Chương 2: A Place to Begin

The lease was signed before sunset. Jacob reviewed every page with me twice, although I had already read the entire document the previous night. Once the final signature dried, he placed the restaurant key in my palm. It was an ordinary iron key. It felt heavier than it should have. For the first time in years, I had a place that was mine—or at least mine for as long as I continued paying seven hundred and fifty kamera every month. Amon walked back with me, carrying the last of the paperwork beneath one arm.

"I'd help you settle in," he said, "but my team is meeting tonight."

"Go. I'll be fine."

"You have food?"

"I ate earlier."

"That was hours ago."

"I own a kitchen now."

"A broken kitchen."

"A partially broken kitchen." He looked through the open doorway at the dust-covered tables.

"You also don't have a bed."

"There's a bed frame upstairs."

"A frame is not a bed."

"It is most of one." Amon sighed.

"I'll come by tomorrow."

"You have training."

"I'll come by after."

"I can manage."

"I know." That was the problem with Amon. He could make an offer of help sound like a decision I had already agreed to. He gave me a final wave and headed toward the guild district. I waited until he disappeared around the corner before closing the door. The lock clicked. Silence settled over the restaurant. My restaurant. I turned the key once, then tested the handle. The door remained shut. Good. It was already late, and I had almost nothing with me.

My spare clothes, books, cooking knives, notebooks, and the rest of my belongings were still at my parents' house. I would visit them tomorrow. That conversation would be interesting. Hello, Mother. Hello, Father. I failed the examination again, gave up on becoming a wizard, and rented a restaurant near the western wall. Perhaps I would begin with the restaurant. I walked through the dining room, checking the windows and doors. Dust covered every surface.

The crooked shutter rattled whenever the wind struck it, and the lighting runes produced a harsh white glow that made the room resemble an examination hall. I disliked them immediately. Sleeping could wait. I found the previous tenant's repair kit beneath the kitchen counter. It contained rune chalk, a narrow etching tool, three conductor pins, and a coil of thin copper wire. Not enough for serious work. Enough to improve the lighting.

The existing illumination array had only two settings: painfully bright and completely dark. I added a secondary control loop and divided the mana flow across four smaller channels. When I activated the rune again, the light softened to a warm glow. Better. I adjusted it twice more before I was satisfied. Next, I inspected the entrances. The front door had a solid lock. The rear door did not. Its latch was old, and the wood around it had started to split.

I could not repair the wood tonight, but I could add a warning array. I etched a narrow detection line into the frame and connected it to a simple alarm rune above the door. If someone entered without disabling it, the rune would release a sharp noise and a mild electrical pulse through the threshold. Painful enough to discourage a thief. Not strong enough to stop Amon. Nothing short of a falling building was strong enough to stop Amon. I tested the detection line with the handle of a broom.

A crack of blue light flashed across the doorway. The broom fell from my hand. My fingers tingled.

"Mild," I muttered. It needed adjustment. By the time I finished, the restaurant was dim, secure, and slightly less broken than it had been that morning. The upstairs room was another matter. There was a bed frame, but no mattress. I spread my coat across the floor beside it and used my folded examination robe as a pillow. It was not comfortable. Still, I had slept in worse places. I lay beneath the window, looking at the faint glow of the western watchtowers. Tomorrow, I would collect my belongings.

Then I would clean the dining room, repair the cold-storage cabinet, inspect the water purification rune, apply for a food license, calculate ingredient costs, and determine whether twenty-three thousand kamera was enough to turn eleven mismatched tables into a functioning restaurant. For tonight, I had a locked door and a roof that belonged to me. That was enough. Morning arrived with a bolt of lightning.

I woke to a sharp crack, a flash of blue light, and every muscle in my body attempting to leave in a different direction.

"Ah!" I sat upright and struck my head against the wooden bed frame. For several seconds, I could do nothing except clutch my forehead and reconsider every decision that had led me to this point. The alarm rune above the window gave an innocent flicker. I glared at it. Sometime during the night, the wind had pushed the loose shutter open. The detection line had registered an unauthorized entry and discharged directly into the floor beneath me. The rune worked. That was the kindest interpretation.

I climbed to my feet and inspected the array. My fingers still tingled as I adjusted the sensitivity threshold.

"Wind is not an intruder," I informed it. The rune did not respond. I reduced the electrical discharge as well. A warning system was only useful if it did not kill the owner before the thieves arrived. Light streamed through the upstairs window. From there, I could see the neighborhood beginning to wake. Shopkeepers lifted shutters. A cart rolled down the street, its wheels rattling over the uneven stones. Two guards changed positions along the western wall. My back ached from sleeping on the floor.

My stomach ached from not eating. Neither problem was unexpected. I went downstairs and searched the kitchen cabinets. The previous tenant had cleared out most of his supplies. I found a small jar of salt, a cracked wooden spoon, and something at the bottom of a sack that might once have been a potato. I decided not to investigate further. The water rune still worked, though it produced a faint metallic smell.

I filled a cup, examined it against the morning light, and chose not to drink it until I had inspected the purification array. For breakfast, I purchased a small loaf of bread from a nearby stall. The woman running it looked past me toward the restaurant.

"You rented the old place?"

"I did." She studied me more closely.

"You cook?"

"That is generally expected."

"The last owner cooked."

"That is encouraging."

"He was good."

"That is less encouraging." The woman laughed.

"I'm Mara. My bakery is two streets over."

"Joe."

"You opening soon, Joe?" I looked at the peeling paint, crooked shutter, dusty windows, and dark dining room.

"Define soon."

"Before I die."

"Probably."

"Good. There's nowhere decent to eat on this end of the district." That was useful information.

"What did the previous restaurant serve?"

"Stews. Meat pies. Roasted vegetables. Simple things."

"Why did people stop coming?"

"They didn't. Old Bernard's knees stopped working." The previous tenant finally had a name. Bernard.

"The location wasn't a problem?"

"For people in the neighborhood? No. People from the city center never came this far, but they don't live here." I had spent so much time thinking about lost foot traffic that I had not considered the people already nearby.

"How many customers did he usually have?" Mara shrugged.

"Busy at lunch. Slower in the evenings unless a guild patrol came through. Western gate guards ordered from him often." That was even more useful. I paid for the bread and thanked her.

"Come by when you open," I said.

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Whether the food is good."

"A reasonable condition." She handed me the loaf.

"And fix that shutter. It kept Bernard awake too." I looked up at the offending piece of wood.

"Today." Back inside, I ate half the bread while sitting at one of the mismatched tables. It was dense, with a crisp crust and a mild sourness. Good bread. It would work well with soup or a heavy stew. I set the remaining half aside. Then I wrote a list. The paper had originally been the reverse side of an old supply invoice. Immediate repairs Front shutter. Rear-door latch. Cold-storage circulation line. Water purification rune. Second heating plate. Ventilation system. Upstairs alarm rune. Again.

Immediate purchases Mattress. Blankets. Cleaning supplies. Food. More rune chalk. Copper wire. Conductor pins. Cooking utensils. Official problems Food license. Business registration. Health inspection. Restaurant name. Menu. Prices. Customers. I stared at the list. Then I added: Chairs that do not collapse. One chair beside me leaned dangerously to the left. I moved to another table. Before I could begin any of it, I needed my belongings. I locked the restaurant and headed toward my parents' home.

They lived beyond the eastern market, in the same narrow house where I had grown up. It was not far by cart. On foot, carrying nothing, the journey took a little over an hour. Returning with books, clothing, cooking equipment, and seven damaged heating plates would be more complicated. I considered renting a handcart. Then I remembered I would need to explain why. Perhaps the explanation should come first. The city grew busier as I approached the center. Merchants shouted prices from their stalls.

Apprentices hurried between workshops. Guild members clustered around contract boards outside the western branch office. Two young mages passed me wearing fresh silver certification pins. I recognized one from the examination hall. He did not recognize me. I watched the pins until the crowd swallowed them. The disappointment was still there. I suspected it would remain for some time. I continued walking. My parents' house stood at the end of a residential lane behind my father's repair workshop.

The shop's front doors were open, and the familiar sounds of metal scraping against stone carried into the street. My father repaired ordinary tools rather than enchanted ones. Hinges, farming implements, cookware, locks, and anything else people brought him. He believed magic was useful. He also believed most magical tools were designed by people who had never needed to repair one. We agreed on that. He was seated at his workbench when I entered, filing the edge of a gardening tool. He looked up.

"Joe."

"Morning." His eyes moved to my coat, then my boots, then my face. He set down the file.

"You got the results."

"Yes." He waited.

"I failed." My father nodded once.

"I see." No disappointment appeared on his face. That was almost worse than disappointment. Mother came through the rear doorway carrying a basket of folded cloth.

"You're back early."

"He received his examination result," Father said. Her expression changed.

"Oh."

"I failed," I repeated. She placed the basket on a chair. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"I'm sorry."

"It was expected."

"That does not mean you cannot be hurt by it." I looked toward the workbench. A repaired pot sat near the edge. One handle had been replaced, and the bottom had been hammered flat.

"I'm not taking the examination again." Neither of them spoke immediately. I had expected relief. Perhaps concern. Perhaps an argument about wasting twelve years of study. Mother crossed the room and placed one hand against my cheek.

"All right." I frowned.

"That's it?"

"What would you prefer?"

"I don't know. A speech?"

"You dislike speeches."

"That is true." Father folded his arms.

"What will you do instead?" This was the difficult part.

"I rented a restaurant." Father's arms unfolded. Mother's hand dropped from my cheek.

"You did what?" they asked together.

"A small restaurant."

"When?" Mother asked.

"Yesterday."

"You failed your examination yesterday."

"Yes."

"And rented a restaurant the same day?"

"Technically, I decided to rent it yesterday. I signed the lease before sunset." Father stared at me.

"How much?"

"Seven hundred and fifty kamera a month." His eyebrows rose.

"For a restaurant?"

"And a room upstairs."

"Where?"

"Near the western wall." His eyebrows lowered again.

"Of course it is."

"It is a decent neighborhood."

"It is next to the wall."

"Most buildings in the district are next to something."

"Usually not the main defensive barrier between the city and monster territory."

"There has not been a major breach in three years." Mother looked at me.

"Major?" I should not have included that word.

"The building is safe."

"Does it have a kitchen?" she asked.

"Yes."

"A working kitchen?"

"Partially." Father closed his eyes.

"It has two heating plates," I continued.

"One is already repaired. The cold-storage cabinet only needs a circulation-line replacement. The water purification rune may require cleaning or a new filtration matrix. The structure itself is sound."

"Did you inspect the roof?" Father asked.

"Not closely."

"The foundation?"

"Visually."

"The drainage?"

"No."

"The chimney?"

"It uses enchanted ventilation."

"That was not my question." I took a breath.

"I planned to inspect those today." Father picked up his coat.

"We'll need the long ladder."

"You don't have to come."

"I know." He walked toward the rear room. Mother looked at me.

"You should not have told him the structure was sound."

"I believed it was relevant."

"He'll consider that a challenge."

"I only came to collect my things."

"You rented a building yesterday and expected to move everything yourself?"

"I intended to rent a handcart." She gave me the same look Amon used when I said something technically possible but obviously foolish.

"Your clothes are still in the upstairs room," she said.

"Most of your books are in the storage room. I put your cooking knives in the kitchen because you left them rusting beside those broken heating plates."

"They were not rusting."

"One was."

"It had surface discoloration."

"Rust."

"I can remove rust."

"You could also prevent it." She walked toward the stairs. I followed. My old room had become less of a bedroom and more of an archive devoted to my failures. Books covered the shelves, floor, desk, and windowsill. Magical theory texts were stacked beside rune manuals. Loose pages filled with diagrams protruded from boxes. A cracked practice wand lay beneath the bed. There were also three shirts, two pairs of trousers, and one sock hanging from the back of a chair.

"I thought I owned more clothing," I said.

"You do," Mother replied.

"Most of it is downstairs because I washed it."

"I would have washed it eventually."

"Yes." She pulled a travel bag from beneath the bed. While she packed my clothes, I began sorting the books. I selected a basic rune-compendium, three volumes on thermal enchantment, a text on magical preservation, my old elemental-interaction notes, and a book on restaurant accounting that I had purchased six months earlier. Mother noticed the last book.

"You really were planning this."

"For a while."

"How long?"

"About a year."

"And you did not tell us?"

"I did not want you to think I had already given up." She folded a shirt more sharply than necessary.

"Preparing for another possibility is not the same as giving up."

"It felt like it."

"To you." I placed the accounting book into a crate. She sat on the edge of the bed.

"Were you going to keep taking the examination if you passed eventually?"

"That was the general objective."

"No. I mean if you opened the restaurant." I looked at the shelves.

"I don't know." The honest answer was worse.

"I wanted to be a wizard."

"You still do."

"I failed five times."

"That was not an answer." I picked up the cracked practice wand. The wood had split near the grip during my second examination. I had kept it because I planned to repair it. Like the heating plates. Like every failed tool I told myself might become useful later.

"I don't think wanting it matters anymore," I said. Mother was quiet for several seconds.

"Wanting something always matters. It simply does not guarantee you will receive it."

"That is not particularly comforting."

"It was not meant to be." I set the wand inside the crate. She stood and returned to packing.

"I'm glad you have another plan," she said.

"I'm not glad you believe one failure must replace the other dream entirely."

"Five failures."

"The number does not change my point."

"It changes the examination fee."

"That, it does." We carried the first boxes downstairs. Father had already pulled a handcart from the workshop yard. He had loaded it with a ladder, toolbox, coils of rope, two buckets, and enough repair equipment to rebuild half the street.

"You are not renovating the entire restaurant today," I said.

"No," he replied.

"I'm determining how much of it is about to fall on you."

"The building is not falling."

"That is what we are going to determine." Mother emerged carrying a basket.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Food."

"I can buy food."

"With what cooking utensils?"

"The restaurant has some."

"Clean ones?" I did not answer. She placed the basket on the cart. By the time we finished loading, the cart contained: Two crates of books. One bag of clothing. My cooking knives. Several notebooks. A small collection of pots and pans. Cleaning cloths. Father's tools. Mother's food basket. Four of my seven damaged heating plates. Father looked toward the remaining three.

"No."

"I may need parts."

"You have four."

"The conductors differ between models."

"You can return for them."

"That is inefficient."

"So is pulling a cart heavy enough to kill the horse we do not own." We left three behind. The return journey took considerably longer. Father insisted on pulling the cart for the first half. I took over after the eastern market, though he continued walking beside me with one hand close to the handle, as if I might suddenly become incapable of moving it. Mother asked questions the entire way. What kind of food would I serve? When would I open? Would I hire anyone? Did I know how to keep business records?

Had I considered the cost of ingredients? Did the upstairs room have a proper lock? Had I spoken to the neighbors? Was there a healer nearby? I answered what I could. The questions I could not answer joined the growing list in my head. When we reached the western district, Mara was arranging bread on her stall. She saw the cart and waved.

"You brought reinforcements."

"My parents," I said. Mother immediately walked toward the stall. Within a minute, she and Mara were discussing the neighborhood as though they had known each other for years. Father studied the building. His expression did not change. That was not a good sign.

"What?" I asked.

"Roof line dips near the rear."

"How badly?"

"We'll see." He walked around the side. I unlocked the front door and pushed it open. The dining room looked worse in full daylight. Dust hung in the air. The mismatched tables appeared more battered than I remembered. One section of the wall had faded into a color that might once have been yellow. Mother entered behind me.

"Oh," she said.

"It looks better with the lights dimmed."

"That is rarely a compliment."

"I modified the lighting array." She touched the wall control. The runes brightened, then softened.

"This is nice."

"It has four levels now."

"You did that last night?"

"Yes."

"Instead of sleeping?"

"I slept afterward."

"On what?" I pointed upstairs. She looked at the bags of bedding on the cart.

"Of course." Father returned through the rear door.

"The roof is repairable. Drainage channel is blocked. One beam in the storage room needs reinforcement. Rear latch is useless. Foundation looks stable, but I want to check after we clear the yard." I allowed myself to breathe.

"So it is not falling down."

"Not today."

"Good."

"The chimney vent is clogged."

"It does not have a chimney."

"It has an external exhaust shaft connected to the enchanted ventilation."

"That is different."

"It is clogged with bird nesting."

"That may explain the airflow restriction."

"It explains the dead pigeon." Mother looked toward the kitchen.

"There is a dead pigeon?"

"Not anymore," Father said. She decided not to ask. We began with the windows. Mother filled a bucket from the wash basin, then stopped when she smelled the water.

"You drink this?"

"Not yet."

"Good." I removed the access plate beneath the basin and inspected the purification rune. Mineral residue coated the filtration lines. The rune itself was intact, but the previous tenant had not cleaned it properly. Mana still flowed through the system, dragging the taste of copper and stone into the water. I shut off the flow and began scraping away the buildup. Father leaned over my shoulder.

"Can it be repaired?"

"It is not broken."

"The water smells like a coin."

"It needs cleaning and a replacement mineral filter."

"How much?"

"Ten kamera if I buy a prepared filter. Three if I build one."

"How long?"

"An hour."

"Buy one."

"That wastes seven kamera."

"It saves an hour."

"My labor does not cost seven kamera an hour."

"It will if you open a restaurant." I looked at him. He raised one eyebrow. I added prepared water filter to my purchase list. While Father repaired the shutter and Mother cleaned the dining room, I worked on the cold-storage cabinet. The cracked circulation line was worse than I had initially thought. The fracture extended behind the rear panel and had damaged one of the airflow junctions. I removed the panel. Cold air spilled across my hands.

Beneath the circulation array, someone had carved an additional rune into the cabinet wall. I frowned. It did not belong to the original design. The lines were rough and shallow. Several sections had been scratched out, but enough remained for me to recognize the basic structure. A preservation rune. Not unusual in cold storage. What was unusual was that it had been connected backward. Instead of preserving the cabinet's contents, it drew residual mana from them and fed it into the cooling array.

"That's strange," I muttered. Mother looked in from the dining room.

"What is?"

"Someone modified the cabinet."

"Can you undo it?"

"Yes." I traced the altered lines. The modification was crude, but not accidental. Whoever had made it understood enough about preservation magic to reverse the flow. Why drain mana from stored food? Most ordinary ingredients contained almost none. Monster meat, magical herbs, and alchemical produce were different. The cabinet had been designed to extract traces of mana from whatever was placed inside it. That energy would reduce operating costs. It would also damage the ingredients over time. Flavor loss.

Texture changes. Reduced magical properties. A cook might not notice immediately. An adventurer eating mana-rich food after a hunt certainly would.

"Joe?" I realized Mother was still waiting.

"It was altered to power itself from the ingredients."

"Is that dangerous?"

"Not to people. Probably." She stared at me.

"I will remove it."

"Good." I sketched the rune into my notebook before scraping it away. The design was unethical. It was also interesting. Old Bernard might have commissioned it to save money, but Mara had described him as a successful cook. Someone concerned with food quality would notice the damage. Perhaps he had not known it was there. I replaced the cracked junction and redrew the circulation line. When I activated the cabinet, frost spread evenly across all four interior walls. The temperature dropped steadily.

One repair completed. At midday, Mother unpacked the food basket. She had brought hard cheese, boiled eggs, pickled vegetables, sliced meat, and enough bread for all three of us. We ate in the dining room after wiping down one table and testing every chair around it. Father rejected two chairs. Mother rejected one. I sat on the fourth. It creaked beneath me. We stood and ate.

"This is not how a restaurant usually works," Mother said.

"The furniture is temporary."

"Which parts are not temporary?" Father asked.

"The walls." He looked toward the storage room.

"Mostly." After lunch, Amon arrived carrying a bundle of lumber over one shoulder. He stopped in the doorway when he saw my parents.

"Mr. and Mrs. —" Mother hugged him before he finished. Amon looked at me over her shoulder. I offered no assistance.

"You've gotten larger," she said.

"I don't think so."

"You have."

"He trains every day," I said.

"Apparently every day is a training day." Amon lowered the lumber beside the wall.

"I brought wood for the cracked tables." Father examined it.

"Good grain."

"My father had it in storage."

"I will pay Jacob for it," I said.

"He said to consider it part of the repairs."

"The lease states that interior furnishings are my responsibility."

"He also said you would say that."

"That does not change the lease." Amon looked at Father.

"Does he argue with you like this?"

"Since he learned to speak."

"I was a precise child."

"You corrected the midwife's counting," Mother said.

"She skipped a finger."

"I was counting your toes."

"Then the error was worse." Amon laughed. We spent the afternoon working. Father reinforced the storage-room beam and replaced the rear latch. Amon moved tables, hauled waste into the yard, and held the ladder while Father cleared the exhaust shaft. Mother cleaned the kitchen counters and organized the belongings I had brought. I repaired the second heating plate. Its regulator was intact, but three heat-distribution lines had worn thin.

Rather than replace the entire plate, I separated the array into independent sections. That allowed different parts of the surface to maintain different temperatures. A low simmer on one side. High heat on the other. I tested it with two pots of water. The left pot warmed slowly. The right boiled in minutes. Amon returned from carrying broken chairs outside and stared at the plate.

"Was it meant to do that?"

"No."

"Then why does it?"

"I improved it."

"Of course you did." Father came into the kitchen. He studied the two pots.

"Useful."

"Very."

"Could you do that to an ordinary stove?"

"With the correct materials."

"How much would it cost?"

"Less than replacing one with a commercial dual-temperature model." Amon looked between us.

"You both have the same expression."

"What expression?" I asked.

"The one that means I'm about to be forced to carry something heavy." Father nodded toward the four broken heating plates on the floor.

"Bring those into the kitchen." Amon sighed. By late afternoon, the restaurant had changed. It was still dusty in places. The walls still needed paint. Several chairs remained unstable, and one table had been declared beyond repair. But the windows were clean. The shutter hung straight. The rear door locked. The water no longer smelled metallic. Both cooking stations functioned. The cold-storage cabinet maintained an even temperature.

The ventilation array worked once Father removed the bird nest and I widened the restricted airflow line. For the first time, the building resembled a restaurant rather than the remains of one. Mother stood near the service counter and surveyed the room.

"It needs curtains."

"It needs customers," I said.

"Curtains first."

"Licenses first."

"Paint first," Father said. Amon lowered himself carefully into one of the repaired chairs. It held.

"Food first."

"We ate," I reminded him.

"That was hours ago." I looked toward the kitchen. The food basket was nearly empty. The remaining ingredients were basic: half a loaf of Mara's bread, several eggs, a wedge of cheese, pickled vegetables, and a small portion of sliced meat. Not enough for a proper meal. Enough for something. I rolled up my sleeves.

"What are you making?" Mother asked.

"I don't know yet."

"That inspires confidence," Amon said. I lit the improved heating plate. The kitchen responded with a steady orange glow. No collapsing spell. No scattered flame. No burning boots. Just controlled heat. I sliced the remaining bread, brushed it with a little fat from the meat, and toasted it on the hotter half of the plate. On the cooler side, I scrambled the eggs slowly with grated cheese. The pickled vegetables were too sharp to serve alone, so I chopped them finely and warmed them with the sliced meat.

A small spoonful of their brine cut through the fat. Simple food. Improvised food. The kind of meal made from what remained after a long day. I arranged the toasted bread on four plates and covered it with the eggs, meat, and vegetables. Amon was already seated when I brought the plates out. Mother and Father joined him. I remained standing. Amon took the first bite. He chewed. Then he took another.

"Well?" I asked. He swallowed.

"You should fail examinations more often." Mother struck his arm.

"That was meant as praise," he said.

"It was poorly constructed." Joe's father picked up another piece of toast.

"The heating plate worked." I stared at him. He chewed thoughtfully.

"The food is good too."

"Thank you." Mother ate more slowly. When she finished, she looked around the dining room.

"You could make this work." It was not a grand declaration. She did not say the restaurant would be famous or that I had discovered my true purpose. She said I could make it work. Coming from her, that was better. Someone knocked at the front door. We all turned. Mara stood outside, peering through the newly cleaned window. I opened the door.

"I smelled food," she said.

"We are not open."

"I can see that." Her attention moved past me to the plates.

"Testing the kitchen?"

"Yes."

"Testing customers?"

"No." She held up a small paper bag.

"I brought rolls that didn't sell." Amon pulled an empty chair from the next table.

"We have room."

"We are not open," I repeated. Mara walked inside.

"Then I'm not a customer." She placed the bag on the table and sat. I returned to the kitchen and examined what remained. One egg. A small amount of cheese. Scraps of meat and vegetables. I could make one more plate. When I set it in front of her, she inspected it with the seriousness of a guild examiner. I suddenly disliked the comparison. She took a bite. Her eyebrows lifted.

"The old place never served this."

"Is that good?"

"It means it's different."

"That was not my question." She took another bite before answering.

"It's good." Amon pointed his fork at her.

"I said the same thing."

"You said he should fail more examinations."

"That part was unrelated." Mara ignored him.

"What do you call it?" I looked at the plate.

"It does not have a name."

"Food should have a name."

"It is toasted bread with eggs."

"That is a description."

"A useful one." She shook her head.

"You'll need better names before you make a menu." She was right. I disliked that. Mara finished the plate, then placed two kamera on the table. I pushed the coins back toward her.

"We are not open."

"And I am not accepting free food from a business that needs curtains." Mother nodded approvingly.

"I told him."

"You are all strangely concerned about curtains." Mara pushed the coins toward me again.

"Take it." It was not enough to matter. Two kamera would not pay the rent. It would not purchase a food license, replace the furniture, or cover the cost of ingredients. It was also the first money anyone had paid for food made in my restaurant. I picked up the coins. They felt heavier than they should have. Amon leaned back in his chair.

"First customer."

"She explicitly said she was not a customer." Mara tore open the bag of leftover rolls.

"I lied." Outside, the evening bells began to ring. The restaurant was still unfinished. I had no menu, no sign, no license, and no official opening date. But five people sat around one of the mismatched tables, eating in the warm light of the runes I had repaired. For the first time, I could see what the room might become. Not merely a backup plan. Not merely the place I had ended up after failing to become a wizard. Something of my own. I placed the two kamera in an empty jar behind the counter.

Then I took out my notebook and wrote: First sale: 2 kamera. Below it, after a moment's consideration, I added: Buy curtains.