Chapter 13: 13: The Unexpected and Possibly Unwelcome Appearance of Job Satisfaction

Over the next hour or so, Wren discovered that she rather liked helping Tim find what he was looking for. It was sort of like shopping by proxy, with the added bonus of getting to feel that she was doing a good deed by helping someone find the things they would need to resist, in some small way, the injustices of the world. She had some experience with the mercantile arts in Din, but nothing like this: stores were either labyrinthine affairs selling so many things that you simply couldn’t help but eventually find what you were after, given enough time to wander, or they were boutiques, which was to say they prided themselves on having small and specific selections in a sufficiently small space that you were never, ever out of the eyeshot of an attendant who took extremely seriously their responsibility to keep up an incessant flow of sales patter until you couldn’t possibly help but know the precise and complete minutiae of every object in the place.

In both of those cases, the objective of the store was not really to connect people with the things they needed or wanted, but to make as many sales as possible, whether they were the right sales for the right customers or not. Of course, the people of Din knew this, accepted it, even quite liked it in some cases, and generally only went to such establishments if they knew they had the crowns to afford being sold things for which they had no actual need or desire. It was an experience that made them feel good: what was luxury, after all, if not the ability to own more things than you needed?

And yet, as Wren dug out two or three incredibly specific things that would have been worth very little to most people and handed them over to a beaming Tim, she felt that getting people the things that truly mattered to them was a far more luxurious pursuit than any she’d come across in the capital.

Tim paid for his goods - Wren followed Myrinna’s handwritten labels for guidance on the pricing, internally noting that she could probably have been getting away with charging a lot more for most of what she had - and left with a bundle of things in his arms, a satisfied customer. He’d taken: a pair of boots that allowed the wearer, once every two minutes, to dodge through an attack that would otherwise harm them; a thin coil of rope that, once affixed to a solid point, could be tugged on to snap the holder almost instantly back to where it was tied; a small tub of a salve that claimed to make anything to which it was applied almost impossibly slippery; and a bottle of ale, because one of his dungeoneer friends had decided that that was a necessary thing to go on the list too.

After he was gone, Wren tucked the coins he’d handed over into a pocket and exhaled deeply, surprised at how satisfied she felt to have made a sale. Then she wandered around the store, exploring its layout.

In the burgeoning daylight, the place looked different than it had in the almost mystical glow of the evening lamps. Before, the edges had all been fuzzed, blurring into a kind of in-between space with no clear limits: it almost felt as if it could have gone on forever in every direction. Now, though, she could see the walls - and the cracks in them. A brief sojourn around the shop floor (she didn't stray into Myrinna's living quarters) revealed that the building was larger than she'd thought; there were a couple of doors she couldn't open, but she found a few rooms of decent sizes but in various states of disuse.

A trip into the stockroom, as Myrinna had called it, revealed an expansive space that, to Wren's surprise, seemed to extend to include a bit of an underground area. Shelves and drawers filled the room, contents ordered, catalogued, and labelled with combinations of letters and numbers that presumably meant something to Myrinna. Wren found the kitchenette the old woman had mentioned and made herself a cup of tea; the blend was unfamiliar but pleasant, simultaneously earthy and fragrant. She also found the promised pair of slippers, which she had to admit were extremely comfortable.

Wandering back out to the main shop floor, she clicked her tongue in vague dissatisfaction. Where she had before been impressed with the sheer variety of things on offer - and anyone entering would still have a beautiful view of Myrinna’s inexplicably effective miscellanea-arranging - a more critical investigation of the inventory and its pricing suggested that it would take selling quite a lot of items to make enough money to live on. And that, given the specificity of most of what was on offer, seemed unlikely. That wasn’t even accounting for the cost involved in acquiring each piece. She wondered how long on average each item spent in the Hilarious Misunderstanding between acquisition and sale, and indeed what proportion of the things Myrinna picked up ever sold at all.

Can't help it, can you? she admonished herself when she realised what she was doing. You didn't want anything to do with the merchant life back in Din, and now you're critiquing a store in a totally different context as if you know better? Come on, Wren.

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But there was a part of her that was beginning to stir at the whole thing. The feeling of helping Tim, the sense that she understood this store (and perhaps that she might therefore help it, too)... those things felt warm and fuzzily pleasant.

Not staying, she reminded herself.

But why not? a very quiet voice whispered from somewhere in the recesses of her mind. Didn't exactly have much of a plan anyway.

Wren either didn't hear that voice or decided to ignore it. “Can't have Myrinna carrying on thinking I'm sticking around to help her long-term,” she muttered. “Or that I'm her granddaughter, for that matter.”

As if by sorcery, Myrinna chose that moment to re-enter her shop.

“Aha,” she said, with a sly, meaningful glance at Wren's feet. “You found the slippers, I see.”

She heaved the bulging cloth sack she'd been carrying onto a table and rummaged around, pulling out a box of a familiar size and shape.

“Boots,” she said, holding the box out in Wren's direction. “Worked out your size from that old pair you had, and Generosity happened to have a set that only needed a little adjusting.” She rattled the box as if tremendously impatient with Wren having taken somewhere between one and three seconds to come over and take it from her. “These should serve better than those ones you wrecked - not that you should need a pair to hold up for a trek all the way to Din again, of course, but still - and I had her make sure the lining’s warm and waterproof, too; even in summer, the fields can get waterlogged around here…”

Wren still hadn't moved.

“Take them and say thank you, then,” said Myrinna.

Wren took the box and opened it. Inside was a pair of, she had to admit, very nice boots. She didn't know much about boots (as Myrinna had so bluntly observed), but she could tell these were of good make, with solid soles and neat stitching.

“Thank you,” she said. I can't remember the last time someone got me something this nice.

A note of emotion must have found its way into her voice, because Myrinna frowned and said, “Don't get too grateful, girl, I told you I'll be taking the cost out of your pay.”

“Still,” said Wren, “if I'd done it myself, I'd have got a worse pair and probably paid a worse price. So thank you.”

The old woman nodded, softening. “Well, you're very welcome.” Then she cast a quick, sharp, appraising eye around the store. “You've sold some things,” she noted, sounding pleased but not surprised. “And I hope you didn't let Mercie talk you into taking too much of her tat.”

Wren quickly explained the transactions she'd made that morning; Myrinna listened carefully, then nodded, apparently satisfied.

“Did Tim and Mercie cross paths?” she asked with a crooked grin.

“Oh, yeah.”

“That boy,” Myrinna muttered, shaking her head fondly. “Doesn't take much to fluster him, does it?”

Wren grinned back. “Nope. He eased up pretty quickly once we actually got to talking about what he needed, though.”

“Some people are like that,” said Myrinna, with a vaguely reflective air. “Talk about something they know and they're confident as anything, but catch them just a bit off guard and they won't know what to do with themselves.” Before Wren could wonder whether she was being judgemental, she continued: “Doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them, nothing like that. Just means they're good at what they're good at, like the rest of us.”

Wren couldn't argue with that.

“Anyway,” Myrinna said abruptly, “I'll take it from here. You should go and find something to eat - try your boots, find your way around town. You want my recommendation, try the Twin Cob down the main street before the junction that goes up the hill towards Ellinton. Oh, and…” She snapped her fingers as if the idea were only just occurring to her. “I do need one more pickup done today, but I ran out of room in the bag, so be a dear and pay a visit to young Barley in the distillery, hm? He'll know what I had on order, don’t worry; can’t miss it, it's the house not far down the road on the other side of the Twin Cob with no neighbours and the big bottle on the sign; here, this'll settle the bill and leave you a bit for lunch, and don't worry, I'll take that out of your pay too. Alright, then, no dawdling, boots on, get to it!”

And with that, Myrinna practically pushed Wren out of the door, the latter scrambling to stand one-legged so she could throw her new boots on.

“Hang on -” Wren spluttered, and then - just as she managed to pull both slippers off and toss them inside - the door slammed shut in her face.

Huh, she thought as she wobbled around trying to lace up her boots. Well, completely failed to clear up any of the giant misapprehensions, but she really doesn't give you space to get a word in.

She finished doing up her laces and let out a thoughtful, slightly exasperated, lips-closed huff: pfpfpfpf. That was followed by another sound, this one involuntary: the glurgrlrg of her stomach. Only then did Wren realise she hadn’t eaten breakfast, which was deeply unlike her.

A creak heralded the re-opening of the door; Myrinna’s hand poked out, holding Wren’s coat. Wren took it, the hand disappeared, and the door closed once more with a definitive thud.

“What have I got myself into…?” she wondered, not for the first time.

But there were more pressing matters - namely, lunch.

So Wren hefted the little pouch Myrinna had pressed into her hand as she left (or as the old woman had forced her out) and went to find something to eat.