly stupid right now?

"I felt sorry for the porter," Ali explained, and Tressa let out another groan of annoyance.

"Ugh, Ali…"

"No, I know― it's just, listen to this."

The story he told her was just as incredible. She followed him out to the warehouse, where the men were unloading the cart, and opened a tin of teeth, to find they were exactly as Ali had described: teeth. Lots of them.

"Ewww," she drawled, disgusted. "Teeth? Just… How many poor things did they kill to get this many?"

"A fuckton," Ali muttered. "But the amount Gerard had quoted seemed absurd, so I took a chance. Maybe they have worth."

"And you believed the porter?" Tressa asked, flatly. "You know that's a common tactic for them."

"No liar that good can fake stupidity that well. Who spends months hunting for products on request without an advance payment?"

"An idiot," Tressa conceded, with reluctance. "But still." She rattled the tin. The teeth inside made a noise like a maracas. "This is disgusting."

"I'll say," Ali agreed. "But I'll find a way to sell them at a profit."

"For now leave them in the unsorteds," Tressa said, exasperated. "Someone will have to inventory these." She shuddered. Yeah, she'd have Ali do it. "I'm not touching them."

Ali recognized the look in her eyes and rolled his own. "Fine, yes, I'll do it. It is my fault."

She shook her head and smiled. "It's alright, really. Just knowing we might potentially have damaged Mister Gerard's ambitions redeems my morning a little. I'll be in my office," she added, when he shot her a warm smile that got all the way into her belly, "making copies of my books."

"Good luck," he said.

Tressa ignored the way his voice had dropped an octave to wish her that. It lended his voice a sort of charming seductiveness that she was wholly unequipped to deal with. Feeling more like an ugly duckling than like a competent swan, she left him to handle things and strode out.

By the Flame, she had called him attractive last night, to his face. Reaching up to touch her cheeks, she was unsurprised to find them somewhat flushed. Not that she had time to think about any of it.

The rest of the afternoon went by in merciful peace. The whistles rang the hours, until at last the end of the day sounded and she unfurled herself from her books, stretching out her arms and curling her agonized wrists.

It was telling how much she looked forward to seeing Ali again, to settle into a quiet evening with him. At last.

Flitting back out into the warehouse, she was in time to wave her workers off cheerfully. Ali had closed the shop front already. He was in the back, shifting crates around to make room for the tins of teeth.

"The whistle has sounded, you know," she called, as she approached.

He turned, hefting a crate. "I know," he said, and Tressa saw he was covered in a sheen of sweat.

Weirdly, this didn't bother her. She hesitated.

"I just," he said, with a breath, as he placed the crate he was holding securely on top of another, "wanted to get ahead, since I can't during the work day."

"Right," she said. "But you also need to take breaks. The pay accounts for that."

Ali snorted. "I know, Tress." He bent to pick up another box.

She liked when he called her Tress. Feeling oddly warm, she bent over to help him.

Together, they moved several boxes out of the way, clearing a small alcove in the shelving for the new crates of tins.

They reached for the last box― and Tressa paused, her eyes meeting his.

"I've got it," he said, with a smile, and hefted the box.

"Thanks," she muttered, and turned away. Gods, but he had a debilitating effect on her when he smiled like that. She had been warned, of course, that handsome men did that, and she'd witnessed the way Cyrus could incapacitate hordes of women with a single smile, but she had considered herself above those silly frivolities. And she had been so sure that her immunity to Cyrus and Olberic and Therion and Alfyn meant she was immune to all men.

She was an idiot, clearly.

She was contemplating her own naivety when his hand landed on her shoulder and she startled, catching herself by stepping backwards―

Onto his foot.

He yelped and she turned, her shoulder accidentally pushing him, so that, destabilized by his aching foot, he tumbled backwards. And of course, she toppled with him. They landed in a pile of packing straw, sending dust motes and straw flying.

Of course.

Well, it figured. It completely figured.

H'aanit would never have been caught off guard. Primrose would have been too agile to send them both tumbling down. And Ophilia wouldn't be clumsy enough to have landed in a man's lap, face squashed against his warm chest, and if she had― not that she would ― she'd have had the grace to make herself light enough, somehow, to not completely take the wind out of his lungs.

But not Tressa. Never Tressa.

Bifelgan, it figured.

Utterly frozen with mortification, she wondered where to begin. Her arms had looped past his stomach, in a desperate bid to brace, and her entire body was pressed against his, so that she was forced to acknowledge the damn shapes that lurked under his shirt― and her traitorous body reacted to that. He was solid, all lean muscle, and he radiated heat like a furnace.

Not that Tressa wasn't radiating heat. Her embarrassment alone would have rekindled the Sacred Flame itself.

"Tressa?" His voice rumbled, deep and muffled against her ear, and she realized she was still pressed against his chest. "Are you alright?"

Bifelgan above, she needed help. She started to scramble to get away, but the only way to push away was to brace against his chest and damn it, he was so firm and lean― why were men so damn fun to touch? Not that she was touching him for fun ― and when she was sitting up between his legs, she realized he was looking at her with genuine concern.

"Are you hurt?" He asked. He looked at her hands, her arms, and said, "I tried to cushion your fall, but I think I might have failed. You look… unwell."

Cushion her fall? Oh, Bifelgan and all the gods above. "Er―"

"I didn't mean to startle you," he added, with a wince. "I just wanted to suggest we head out to a tavern for food instead of cooking. We both had a rough day." His eyes went to her hands on his chest and he chuckled, making her whole body jerk with each laugh. "But I guess that's not my best idea."

His voice trailed off, and Tressa realized she was very close to him.

When the thought came, it was intrusive, sudden, irrational. Stupid, like her.

She wanted to kiss him.

And she couldn't be sure, but she had the inkling he was thinking the same thing. His breath was shallow under her fingers, his heart was racing. His eyes were green.

"Tress…"

Oh, Flame take her. She felt her face flush deep and hot, the last remnants of her common sense flapping wildly in the wind like tatters. She clung to them desperately. Gods, no, she was not going to kiss Ali. Not Ali. Ali who called her Green Pea and suggested she grow more refined. Ali who gave her all those cocky smiles and outsold her on the market.

Not Ali.

Still, his hand came up, took her chin, and she let him, wordlessly, feeling her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

There was no way she was attracted to him.

Right?

But then the question was moot, because Ali ran his hand to her nape, pulled her in, and kissed her.

Fireworks.

Ali had seen fireworks in his childhood, back in Marsalim, for the birth of the princess. He had seen explosions of colour, felt booming rattle all the way into his bones. He had seen big fireworks and small fireworks. He'd even seen one shaped like a dragon, all paper and wiring, spitting fire and multicoloured sparks. He'd seen massive booms in the sky, preceded by high-pitched whistling. He'd smelled the acrid scent of burning metals, had enjoyed the spectacle with such awe that he had been convinced nothing would ever surpass such as fantastical display.

Nothing in his life had ever compared to the magnificence and bombast of that fireworks show.

Until he kissed Tressa Colzione.

It wasn't like he had planned it. He hadn't known it would happen, so he hadn't exactly spent all day excited with anticipation.

And he hadn't imagined it before ― not for lack of imagination, but rather for fear it would be too tempting. Oh, alright, maybe he had imagined it once or twice, but only because it was damned hard not to imagine something when you were actively trying not to. Like trying not to think of elephants.

But there you have it. When she had landed in his lap, literally, Ali had swiftly come to the decision that a good merchant seized every opportunity.

So he had kissed her.

It was glorious, and Ali never used that word unless he was trying to sell soap to very uptight madams. He was quickly concluding that he had used the word in a wholly wrong context, nearly ruining its true meaning. Soap was not glorious. Not on this level.

And Tressa― she had buried her fingers in the folds of his shirt and was earnestly kissing him back, all eagerness and soft forms. She was light and sweet. She tasted like cinnamon, and that adorable little tongue, that gentle set of lips…

Ali let her kiss him willingly, melting into the moment without a fight. She was warm, she smelled nice, she was pleasant to the touch―

And she was pressing against his―

He broke away for air, laughing nervously, "Ahh-lright, I think we need to, uh, maybe―"

"We can't go out to the tavern," she mumbled, frowning. "I need to keep copying my books."

Ali blinked. Oh. That. She hadn't moved from him, and that wasn't helping his blood return to his brain. He opened his mouth, his mind went blank, and then he recovered his train of thought: "Right. Alright."

"I can maybe call for someone to bring the meal here," she continued, and Ali was rewarded with a close-up view of Tressa when she pouted thoughtfully. She still sat between his legs, uncomfortably close to a part of his anatomy that was responding far too eagerly. "But I can't― I mean, you can go out if you'd like."

"Or I could stay in," he breathlessly said, too scared to move.

"You could," she said, and he was happy to see her own breath was shallow.

"And I could kiss you again," he added, hopefully.

"You could do that," she agreed, very seriously.

This time, when he reached up, she leaned in voluntarily, and once again the fireworks exploded in his mind. She slammed his senses every time, sending a trail of fire flaring everywhere she touched.

Gods, and all she was doing was kiss him. What would it be if they were naked?

The thought of Tressa naked did something to his body ― a sudden rush of heat flooded him, and he felt his increasingly painful erection throb a little.

Fuck, he needed to stop right now.

She broke away, and suddenly Ali was kissing air. "Wait," she breathed. "You said they were werehare teeth."

Like whiplash, Ali found himself once again bewildered by her racing thoughts. He made a sound that was halfway between 'what?' and 'bluh?' and then suddenly Tressa was off him, pushing to her feet, leaving him in her dust.

"Werehares―" She started, then mumbled something to herself, and frowned. "But maybe if I asked Alfyn…"

Alfyn? Ali resisted the urge to scowl. Seriously? She went straight from kissing him to thinking about the apothecary?

Tressa whirled back to him as he stood, brushing himself off. "Ali― there's something I can't remember about werehares, but I have a sinking suspicion that it's not good." She looked at the crates of tins he was about to store away. "Who else knows about these?"

Ali gestured vaguely. "Me, you, Don, the guy who delivered them―"

"Do you know his name?"

Ali shook his head. "No."

Tressa screwed her lips into a thoughtful pout. "We should keep this to ourselves until I make inquiries. Here, help me cover them up." She retrieved a large jute tarp, and Ali reluctantly helped her cover the skid of boxes, then stood back, ruminating darkly about pretty female merchants, interfering apothecaries, and the vagaries of his pathetic love life.

Tressa wrote a note for the porters to move the skid back under a shelf alcove in the morning and pinned it to the tarp. Then, as Ali watched, she dusted her hands off against her skirts and made for the stairs up to her lodgings.

He was an idiot, getting all worked up over a kiss with Tressa Colzione, whose mind apparently had no room for romantic or physical pursuits―

"Ali."

He blinked, and saw she had turned and was looking at him.

"What?"

She smiled at him with a wince. "Would you mind coming along on my errands tonight?"

With a sigh, Ali admitted defeat. "... Sure."

"It's a bit late for the brewing of love potions," the apothecary deadpanned, when Tressa asked if his shop was still open.

The store, like the streets, was mostly void of activity. The last client had walked out before Ali opened the door for her, and the activity in the streets was cooling off. It would reprise in the morning.

"Love potions?" She echoed. Next to her, Ali raised a single brow, but said nothing. Looking at him filled Tressa with a strange glow, so she averted her gaze.

"Marketing," the apothecary deadpanned again. "Really it's a concoction for 'performance' problems." He shot Ali a meaningful stare.

Tressa blinked, but Ali didn't seem interested in clearing up what that meant. Instead, he glared at the apothecary. "I think we'll be fine," he ground out, between clenched teeth.

"You think?" The apothecary drawled. But he seemed not to care either way. "Well, if you say so. What do you want, then?"

Tressa shot him her most dazzling, winning smile. "I was wondering if you knew anything about werehare teeth?"

"Werehare… teeth." The apothecary echoed. He looked from Tressa to Ali, then back to Tressa, and his already hooded eyes narrowed further. "What's this all about?"

"Do they have… uses?" Tressa asked, lamely. "In, uh, apothecary circles?"

The apothecary studied her for a long moment. Next to her, Ali shifted, and Tressa ignored the way his presence felt like a radiance. "Well," the man said, warily, "I suppose. In a way."

He was uncomfortable. Menacing. Tressa wasn't sure why.

"We're just curious," Ali said. "Heard someone around here had a few. We're merchants, so we want to know if werehare teeth have any market value."

Ah. Ali always had a way of mentioning things she tended to forget. Like explanations. Tressa would have slapped her forehead. Instead, she shot him a grateful smile that he returned.

The apothecary still looked at them with suspicion. "Well, they'd have market value in some circles. Not among apothecaries, though. We're concerned with the healing and caring of people."

Did he think they didn't know that? Or was he saying… Tressa inhaled. "You're saying werehare teeth hurt people."

The apothecary shrugged a thin shoulder. "They can."

Ali raised a finger. "Right, but if said teeth are no longer inside the jaw of the werehare itself― then what could you do with them?"

"Right," Tressa agreed, brightly. "Just the teeth. Not through a bite."

The apothecary scowled at them both. "Look, I don't know what you're playing at. I don't have any here, but if you manage to find some bastard to sell you some, you need to be careful with the dosage. A milliseed of pulp should be more than enough for your statures. Anything more and you'd die."

Tressa blinked up at the man. Then, she looked at Ali.

Ali was frowning in clear confusion, his dark brows furrowed together.

"Sir," he said. "I don't know what impression we've given you. But we're honestly just curious."

The apothecary sighed. "Right. Well, can't be too careful nowadays." He motioned for them to approach his counter and pulled out a tooth. This one was much larger than the teeth Ali had purchased. "For centuries we've resorted to extracting tooth pulp for all kinds of remedies." He showed them the fleshy pink inside with a dirty nail. "Cow pulp is good for the humours, some say. Others claim horse tooth pulp cured them of botulism." He seemed tired, but he had apparently decided to volunteer information. "But some pulps are far more potent than others. For instance, rockadillo teeth pulp induces mild numbing, all the way through to paralysis, depending on dosage."

Tressa felt a cold shiver go down her spine. "So… werehare teeth…"

The man stored the tooth away. "It's a rare pulp," he said. "Relatively unknown, actually. It's only begun to make an appearance in the past few months. In small doses it induces severe hallucinations. Overdoses are typically fatal."

Tressa frowned. Ali, next to her, had a grim expression.

"Why," she asked, "would anyone come looking for them, then?"

The apothecary looked at her, then at Ali, and snorted. To Ali, he said, "Born yesterday, was she?"

Tressa bristled, but Ali placed a hand on her shoulder and she held back the indignation that threatened to take over. Instead, he said, "Some wretches like to escape reality. I take it you disapprove, sir?"

The apothecary's lip twisted into a grimace of disgust. "I don't waste my time with people who go out of their way to hurt themselves. The real danger is having the poison applied to an innocent."

Poison.

Tressa wasn't sure, but she said something polite, and then she and Ali took their leave of the shop, stepping out into the street just as the man locked the door behind them. She looked at the dispersing passerbys and blinked.

Poison. She had poison in her warehouse.

Her fingers went to the Eldrite, and a memory of Alfyn came over her― his thoughtful frown, the way he discussed the legend of werehares with H'aanit and Cyrus. And the way he'd mourned that some people chose to drown themselves in hallucinations rather than face reality, at the peril of their lives.

Ali looked at her. "Tress."

She inhaled. "We―"

"We need to get those out of your warehouse," Ali interrupted. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

She knew he didn't know. She didn't blame him.

"Mr. Gerard," she whispered. "He came into a lot of money recently. He wanted the warehouse back. And the authorities were eager to help him." And it would explain the sums promised to the idiot hunter.

Ali studied her, all trace of his usual good humour absent. It did nothing to make him less handsome. "You think they were all in on it. That they realized they were going to miss the delivery of product."

"It's a stretch," Tressa said, hoping they were wrong.

"It's plausible," Ali corrected her. "Too plausible."

"They wanted my books," Tressa said. "They suspect me of taking the merchandise. They want to impede me ― I can't let them, they'll take everything."

"We'll fix it," Ali promised. "Let's go back home."

Home. There was something profoundly comforting about hearing Ali saying that about her humble lodgings above the shop. She relented and followed him. "Really, all I need is a safe way to ship the crates. I could send them away until we decide on what to do."

Ali nodded. He grabbed her hand. "Yeah, we'll get started on that first thing tomorrow morning." He squeezed. "It'll be alright."

Only it wouldn't be. They came within sight of the warehouse, and Tressa's gut turned to lead.

One of the wide doors was ajar. She had definitely closed it when they left.

She rushed forward, and Ali released her hand, though he called after her.

The thugs were rifling through her boxes unceremoniously. There were two of them, men she had never seen before. Well, who would? Grandport saw hundreds of newcomers and goers every day.

"Hey!" She called, and the two men turned at the sound of her voice.

Which was when she saw they were armed.

The doubt had to show on her face, because one of the men, the bald one, gave her a grin that he probably meant to be reassuring. "Come now, pretty, we're just passin' by, is all."

"This is my warehouse," she said, in her most commanding voice. "You are trespassing. Leave right now and I won't call―"

"What? The port authorities?" The other thug said. This one's voice was deeper, and his jaw was even squarer than his partner's. "Who do ye think sent us?"

"Hey, it's alright, Jeb," the bald one said, though he was still smiling that unfriendly smile. "Little miss is going to help us, won't she? Just tell us where the goods are, and ye won't hear from us again."

Right. That was likely. Tressa's eyes went from Jeb to the other one, then back. "Right, and the fact that I know who hired you won't make you silence me."

Jeb rolled his eyes, and the smile on the other one's face wilted immediately into a twisted scowl. "Too clever for yer own good, are ye?" Now he did smile again, shrugging. "Right, then, ye're not wrong: ye're not leaving this warehouse alive. Only here's the thing." He began to approach, and Tressa stood her ground. "I'll still make it easy on ye. Tell us where the goods are, and we won't rape and maim ye before we kill ye."

The casualness of his tone made Tressa more uneasy than his words. She'd heard threats before, too many to count. But she'd been armed, before.

"You won't lay a finger on me," she said, with more nerve than she really had. Deep inside, she searched for the magic she'd once been able to wield with ease, the spirit of wind that had once bellowed forth at the merest twitch of her fingers. It had been years since she'd last used it, and now she felt the lack of practice as keenly as an open wound. The dust at her feet fluttered, but little else. She needed a spear, and she hoped she was less rusty with it than with magic.

"Oh, I will," the man promised. "Several fingers. All my fingers. But if ye tell me where the teef are, I'll be gentle."

Her stomach twisted. "I don't have them anymore."

"She's lying," Jeb said, easily. "Thimy sold the teef to 'er this mornin'. Wouldn't have time to move 'em out again since."

Thimy? The hunter from the Woodlands? Had they found him? Hurt him? "What did you do to the boy?"

Jeb smirked. "A little less than we'll do to ye. Tell 'er, Ed."

"They'll fish him out in the morning," the other thug ― Ed ― said. "We gave him a nice steel shark fin to 'member us by."

Now Ed was growing close. Dangerously close. Tressa took a single step backwards. "It wasn't his fault your boss wasn't here to collect his merchandise."

"Nah, I reckon it wasn't," Ed said. From up close she smelled the rankness of his sweat. Soon, she'd be smelling his breath. She took another step backward. "Only see, 'e crossed the boss anyhow. And nobody does that. So tell me where the teef are, and I'll try to make sure yer corpse is recognizable."

"Why do you need those teeth, anyway?" She asked, stalling for time. Where was Ali? He hadn't entered the warehouse with her. Had he gone running for help? Bifelgan's purse, she hoped he had. The thugs meant business.

"Don't know, don't care," Ed said. "The teef come into Grandport, and then they ship out. That's all what matters. And ye interfered with that, ye did."

He reached out and Tressa ducked to the side, jogging a few steps away.

"This," she repeated, "is my warehouse. If your boss wants to make a deal with me, he can talk to me himself."

Ed barked with laughter. He turned to Jeb. "Ye hear that, Jeb? Little miss thinks she's big enough to see the boss!"

Which was when Tressa grabbed the broomstick against the wall and swiped at Ed's head as hard as she could. The broom handle whipped through the air and hit him with a hearty, satisfying 'thwap', then cracked and clattered to the floor.

Ed grunted, stumbling to the side. She had knocked his ear, so he was destabilized. No doubt his head was ringing.

"Get out!" She commanded, her voice wavering.

But Jeb was there, suddenly, on the edge of a snarl.

"Ye can say goodbye to peaceful death. When I'm done with ye," he said, as Tressa raced backwards. "I'll 'ave all the time in the world to rip this warehouse apart." Tressa's heart panicked when his fist closed around her wrist. "They'll find yer broken, mangled body in eighteen different crates, let me promise ye that."

"I don't think so," Ali said, cracking a heavy wooden stud against the back of Jeb's head.

Jeb collapsed like a sack of potatoes. Ali stood over him, pale with rage, his hands still firmly gripping his makeshift weapon. Then, for good measure, he turned to Ed, who was still staggering, and gave him a firm whack as well, this time with the edge, and Ed's nose exploded into a flower of blood. But the thug didn't notice. He fell backwards, and was out cold.

"Ali!"

Ali turned to her, still white as a sheet. His face was contorted with anger. "What is wrong with you, Tress? Just rushing into danger like that! Are you insane?"

They didn't have time for that. Tressa hopped over Jeb and raced for a coil of packing rope. "Help me tie them up ― if they aren't dead, they won't be out for long."

Already Jeb was grunting with pain. Ali gave him another firm whack, and Jeb was out like a light again.

"Ali, if you keep hitting them they'll bleed out and die."

"No better than they deserve," Ali scowled. "I heard them, you know. They said they're rape and kill you."

He was trembling. Tressa paused.

She'd never seen Ali like this, even in the face of Morlock.

It troubled her to see him so violent.

She reached out, placed a firm hand on his arm. "I'm not hurt. We're fine."

Ali looked down at her with clear anger. Then, he dropped the wood stud and shook his head, reaching for the rope.

By the time the local guard arrived, the two thugs were conscious again. All Tressa had to do was show her rental deed; the guards carried the trespassers away.

Ali watched her grimly. She played with fire, and she knew it, if her refusal to look him in the eye was any indication.

Rather than acknowledge the danger she'd narrowly escaped, she paid the guard captain an additional sum to have him post watchers around the warehouse. Only for the next three days, she promised, though Ali saw the money exchange and knew she could afford a little more.

When she finally bid the guards good evening and closed the doors ― and locked them ― she turned to look at him with a wavering smile.

It almost was enough to make Ali's anger melt away. Almost. Not quite.

"Phew," she said, striding past him towards the offices. "I think I underestimated how easy it is for just anyone to break in to these places. I should have consulted Therion…"

The thief. Cool and aloof and possibly his competition. Ali set his jaw and followed her into the office, watched her rifling through her documents. "What are you looking for?" He asked, flatly.

She pulled out an old, carefully folded paper. It was a letter, with a delicately stamped border. Stationary letter that had to cost a fortune. From where he stood, Ali couldn't make out the sender, let alone its contents.

"Here it is," she said, looking down at the sheet. Then, she looked up at him, standing in the doorway. "I'm an idiot," she said.

Better late than never. Ali forced himself to speak around the hard, angry beating of his heart. "No question."

Her eyes narrowed. "We're not going to talk about it." The fight. The danger. How close he'd come to losing her. Not that he owned her. Almighty Bifelgan, could anyone ever pin that girl down and really claim her? Maybe she was the better merchant. Maybe he'd sold his soul to her already. She'd already claimed everything else inside of him, so why not?

"So what will we talk about?" He asked instead, grinding the words out.

"The solution," Tressa said, brightly, "to our problem."

The solution, if anyone asked Ali, was for her to never again leave his sight. She clearly couldn't be trusted to make safe decisions. "Which one? We have a few."

"The problem of the port authorities breathing down our necks," Tressa said, "because we apparently bought highly valuable drugs for a steal and are refusing to give them back."

"Maybe we should give them back. Cut our losses," Ali softly considered.

"Or," Tressa said, "we could buy the warehouse district."

For a moment Ali thought he had slipped sideways into an alternate reality. The words had registered, only they didn't add up. Rather, the sentence made sense, and yet it didn't. She was talking about something so absurd―

"Well," she said, looking back down at her letter, "we can probably only buy… two thirds of it? I'll have to check."

Ali opened his mouth. Closed it. Reopened it, only no sound came out. At length he recovered enough of his tongue to blurt out, "What?"

Tressa came forward and handed him the letter. "The Wyndham prize money."

Ali blinked down at the letter. One billion leaves. She'd won that some four years ago from Mr. Wyndham, in exchange for her journal. The most ridiculous turn of events any one had ever seen in Grandport. One billion leaves. He looked back up at her, "Do you mean to tell me," he said, incredulously, "that you haven't touched this money yet?" He looked around them at the office, and, through its walls, considered the warehouse, the goods stored within it, and the vast operations she had begun to run, and paled. "How did you get this up and running if―"

"I saved up," Tressa admitted, sheepishly. "I was afraid to spend the money, just in case―"

"Just in case?" Ali balked. "You―" He was still holding the letter. The letter of ownership. One billion leaves. Flame take him― "You had them put it in an account― It― You didn't touch it? In all this time?"

"I figured it would be good in case of emergency," Tressa admitted.

"You live in a warehouse!" Ali exclaimed.

"For now," Tressa said. She pursed her lips in thought. "Then again, maybe the wise thing to do would be to hire a guard for the night and give him the lodgings. Move into something close-by."

"Tressa," Ali said, "what are you talking about?"

She sighed, exasperated. "Isn't it obvious? I'm going to buy as much of Grandport's merchant district as I can with this money. And then I'll never have to show my books to anyone ever again. They can keep the measly remaining bits."

"But―" He blinked. "Will they let you?"

"Why would they stop me?" She laughed earnestly. "They can buy as many poisonous drugs as they like with the money I'll send their way. Only I suspect they'll regret their decision in the long run." She smiled at the rundown plaster walls around them. "This district has the potential to be something really special, just you wait and see."

And in that moment, Ali felt she was telling the truth. In her eyes, he could almost see the same thing she did: flourishing shops, busy docks, wares from all over the world, luxuries as far as the eye could see. Under her watch, Grandport could… it could...

It could be incredible.

"Gods, I love you," he murmured. Too late he realized the words had been said out loud. A flush spread across Tressa's cheeks like fire. His stomach twisted suddenly. "I mean―"

She plucked the letter from his hands and let it flutter to the desk behind her, then took a step forward. "No. Don't you dare take it back," she warned.

"I… won't?" He said, surprised.

"I don't do returns, anyway."

"Oh," he said. "Good…" He frowned. "Wait, does that apply to our business model or―"

He didn't get to finish his question, because she was kissing him.

The door closed at last, and Don led the shiftworkers into a round of applause. Ali smiled. Tressa brandished the title deed triumphantly, then hopped over to the men and spontaneously hugged Jasper.

"All hail the new trade master of Grandport," one of the men said, and Tressa basked in their cheer.

Oh, that felt good to hear, Tressa considered.

"For once, justice is well and truly served," she joked.

She had been able to purchase over eighty warehouses, fourteen of which were among the most sought after of Grandport. It brought her ownership to a little under sixty percent of Grandport's mercantile district, a transaction so significant and historic Mr. Wyndham himself had come to oversee it.

It had been a genuine delight to watch the portmaster and his cronies reluctantly sign over so much of their market share. And then be taken away in shackles. Even Gill, Wyndham's butler, had stifled a grin. In Grandport, money spoke louder than law, and seeing someone finally put the bullies in their place seemed to satisfy most of the merchants who had attended the weekly governance assembly.

Apparently, Tressa hadn't been the only merchant to be wrung for wares or money. Her choice to spend her prize money on correcting injustice seemed to have made her the most popular merchant in Grandport.

"And to think," Ali had said. "If they'd let their werehare teeth go, you'd have let them have their racket."

That was one way to put it.

Tressa slid her arm in his. "Do you think your father will consider you worthy of a partnership now?"

Ali shrugged. She had made him her business partner; his name sat under hers on all the deeds, as secretary. "Honestly, I'm finding myself caring less and less for his good opinion. Yours, though…" He leaned in, kissed her cheek. Tressa felt warmth suffuse her.

"Are you sure you don't want to destroy the teeth?" Captain Leon asked, from where he stood, arms crossed over his chest.

Tressa turned to him. "I mean…" She hesitated. "I guess I will if you change your mind."

Captain Leon shook his head. "No, I won't change my mind. If you think your apothecary friend might find a use for them, I will ensure he gets them." He nodded to Mikk and Makk, who straightened. "It wouldn't be a bad idea to discover some antidote to the poison. It's just that you won't make money on any of the goods."

"I know," Tressa said. "But…" She looked about them at the tall stacks of crates. "I think I'll be fine."

This was met with warm chuckles from the men around her. "That's one way to put it," Jasper said.

Don pulled out a corkscrew and began to work at the wine bottle Mr. Wyndham had gifted her. "I think it's time we gave the Wyndham varietal a taste."

"Go ahead," Tressa said. She was still clutching the main deed in her hands. "I'll be right back." She turned on her heel and raced to her office giddily to put it away.

She'd have to frame it, she mused. There had to be someone in town who could do that for her. Right now it sat on her desk, a source of glowing pride.

Her fingers went to the Eldrite around her neck. It was warm. She smiled to herself, the joy indescribable.

"Tress?"

She turned to Ali, who stood in the door jamb. They grinned at one another.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked.

She sighed cheerfully and let him embrace her. "I was just thinking I'm the luckiest girl in the world."

Ali snorted. "Well, you can say so. But I know talent when I see it." He kissed her.

Hm. He was good at this.

Still: "It's luck, too," she said, when they pulled apart slightly. "After all, we met." And she was the richest merchant in Grandport. And she would soon be seeing her old friends. And she had the love of the silliest, best salesman in the world.

He pressed his forehead against hers, eyes mischievous. "I guess you're right." His eyes went to her cleavage. "I'd love to get lucky too, by the way."

She made an exasperated noise, but he saw right through her. She gave his nose a light peck.

"Later."

"Oh, I know," he said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "First, the wine."

"First, the wine," she concurred, pushing him out the door. Against her skin, the Eldrite was heavy, and Tressa smiled to herself contentedly.

Yep. She'd stumbled on a treasure trove of her own.

Mission accomplished.