Chương 14: What the Numbers Left Behind

The restaurant made money. I had checked three times. The first count came from my own notes. The second came from Nessa's ledger. For the third, I spread every receipt, delivery slip, guild order, and bread invoice across the largest table in the dining room and began again. The answer remained the same. Two thousand seven hundred kamera. That was the profit left after three months. I looked at the number for a while. The automatic broom struck the leg of my chair. I moved my foot aside. It struck the chair again.

"You have the rest of the room." The broom turned slightly, passed beneath the next table, and caught the edge of Mara's latest invoice. I pulled it free before the paper disappeared beneath the cabinet. Breakfast service had ended half an hour earlier. The kitchen would not serve another full meal until lunch, though The Second Spark remained open. Two customers sat near the front window with tea and toasted bread. A courier had ordered berry water and was reading the guild notices pinned near the entrance.

Outside, the order cupboards continued dispensing prepared meals through the wall. Nessa managed the counter. The kitchen rested. I returned to the ledger. The final profit was useful. It did not explain how the restaurant had produced it. During the first month, we had opened for twenty-six days. Breakfast averaged seven customers. Lunch averaged twelve. Dinner averaged ten. Twenty-nine full meals each day. Another ten people usually came through for tea, bread, berry water, or something prepared at the counter.

The hungry cupboards handled four collections a day. The restaurant had earned two thousand nine hundred and sixty kamera that month. The three meal services accounted for one thousand seven hundred and forty. Drinks, bread, and counter items added five hundred and ten. The cupboards brought in three hundred and seventy-four. The first guild orders contributed another three hundred and thirty-six. Divided across twenty-six days, the restaurant had earned a little less than one hundred and fourteen kamera a day.

It had spent about ninety. Twenty-four remained. I wrote the number in the margin. Twenty-four kamera per day felt smaller than six hundred and ten at the end of the month. It was also more useful. A cracked cold cabinet or spoiled delivery could remove several days of profit at once. The second month improved. Breakfast rose to nine customers. Lunch reached fifteen. Dinner averaged twelve. Thirty-six full meals each day. Another twelve customers came for drinks, bread, or prepared counter items.

The cupboards handled six collections. Daily revenue reached one hundred and forty-four kamera. Daily expenses rose to one hundred and nine. More people required more grain, meat, vegetables, cleaning, fuel, bread, and dishes. The guild parcels required waxed paper, tins, warming marks, and additional preparation outside the normal meal services. Thirty-five kamera remained for each operating day. The third month was the first one that looked stable. Breakfast averaged ten meals. Lunch reached eighteen.

Dinner averaged fifteen. Forty-three full meals each day. Another fifteen people came through for drinks and counter items. The cupboards handled eight collections a day. The guild order amounted to another five or six travel meals each day, although I prepared those in larger batches rather than one at a time. The restaurant earned one hundred and seventy-six kamera per operating day. It spent one hundred and thirty. Forty-six remained. I checked the number twice.

The increase had not come from a single large order. Every part of the restaurant had grown. The reopened western road brought workers, carts, guards, and travelers through the district. Some stopped once. Others returned. A few began appearing often enough that Nessa knew what they wanted before they sat down. Over three months, we had served two thousand eight hundred and eight full meals. That did not include bread, drinks, cupboard orders, or guild parcels. I looked around the dining room.

There were eighteen chairs. Two thousand eight hundred and eight meals felt larger when I imagined each person taking one of them. The guild meals needed their own calculation. They brought in five hundred and eighty kamera during the third month. The number looked good until I subtracted the waxed paper, tins, warming inscriptions, better cuts of meat, testing portions, and the time required to keep every parcel close enough in size for the same array to function. They remained profitable.

The margin was thinner than the dining room's. I wrote: Guild orders remain useful. Underneath it, I added: Maximum of twenty per week unless ordered seven days ahead. The gold-marked cupboard outside opened. A moment later, coins dropped into the payment box. Three quick clinks. I added one line to the day's count. The cupboards continued working between meal services. Their menu narrowed during those hours.

Rice parcels, bread, cold slices of roast, sealed porridge, and other prepared food could pass through the wall. The kitchen did not begin new full meals until the next service. Inside, customers could still order drinks, bread, pastries, and whatever Nessa had arranged behind the counter. The Second Spark stayed open. The stove rested. That distinction had taken time to establish.

During the first weeks, someone asking for fried rice between breakfast and lunch usually found me standing in the kitchen and assumed I was available. I usually was. The problem came when another person asked, followed by three more, and the interval became a fourth meal service with no beginning or end. Nessa had changed the board beside the counter.

BREAKFAST — MORNING BELL TO THIRD BELL LUNCH — SIXTH BELL TO EIGHTH BELL DINNER — ELEVENTH BELL TO FOURTEENTH BELL DRINKS, BREAD, AND PREPARED ITEMS AVAILABLE THROUGHOUT THE DAY. FULL KITCHEN SERVICE RESUMES AT THE NEXT MEAL PERIOD. The wording had reduced arguments. It had not eliminated them. Nessa appeared beside the table carrying fresh tea. She removed the untouched cup near my elbow and replaced it with the new one.

"You are frowning at the same page," she said.

"The numbers remain correct."

"That sounds encouraging."

"The restaurant earned two thousand seven hundred kamera after expenses."

"I know."

"You knew the exact amount?"

"I knew we earned more than we spent."

"That is less exact."

"It was exact enough to keep ordering onions." She returned to the counter. Onions were not a complete measure of financial stability. They had become a reliable one. I took a drink before the tea cooled. Revenue across three months came to eleven thousand two hundred and eighty kamera. Expenses came to eight thousand five hundred and eighty. Rent alone accounted for two thousand two hundred and fifty. Nessa's wages came to one thousand four hundred and four.

Main ingredients had cost two thousand eight hundred and ninety. Bread and baked goods from Mara added five hundred. Clovefield deliveries came to three hundred and forty. Guild packaging and tins cost three hundred and eighty-two. Fuel, water, soap, lamp oil, and ordinary supplies took another three hundred and ten. Repairs, broken dishes, chalk, conductor ink, and replacement rune materials accounted for five hundred and four. That last number had grown faster than I liked.

The second hungry cupboard explained part of it. The rest came from improving systems before the old ones failed. I could reduce that expense by waiting for things to break. I did not intend to do that. The two thousand seven hundred kamera could not all be spent. The city would want its share first. I had already paid the registration fees and ordinary market assessments. The three-month trade return remained.

Based on sales, business profit, and the guild contract records, I estimated that the amount would be close to four hundred and thirty kamera. I counted out five hundred and fifty. The extra money would remain mine if the estimate proved correct. It would become useful if an assessor found a category I had missed. I placed the coins in a small iron-bound box and wrote CITY FUNDS across the lid. I stared at the words. They were not city funds yet. I crossed them out. TAX RESERVE. Below that, I added: DO NOT USE.

Two thousand one hundred and fifty kamera remained. The restaurant needed enough coin to survive a poor month. Another wall closure could slow the district. A failed harvest could raise grain prices. A damaged cold cabinet could ruin several days of ingredients before I noticed. Nessa could become ill. I could become ill. That last possibility required more preparation than I had given it. The Second Spark still depended on me for nearly every cooked meal.

I calculated the lowest possible monthly expense without closing. Rent. Nessa's wages. Basic ingredients. Bread. Deliveries. Fuel. Water. Replacement supplies. The total came to more than eight hundred kamera. A safer reserve would be twelve hundred. I did not have enough profit to set aside twelve hundred without abandoning every other improvement. I placed eight hundred in a second box. OPERATING RESERVE. It was incomplete. That did not make it useless. Future profits could fill the rest.

One thousand three hundred and fifty kamera remained. I opened the lower drawer of the counter desk. Three envelopes sat beneath the spare menus. I had added to them at the end of each month. Nessa had improved payment accuracy, table use, service time, stock records, customer complaints, and the order in which requests reached the kitchen. She had also stopped me from accepting a guild order for eighty travel meals with two days' notice.

I had originally calculated her added value at three hundred and twenty kamera. That calculation did not include the eighty-meal order. I rounded the amount to four hundred. The coins went into a separate wooden box. I marked it STAFF RETENTION. That was accurate. It also gave no useful information to anyone who happened to read it. Nine hundred and fifty kamera remained. I thought of Mrs. Vale's house. Then I thought of the workers who had lost shifts while the western wall remained closed.

Some had begun coming to the restaurant after work resumed. They ordered full meals now. Others still counted coins before choosing between tea and food. The restaurant could not promise free meals to every person who needed one. Promises lasted longer than profitable months. A reserve could grow quietly. I counted out one hundred and fifty kamera. My first label read CHARITY. The word felt too broad. It described an intention without describing the work. I crossed it out and wrote DISTRICT MEALS.

Underneath that, I added: This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Five percent of retained monthly profit, when affordable. I underlined the final two words. The fund could eventually cover meals for Mrs. Vale's household, injured workers, families caught by another closure, or a district dinner in winter. For now, it held one hundred and fifty kamera and no promises. Eight hundred remained. The restaurant needed improvements.

I needed improvements that did not belong in the restaurant's accounts. I assigned six hundred to the building. Two hundred became my personal share. For several minutes, I considered moving another hundred from the operating reserve. The second cold cabinet would cost close to four hundred once I added interior partitions and separate temperature lines. Improved pantry seals would require more. The ventilation above the rear stove remained weak whenever I prepared several batches of guild meals at once.

There was also the drink station, the conductor lines in the hungry cupboards, and the final work in the rear staff room. Six hundred kamera would not cover everything. I left the reserve untouched. Money remained useful inside a box. That was a recent discovery. The courier near the notice board returned his cup to the counter and left. One of the customers by the window ordered more bread. Nessa cut two slices from a honey loaf Mara had delivered that morning.

The quiet interval between breakfast and lunch had settled into its own rhythm. The restaurant was open, though no one hurried. Steam rose from cups. Chairs remained occupied longer. Customers spoke softly because there were fewer plates and pans sounding from the kitchen. I gathered the receipts into three monthly bundles and tied them with string.

"The rear room is finished," I told Nessa. She looked toward the narrow door between the pantry and the kitchen passage.

"I thought you were still working on the floor."

"I finished it last night." Most of the room had once held broken shelves, spare jars, and a stack of chairs that did not match anything in the dining room. I had moved the usable storage into the pantry, repaired two loose floorboards, sealed the draft around the small window, and cleaned the walls. The room now held a narrow desk, a padded bench, a lamp, a shelf, two coat hooks, and a lockable drawer. The desk belonged to Nessa.

She could keep the ledgers there when she wanted to work without balancing them near the payment box. The room's main purpose was rest. The bench was long enough to lie down on. Beneath the padding, I had placed a weaker form of the support array used in my bed. It eased pressure through the back and legs and encouraged mana to settle into a steady flow. A quieting line softened the kitchen noise. A heat mark kept the room comfortable. The first setting had been too effective.

I had tested it after closing and woken forty-three minutes later with one shoe still on. I reduced the support and removed the sleep-guiding line entirely.

"The desk and drawer are yours," I said.

"The bench has a recovery inscription. Use the room during the intervals." Nessa glanced at the counter.

"I can handle drinks," I said. She studied me for a moment, untied her apron, and went into the room. The door closed. That was the entire discussion. I took her place behind the counter. During the next twenty minutes, I poured four teas, sold three pieces of bread, filled one cup with berry water, and told a man that lunch service began at the sixth bell. He looked toward the kitchen.

"You're standing there."

"I am standing behind the counter."

"Could you make soup?"

"Soup requires kitchen service."

"You have soup."

"It is for lunch." He considered this.

"What if I pay now?"

"You would receive soup at lunch." He decided to have bread. The sixth bell sounded while I was wiping the counter. Nessa returned from the rear room with her hair slightly flattened on one side. She tied her apron, checked the payment box, and opened the lunch ledger. She looked more rested. Neither of us mentioned the bench. Lunch began with six people arriving close together. The dining room filled steadily after that. A pair of wall workers ordered fried rice and extra bread.

Two caravan guards shared a pot of clarity tea before continuing west. A woman from the cloth market brought three apprentices and asked whether the porridge would make them faster.

"It supports ordinary mana recovery," I told her.

"So they will work faster."

"They may recover from ordinary mana use more comfortably." She looked at the apprentices.

"They'll work faster." I left the interpretation to her. By the end of service, we had served nineteen full meals. One above the third-month lunch average. Nessa marked the count in the ledger. The stove cooled. Prepared food moved to the counter and cupboards. The dining room remained open for afternoon drinks. This interval was longer. Nessa took the first break. I took the second. That was the intended arrangement. I spent part of mine measuring the wall where the second cold cabinet would stand.

It was still a break because I sat down while doing it. The current cabinet had become too crowded. Raw boar occupied the lower compartment. Ordinary vegetables filled two shelves. Silverleaf, cavern caps, and other mana-rich ingredients took the sealed drawer. Several jars of preserved roots competed with the cooling lines whenever someone left them too close to the meat. The new cabinet would divide the work properly. One half would hold ordinary food.

The other would contain smaller compartments for magical ingredients, each with separate humidity and temperature controls. A slow-release restaurant battery would keep the cabinet stable during interruptions. I wrote the estimated cost on the wall in chalk. Cabinet frame and insulation: 210. Interior partitions: 60. Conductor metal: 45. Cooling stones: 50. Hinges, seals, handles: 22. Battery connection: 30. Possible total: 417. I added another forty for mistakes.

The restaurant improvement fund would have little left afterward. The drink station could be built in stages. Nessa currently prepared tea beside the payment counter, then crossed behind the dining room to reach the cold water and berry bottles. A compact station near the rear wall would reduce the distance and keep drink orders away from the kitchen entrance. It needed shelving, a hot-water vessel, cooling marks, a small sink basin, and space for cups. Ventilation remained more urgent during guild production.

The hungry cupboards required less urgent work. Their temporary conductor lines needed refreshing once a week, though they had not failed. Inconvenience belonged below risk. I ranked the work: Second cold cabinet. Ventilation. Drink station. Pantry seals. Permanent cupboard conductors. The rear staff room had already consumed thirty-eight kamera in wood, padding, hinges, lamp fittings, and fresh plaster. I added it to the upgrade account. The recovery inscriptions had cost nothing except time and mana.

The battery beneath the bench would cost more once I finished it. I wiped the chalk from my hands and returned to the dining room. Nessa was pouring tea for an older guard. She nodded toward the rear room when she saw me.

"My drawer locks."

"Yes."

"You gave me the only key."

"Yes." She accepted that and returned to the tea. The afternoon passed quietly. Dinner did not. Every table filled before the twelfth bell. Three customers waited near the entrance. The hungry cupboards emptied their rice parcels faster than expected, and one of the warming marks weakened midway through the service. I refreshed it from inside the wall while waiting for onions to brown.

Nessa took orders, carried plates, collected coins, cleared tables, and redirected two customers who attempted to enter the kitchen. Amon was not one of them. That was unusual. By the time the last dinner plate left the kitchen, we had served sixteen meals. One above the monthly average again. Nessa closed the meal ledger and left the counter menu in place for evening drinks. The restaurant stayed open for another hour. Customers rarely remained long after dinner. A few preferred tea before returning home.

Others collected food from the cupboards and left without entering. When the final table cleared, Nessa counted the payment box.

"One hundred and eighty-three today," she said.

"Before expenses."

"I assumed you would say that."

"Thirty-seven came from the cupboards. Twenty-one came from drinks and bread."

"You already counted."

"The coins made distinct sounds." She looked at me.

"I also checked the box." She finished the ledger, placed it in the new rear desk, and took her coat from the hook.

"I'll see you in the morning."

"Your bonus is not in that drawer." She stopped. I had not intended to say that.

"What bonus?"

"The drawer is empty except for your things."

"I know."

"Good." She waited. I did not explain further. After a moment, she put on her coat and left. The door shut behind her. I locked it. The street lamps glowed beyond the windows. The order cupboards remained active for another half hour. I dimmed the dining room lights and carried the day's remaining mana upstairs. The bedroom had changed less visibly than the restaurant. The bed remained against the far wall. The small table beside it still held a water cup and a stack of notes.

The wardrobe leaned slightly because the floor beneath one leg was uneven. The new workbench stood beneath the window. A narrow chair occupied the opposite corner. I had added it because the bed had become both a recovery array and a place to work, which interfered with both purposes. A low lamp hung above the chair. A quieting mark around the frame softened street noise without blocking it completely. I had learned that complete silence made every sound inside the room more noticeable.

The bed's array had gained several new lines. The original design supported the body during sleep and encouraged ordinary recovery. The improved version adjusted pressure beneath the shoulders, spine, and hips. A slow current supported mana circulation without forcing it. Temperature and humidity marks kept the room steady. A limiter stopped the system if Joe's mana flow became uneven. I had written my own name in the notes because the array did not know who slept in it. A physical cutoff lever sat beside the bed.

My father would have installed one if I had not. The storage cells waited on the workbench. They looked simple from a distance. Cloudy crystal cores rested within brass cages. Fine lines wrapped around each cage in layers, controlling intake, containment, and release. The larger cells belonged to the restaurant. They accepted mana slowly and released it over many hours. One would support the second cold cabinet. Another would eventually provide emergency power to the hungry cupboards and ventilation system.

The medium cells powered recovery arrays. One already sat beneath my bed. Another waited for the rear staff room. The smaller cells were built differently. Their brass frames were thicker. The crystal cores were darker. Their release channels allowed mana to move quickly enough for combat inscriptions. They leaked more energy. They heated under strain. They were also more likely to crack if filled carelessly. I placed two fingers against the first combat cell. Mana flowed from my hand.

The containment lines brightened one after another. The first ring filled. Then the second. Heat gathered under my fingertips. I slowed the transfer until the glow settled. At the current rate, filling the cell would take most of the mana I had left after a normal working day. That was acceptable. Unused mana dispersed during sleep anyway. Capturing part of it allowed the day to leave something behind. I stopped before the crystal reached its limit. A full cell gave less room for changes in pressure.

The second combat cell received half as much. The third remained empty. The sealed emergency cell held enough power for a short barrier, mask filtration, and limited support through the underweave. The result had not been tested. Testing it would consume the emergency reserve and possibly the cell. I recorded the charge levels in a private ledger.

RESTAURANT CELL ONE — 72% RESTAURANT CELL TWO — 31% RECOVERY CELL ONE — ACTIVE RECOVERY CELL TWO — 48% COMBAT CELL ONE — 64% COMBAT CELL TWO — 27% EMERGENCY CELL — SEALED The categories mattered. A slow restaurant cell could not safely power a flame array. A combat cell could run a cold cabinet, though it would waste mana and place unnecessary strain on the conductors. Interchangeable parts were useful until they encouraged the wrong use. I opened the locked chest beneath the workbench.

The first armor layer lay folded inside. The dark cloth looked plain without mana running through it. Fine conductor lines disappeared into the weave along the shoulders, spine, ribs, hips, elbows, and knees. I pulled it on. The material tightened against my body. The support lines settled into place. When I rolled my shoulders, the strain spread across the upper weave. When I bent my knees, the joint marks took part of the load and returned it through the hips. The first layer did not stop blades.

It did not turn aside arrows. Its purpose was to connect everything that came after it. Mana distribution. Joint support. Heat resistance. Minor abrasion protection. Mask connection. Battery channels. Mending. A cut near the left sleeve had sealed cleanly during the last test. I reopened it with a small knife. The threads drew together as mana passed through the mark. The opening closed, leaving a thin uneven line. No material returned. The weave only joined what remained. That limitation was acceptable.

A mending inscription should repair damage. It did not need to invent cloth. I removed the underweave and folded it beside the chest. The next layer occupied the center of the workbench. The sample was only the length of my forearm. Treated resin formed its base. Fine cloth fibers kept it from splitting. Powdered lodestone gave it a weak pull. Conductor thread carried mana along narrow channels. The material bent like thick leather and returned to shape when released. Four small inscription plates rested beside it.

Each was narrower than two fingers and thin enough to slide into the channels. Heat. Pressure. Direction. Release. I placed them along the sample. They settled with four soft clicks. The second armor layer would hold plates like these across the arms, chest, ribs, back, shoulders, and waist. The magnetic pull would keep them in position. Locking marks would prevent them from moving once activated. Different arrangements would form different spell structures. That was the part I needed.

The wizard exam expected me to shape several spell components together while controlling the entire structure through intuition. Heat. Containment. Compression. Direction. Release. Other candidates appeared to feel where each part belonged. I saw each part separately. The armor could hold them in relation to one another. For the first fire configuration, I had removed containment. A stream of flame attached to the forearm required heat, pressure, direction, and controlled release. A fireball required more.

Containment. Stability. Propulsion. Timed release. A moving spell needed to remain intact after leaving the caster. That could wait. A flame connected to my arm had fewer ways to escape my control. I drew the plate arrangement into the ledger. Below it, I added the first barrier configuration. Expansion. Containment. Impact distribution. Grounding. The movement configuration remained less complete. Joint reinforcement. Force storage. Timed return.

The system might support faster movement by returning part of the force from each step. It could also break my ankle if the timing was wrong. I wrote: Test at low output. Then added: Lower. The detection system covered the other half of the workbench. Eight dark spheres sat in a shallow wooden tray. Each was slightly larger than a marble. A thin silver ring circled the middle. A flattened point kept the sphere from rolling while inactive. Only two were functional.

The remaining six were empty shells waiting for sensing cores and communication marks. When completed, the spheres would spread around a chosen area and create an octagonal perimeter. Each node would maintain its distance from the center and equal spacing from the nodes beside it. In open ground, the formation would be regular. Trees, walls, slopes, and water would distort it. The suit would need to show those distortions rather than pretending they did not exist.

Each sphere would eventually detect several things: Ground vibration. Movement across the space between nodes. Disturbances in ambient mana. Active inscriptions. Changes in position. Damage to another node. The intended range was one hundred yards across. The current range barely covered the restaurant. That was enough for a first test. I fitted the single-eye goggle over my left eye. The frame rested against my temple and hooked behind one ear.

A conductor line ran from the frame to a temporary collar piece connected to the underweave sample. The lens darkened. A faint circle appeared. Joe's position occupied the center as a small fixed mark. The octagonal outline formed around it. Six sides remained broken. Two points lit along the edge. The functional spheres. A pale line began sweeping around the display. The first pass showed nothing. The second found water moving through the pipe in the wall. It appeared as a long flickering smear.

I adjusted the vibration filter. The smear faded. A smaller point crossed the lower section of the display. The automatic broom downstairs. The point vanished when the broom stopped, then returned when it changed direction. I narrowed the range and altered the minimum movement threshold. The mark disappeared. Another point immediately appeared near the pantry. A mouse. I increased the size filter. The mouse vanished from the display.

That could become a problem if the thing approaching happened to be small and dangerous. I restored part of the sensitivity. The mouse returned. Detection required information. Useful detection required choosing which information to ignore. The sweep crossed the window side of the display. Several scattered points appeared. Footsteps on the street. A cart wheel. The door of the building opposite opening and closing. Someone moving quickly along the far pavement. Too much. I reduced the outer sensitivity.

Most of the marks dimmed. A stronger mana disturbance could still appear at range. Ordinary movement required proximity to one of the nodes. That was closer to useful. I placed the two spheres at opposite ends of the bedroom. The display stretched between them. The octagon remained incomplete, though the visible sections corrected themselves as the spheres settled. One node rolled half an inch toward the wall. The other rolled the same distance away. They were trying to maintain balance with six missing points.

I stopped them before they rearranged the room. The full array would require formation rules that understood the difference between open ground and furniture. I removed one sphere and placed it in the hallway outside the bedroom. The display lengthened. The connection weakened as the wall came between us, though it remained stable. I walked from one side of the room to the other. The goggle showed my central mark moving relative to the nodes.

The sweep line crossed the hallway and caught the slow movement of the order-cupboard mechanism downstairs. A small pulse appeared near the outer wall. A customer collecting the final evening parcel. The pulse moved away. The system could see movement without identifying it. That was enough. Identity belonged to the person using the information. I returned to the workbench and adjusted the sweep speed. Faster sweeps gave more current positions and consumed more mana.

Slower sweeps lasted longer and allowed quick targets to move between passes. Combat mode would require speed. Investigation mode could afford patience. I wrote both into the design notes. Then a new point appeared at the edge of the display. Larger than the others. It moved toward the restaurant at an even pace. The sweep crossed it again. The point had advanced several yards. A faint trail showed its previous position. The figure paused near the exterior wall. The gold order cupboard opened.

The point remained still for several seconds. Then it moved again. Toward the front entrance. I did not know who it was. The gait looked familiar. Heavy steps. Steady pace. No hesitation after leaving the cupboard. I removed the goggle. The display vanished. I collected the hallway sphere, placed both functional nodes in the tray, and disconnected the collar piece. The goggle went into the chest beneath the armor plans. The combat cells followed.

I folded the underweave over them, closed the lid, and turned the key. The window curtain remained shut. The bedroom door locked behind me. I went downstairs. The dining room sat in low amber light. The tables had been wiped clean. The payment counter was empty. Beyond the front windows, the street had darkened. A shadow crossed the glass. The handle turned. Amon entered.