Chapter Two: Rags and Riches

"A toast," Tamika said, raising her goblet of wine, "to our healthy profits and good fortune." Her workers murmured in agreement and clinked their goblets together. "I know today was stressful." She glanced at Ismene. "But our shifts are over and the restaurant is closed for the night. The evening's yours, my friends."

Nigidius smiled and took a sip from his wine. "I wouldn't have known such kindness if you had never taken me in, Miss Tamika."

Tamika chuckled and pat the man on the shoulder. "I have an eye for talent, Nigidius, and I know how to respect and reward good work." She excused herself from the table to join Ismene at the counter. Bernadette, Nigidius, Timothée, and Fagus paid their boss no mind as they laughed and enjoyed their drinks. "Your shift's over, Ismene."

Ismene smiled and continued drying goblets. "I've never been good at relaxing, Tamika."

"So I've noticed," the Redguard said with a hint of disapproval. "I saw what happened with you and Sir Lazare today." When Ismene ducked her head, she continued, "If you two are going to start conflicts, you'll either be permanently assigned to the basement or Fagus will have to take his orders."

"I notice how Lazare receives no punishment for his rude behavior," Ismene said with a bitter tone.

"Sir Lazare Milvan is not my employee, and you know what they say."

"The customer is always right," Ismene sighed. "One day that lizard will get what's coming to him, mark my words."

"And until then, I expect you to be a cordial, pleasant waitress. We don't need those Surilie brothers creeping up on us in profits."

"I understand, Tamika," Ismene said.

Tamika smiled and nodded her head. "Good. Now help yourself to some wine; Divines know you've earned it."

"I'll never thank you enough for walking me home every night," Bernadette said as she and Ismene waved their goodbyes to their coworkers. Skingrad's nights were moderate, but even its favorable climate tended to be a bit chilly. The two women wrapped their cloaks tighter about themselves. "But you know, Ismene, my home is just a short walk from the winery."

Ismene smiled at her friend. "I know that, Bernie. It just isn't safe for a woman to be walking alone at night. Even with the guard patrols, anything can happen."

"But you have to walk alone after I'm safe in my house," Bernadette said.

Ismene shrugged and chuckled. "You have a point there."

"I suppose you could always roast any potential attackers alive," Bernadette mused with a small smile. "After all, you are a mage with formidable power, aren't you?"

Ismene tugged on her kerchief and bit her lip. While she knew some spells, she was hardly qualified to be considered dangerous. What spells she did know were learned from discarded tomes the Mages Guild deemed 'outdated.' Since the branch in Skingrad was particularly focused in the arts of Destruction magicka, she'd learned one or two things about casting fire and lightning. But these skills were not practical or necessary in her life and mostly went unfurbished.

Ismene had considered gaining access to the Mages Guild multiple times, but she could never find it in her heart to leave the winery for good. That, and with her wages, she was sure she could not afford the life of a mage.

"Thank you again," Bernadette said as they arrived at her doorstep. The Breton woman smiled and squeezed her friend's hands. "And don't worry about that Sir Lazare Milvan. I'm sure his ego's so wounded that he'll coop himself up in his fancy mansion for a few days."

"He probably thinks Skingrad will suffer without His Majesty gracing us with his presence," Ismene snorted. Bernadette rolled her eyes, but laughed nonetheless. A sudden scuttling sound drew the women's attention to farther down the street. "Is that...?"

"Glarthir?" Bernadette sighed. "I'm afraid so." The skittish Bosmer hurried off once he realized they noticed him. "He's a sweet fellow, I think. He's just so... strange. He acts as if the whole city's out for him."

"I've heard his paranoia's escalating. He isn't giving you any trouble, is he?"

Bernadette crossed her arms and shifted her weight. "Well, I can't help but feel that he's watching me. I mean, you saw what I just saw right now! Even worse, he's my neighbor. Sometimes I see him staring at me from his window. Whenever I wave to him, he acts as if he doesn't even see me."

Ismene glanced across the cobbled street to Glarthir's property. The jumpy little elf had gone so far as to bar his windows. "I don't know, Bernie..."

"What? You haven't heard anything about him, have you?" Bernadette stared at Ismene with a pleading yet hopeful face. She wished more than anything that nothing was out of the ordinary concerning Glarthir, but Ismene's next words made her expression fall.

"I've heard he keeps a little notebook on him at all times. He's constantly writing in it. I don't know what he's writing, but I don't like it. Do me a favor, Bernie?"

"Hm?"

"Either stay at your house tomorrow or stay in the winery. Tomorrow I work the night shift, so I won't be in until then. And if you have to go somewhere, please ask Nigidius or Fagus to go with you."

"You really think it's that serious?" Bernadette wrung her wrists and furrowed her brow. "He's probably just a little loose in the mind and not at all violent—"

"Please, Bernadette."

"Alright," she sighed. "But you promise me you'll head straight to the inn, you hear me? Now you have me all jumpy and nervous. No gazing at Rosethorn Hall tonight, hm?"

"Fine," Ismene said. "Not like I'll be able to afford it any time soon, anyway. Goodnight, Bernie."

"You too, Ismene."

Mog gra-Mogakh clicked her tongue when Ismene dragged herself into the Two Sisters Lodge. "Well, I'll be a white Orc," the proprietress said, shaking her head at Ismene's weary face, "but you look like you've been hit with a door."

"Thank you for the observation, Mog," Ismene grumbled as she plopped herself down in her usual seat beside the fire.

"Don't tell me: it was Sir Lazare again, wasn't it?" When Ismene muttered several choice words beneath her breath, Mog placed her strong hands on her even stronger hips. "I don't know why you don't just sock it to him already. I know that if he ever decided to put one toe in my inn, he'd have a permanently rearranged face."

"Rearranging his face will only help his appearance, Mog."

The Orc laughed, a deep and rumbling sound that made Ismene smile. "You may be onto something there. Say, are you in the mood for some tea? I know your taste buds are probably dysfunctional, what with you drinking all that wine every day, but this is the good stuff."

Ismene looked over her shoulder and eyed the the kettle Mog held. "Is that the tea from Orsinium?"

"The very same," Mog beamed with a proud, toothy grin. "I know how much you like the stuff." Ismene shuffled to the counter and helped herself to a mug. "Sometimes I think you're more Orsimer than me. It takes a strong belly to handle this."

Ismene hummed and dug in her coin purse, but Mog cleared her throat and huffed. Ismene slouched her shoulders. "But, Mog—"

"No 'but's about anything, missy. You pay your tab, you're a good customer, and you don't cause me any trouble around here. There's no need to pay me for a little tea. Besides, I have to get rid of it somehow." She let loose another rumbling chortle and busied herself with wiping down the tables. Ismene excused herself and headed toward her room, bringing the mug of tea with her. She made a habit out of keeping a diary and writing in it every night before bed, and that night, she had a few more rants to add to her list regarding Sir Lazare Milvan.

The following morning...

"My dear, you are not supposed to pummel the dough. Merely knead it and form it into a lump."

Ismene blew a strand of hair out of her face and threw the ball of dough onto the counter, just as Salmo had demonstrated. Her dough only deflated further. "I am kneading the dough."

Salmo clicked his tongue and shooed her away from the counter. "Like this, my dear." He balled the dough up in his hands, formed it this way and that, and then plopped it onto the wooden board. He beamed and puffed his chest out when the dough was perfectly intact. "And now, we shape it." He started pressing his fingertips to the edges of the dough and forming it into a ball.

Ismene shook her head and took a handful of dough out of the mixing bowl. "Kneading the dough," she said beneath her breath as she tried once more.

Salmo sighed and gave her dough a look of pity. "May I inquire as to why you are squishing the poor thing with your elbow?"

"I'm venting," she said.

"Ah," Salmo breathed out. "Well, as satisfying as destroying my dough is, I'm afraid it is not Sir Lazare Milvan."

"I have a very good imagination, Salmo." She poked her fingers in the dough and gave it two eyes as well as a frown. "I am Sir Lazare Milvan," she mocked in a voice disturbingly similar to the noble man's. "I think I rule the world! I keep my hair nice and tidy and bathe in thirteen different types of perfume! I'm a walking ball of fumes!"

"Alright, alright—"

"I keep my nose held so high that if it rained, I would drown! Why, my nose is so high that people can look up my nostrils and see my nonexistent, perfectly plucked nose hairs!"

"Fiore, dear—"

"And with my noble attitude, I make people want to hurt something! In fact, I make people want to hurt ME!" With a roar, she slammed her hand into the dough, sending flour and dough sailing through the air. A hiss! made Salmo gasp and hurry around the counter.

"Oh, Mittens! Ismene, you've frightened her!" He knelt and scooped up Skingrad's neighborhood cat. "And look! You've covered her in flour! She's a grey kitty, not a white one!" Salmo stood and rubbed the cat's neck, cooing to the hissing bundle and trying to calm her nerves.

Ismene hunched her shoulders and sported a sheepish look. "Sorry, Mittens." Mittens glared at her and hissed again. "I-I'll clean up this mess."

"No," Salmo sighed, "just get you gone, Ismene. I'll take care of it."

She untied her apron and hung it on its peg. She tried to pet Mittens, but the cat swiped at her with its claws. Ismene cringed and sucked the cut on her hand. "I'll see you at the winery tonight, then?"

"Yes, yes," Salmo said, ushering her toward the door. "Try not to get in trouble before then, dear. Now, out with you."

Ismene let herself out of the baker's house and gasped when she collided with a short figure. The person cursed and stuttered as they dropped whatever they were carrying. Ismene blinked and offered a smile at the person once she recognized them. "Oh, Glarthir. Hello." Glarthir opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. His entire frame trembled, and his beady eyes darted to the notebook lying at Ismene's feet. She picked up the notebook and frowned when the Bosmer looked close to jumping out of his own skin. "I believe this is yours," she said, handing it out to him.

He snatched it from her and clutched it to his chest. "Y-yes." He stared at her in anticipation, as if she was about to attack him.

She scratched her temple, smudging flour on her face, and forced a smile. "Yes. Well. Have a good day, Glarthir."

"Just leave me alone!" the Wood Elf spat at her, quickly turning on his heel and scurrying away.

She narrowed her eyes at his retreating form before snorting. "Crazy Bosmer," she murmured. She glanced at her feet when a streak of grey caught her eye. Smiling, she reached out to pet Mittens. This time, the cat let her. "You're not really angry at me, are you, girl?" Mittens meowed and rubbed her side against Ismene's leg. "I thought so, kitty." Ismene tilted her head to the side when she noticed a folded up piece of paper at the cat's feet. The parchment was folded into a neat square, and Ismene idly scratched Mittens while she unfolded it. "This must have slipped from Glarthir's journal," she mused aloud.

Bernadette Peneles

Toutius Sextius

Davide Surilie

Ismene, not making any sense of the note, looked at Mittens. The cat blinked its wide eyes at her. "Huh. What a funny fellow, that Glarthir. Come on, kitty. Let's see if Mog has some leftover cream for you."

"Ismene," Bernadette said as she clambered down the trapdoor into the winery's underbelly, "he keeps staring at me. And he has that blasted notebook with him, too. Oh, I don't like this." Bernadette wrapped her arms around herself and hung her head. "Could we trade duties tonight?"

Ismene paused turning the crank on the grape crusher. She considered telling her friend about Glarthir's note, but thought better of it. Bernadette was already spooked by the elf's abnormal behavior, and to have even an iota of evidence that the elf was keeping tabs on her would only upset her further. "Did he say anything to you?"

"Well, no," Bernadette said. "But he doesn't even want any wine! He's just sitting there, staring!" She bit her lip and clasped her hands together. "Oh, please, Ismene. If Tamika has a problem with it, just blame me. I can't work knowing that man's eyes are all over me!"

Ismene relented with a sigh and had to twist and squirm out of Bernadette's delighted embrace. She dusted her skirt off and climbed up the trapdoor. "Oh, good," Fagus said. "I was beginning to panic."

"We're sampling the Labican tonight," Ismene said. When Fagus slouched his shoulders, she smiled and said, "Don't worry. You just carry the goblets, and I'll pour the samples."

He wiped an imaginary bead of sweat from his brow and exhaled. "Phew. Alright, then. This should go well."

The Labican was an easy to taste, enjoyable wine, as the patrons said. It was light and thought of as almost too casual for formal parties, but for the commoners of Skingrad, it was a delight.

"He sure is odd," Fagus commented when he and Ismene picked out another bottle of Labican from the shelf. "He's staring at his wine as if it's poison."

"As long as he isn't causing the other customers problems, we can't do anything about him," Ismene said. "Unfortunately."

"Speaking of problems," Fagus murmured. He nudged her with his elbow and nodded toward the door. "This is a surprise." Ismene turned around and blinked as Davide Surilie stood by the door. He glanced around the restaurant, smiling to the fellow patrons, and made his way toward the counter. Ismene didn't miss the way Glarthir shrank in his seat and started writing furiously in his notebook again.

"Davide," Tamika said with a smile. Regardless of her friendly face, Ismene could hear the suspicion in her voice. "What brings a Surilie brother to Tamika's winery?"

"Ah, Tamika," he said with a bow. "My brother and I heard about your sampling tonight, and, well, we could not resist. After all, we are both vintners, are we not? Wine is to be celebrated and enjoyed, no?"

"Of course," Tamika said, sparing a glance at Ismene who had a bottle of the Labican. "Please, have a seat."

"I have a bad feeling about this," Fagus whimpered.

"Just don't shake the goblet," Ismene whispered back as they walked toward Davide Surilie's table.

"Labican?" Davide asked, raising a brow at the bottle. "Interesting. My brother and I have just finished fermenting the Roussanne."

"Oh?" Ismene asked, not taking her eyes off of the goblet as she poured the wine. Fagus's hand was beginning to sweat.

"Oh, oui. It is a unique wine, if I say so myself. Almost tastes like a pear, but there is a distinct walnut flavor to it as well. Gaston and I were planning to have the sampling tonight, but we decided to have sport, you see, and rescheduled it to next week." He looked expectantly at her.

"Hm." She avoided meeting his eyes, but could see the sneer on his face from her peripherals.

"I hope that this Labican more than makes up for our little dilemma," Davide said.

"Er, Ismene," Fagus mumbled.

"It is a hassle arranging these events, anyway," Davide added with a wave of his hand. The gesture reminded her of another man, one that she took her frustrations out on a lump of dough earlier that day.

"Ismene," Fagus squeaked.

"Huh?" She looked up at her coworker just as the wine spilled over the lip of the goblet and dribbled onto Davide's clothes. She blushed scarlet and uttered a rushed apology to the Surilie brother.

"Oh, Davide," Tamika said, honing in on the table. "I'm terribly sorry! She's had a long day, and—"

"Please," Davide said with a chuckle. "Do not worry yourself about it. It happens all the time." Ismene narrowed her eyes at him and took a step back when Fagus began cleaning the spill. Tamika gave her a disappointed frown, but her expression smoothed over as Davide took a sip from the wine.

He licked his lips and took another sip. "It is... tasty," he said. Tamika bit her lip. "Simple, but tasty. It is something to be had in quaint places, such as this one. I think it complements your restaurant well, Tamika."

"I'm glad you enjoy it, Davide," Tamika said.

"But as tasty as it is," he said, putting his goblet back down, "I am afraid it is not for me. I prefer richer wines."

"'I prefer richer wines,'" Ismene sneered as she and Bernadette swept the tables down. "You should have seen his face, all smug and... smug. Why do rich men think they have the right to be so rude? I can't tolerate suave, arrogant clods like that."

"You know," Fagus said to them, "they say Bretons can taste every ingredient in wine."

"So if I rubbed the bottle against my crack, Surilie would have tasted it?" Nigidius sneered. Fagus snorted. "Probably would have liked the taste," Nigidius guffawed. "After all, it certainly would have been a strong flavor. Woo-wee!"

"He is a Breton of privilege, Ismene," Bernadette sighed, ignoring the two men. "If you think he's bad, you'd do well to avoid High Rock. Oh, I can't stand the family get-togethers."

Ismene tucked a lock of hair back into her kerchief. "All men are the same," she muttered. "Peacocks, the lot of them."

Nigidius and Fagus frowned and wore hurt expressions.

"Except you two," Ismene said. They smiled and continued cleaning goblets. "Just who do those buffoons think they are? Oh, sure, they have septims and weight to their names, but how does that make them gods to strut themselves around?"

Bernadette shrugged. "I don't—oh, Ismene, could you...?" She pointed at the table Glarthir sat at and gave it a wide berth. Ismene jutted a hip out. "Please, Ismene? I don't want to touch that table."

"Fine," she pouted. "But you owe me, Bernie."

"Don't worry," her friend said, "I'll think of something."

"Maybe you can turn Lazare into a toad," Nigidius cackled. "Then Miss Fiore would forever be in your debt."

"Or she can rub him against your crack, old man," Ismene said back with a chuckle. She ducked just in time as he threw a wet rag at her and squeaked when Fagus joined in on the assault. Soon the restaurant turned into a battlefield, the men and women taking cover on opposite sides of the room as they threw dish cloths at one another.

A/N:

Fanart of The Lucky Vintage can be found on my devArt page. Just follow this link: h.t.t.p.:././.e.r.a.-.a.g.e...d.e.v.i.a.n.t.a.r.t...c.o.m./.#./.a.r.t./.T.L.V.-.C.h.a.r.a.c.t.e.r.s.-...2.?._.s.i.d.=..0.e.4.9. (remove excess periods)

Translations:

Oui: Yes