Chương 32: A Name on the Workbench

Six days after the first cooling apron survived a full bakery shift, I crossed Caldris to my parents' home. The walk from The Second Spark took a little over an hour. I left the western wall behind, passed through the central market before the morning crowd reached its worst, and continued beyond the eastern market into the narrower residential lanes where I had grown up. My father's workshop stood at the front of the property, facing the lane.

The family house sat directly behind it, separated by a small paved yard where Mother sometimes aired dyed cloth and Father left repaired furniture when the varnish needed sun. The arrangement had always been practical. Mother could carry patterns from her sewing room to the workshop without taking them through the street. Father could answer repair customers without bringing sawdust, filings, and machine oil into the house. It also meant the new business would remain separate from The Second Spark. That mattered.

The restaurant was already full of food, customers, deliveries, records, equipment, and people attempting to pass through the same narrow doorway. Turning one of its tables into a clothing counter would only give Nessa another reason to remove me from the dining room. I had sent Sela Hart copies of the cooling insert and cutoff drawings two days earlier. She had agreed to stop at the workshop near the sixth bell, after inspecting a damaged lifting frame in the eastern district.

I had asked for her opinion on the failure limits. At the time, we had possessed several prototypes and no customers. I expected that to remain true until after her visit. By the time I arrived, Father had cleared the central workbench and placed a blank wooden sign across it. The board had been sanded smooth, its corners rounded, with two iron hooks set along the upper edge. He had chosen a good piece of ash, free of knots and wide enough for a name that did not require small lettering.

Mother stood across from him with three apron patterns tucked beneath one arm. She had changed them several times during the week. One fit me. One fit Tovan. The third existed because she had become annoyed when I referred to the first two as standard sizes.

"There is no standard body," she had told me. I had pointed out that standard sizing did not require standard bodies. That conversation had not improved from there. I placed my account book beside the sign.

"Nessa expects me back before lunch." Father glanced toward the clock above the rear shelf.

"Then we have three hours."

"Two hours and forty-six minutes."

"That was what I meant."

"It was close to what you meant." Mother laid the apron patterns over my account book before I could open it.

"You are not beginning with the money."

"The money determines whether the business begins."

"The business needs a name before your father can paint the sign."

"A name costs nothing." Father picked up a narrow brush and tested the bristles against his thumb.

"That may be why he considers it less urgent." The workshop doors stood open to the warm morning. Air moved in from the lane, carrying the smells of bread, coal smoke, and someone frying onions much earlier than necessary. Father's ordinary repair work had been pushed toward the side benches. The center of the workshop now held folded cloth, copper fittings, refill housings, cutoff tabs, storage bins, and six removable inserts in different stages of completion. It already looked like a business.

It looked as though Father's repair shop had eaten part of Mother's sewing room and was still deciding whether it enjoyed the taste. I moved the patterns and opened my account book.

"I have several names." Mother pulled out a stool.

"That sounds less hopeful than you believe."

"Benson Thermal and Practical Enchantments." Father dipped the brush into clean water, though there was no paint on it yet.

"Too long."

"Benson Applied Domestic Systems." Mother glanced toward the aprons hanging near the window.

"That sounds like you intend to sell plumbing."

"The products are not limited to clothing."

"They are currently three aprons and a belt."

"There are seven products on the proposed list."

"Proposed products do not occupy shelf space." Father turned the blank sign toward himself.

"What else?"

"Benson Adaptive Works." Mother considered it for a moment.

"People will ask what it adapts."

"It adapts to the user."

"That answer will not fit beneath the name." I looked around the workshop again. The products were not complicated in purpose. They cooled, warmed, supported, controlled heat, stopped damaged tools, or helped someone observe what was happening inside a pan. The difficult part was making them simple enough to live with. Father rested both hands on the workbench.

"Benson Practical Works." I waited for the rest. None came.

"Practical is broad."

"Yes."

"It does not mention runes."

"Good."

"It does not mention clothing, kitchen tools, or repairs." Mother slid the sign closer to him.

"Also good."

"A business name should identify the business." Father nodded toward the room.

"We make useful things. The name says that."

"It says we make practical things."

"That is the same sentence wearing better clothes," Mother said. I read the words again in my head. Benson Practical Works. The name did not explain enough. People would remember it.

"That is acceptable." Mother smiled.

"Such passion."

"I agreed."

"You endured it." Father opened a tin of dark brown paint.

"Endurance is enough for a sign." He began the first letter while I returned to the account book. The registration papers listed Neil and Laura Benson as joint proprietors. Father would control the workshop, physical casings, replacement parts, repair work, and manufacturing. Mother would control garment patterns, fittings, cloth selection, washing tests, and final approval of anything worn against the body. My part required more lines. I had supplied six hundred kamera in startup capital.

The money came from my personal savings and accumulated owner draw. It did not come from The Second Spark's tax reserve, wage fund, operating reserve, or proposed expansion money. Nessa had made me write that sentence twice. The six hundred kamera was a loan rather than an ownership purchase. Benson Practical Works would begin repayment only after establishing a three-hundred-kamera operating reserve. There was no fixed repayment date and no interest. I had originally left out the repayment requirement.

Mother had returned it. The rune structures remained mine. Benson Practical Works could produce and sell them under a continuing license. For every product using one of my inserts or control arrays, I would receive one-tenth of the final sale price. I had proposed taking nothing until the loan was repaid. That suggestion had survived less than a minute. Mother sat beside me and read the agreement again.

"You changed the wording."

"I made it more precise."

"You made it smaller."

"It still says ten percent."

"At the bottom."

"The location does not alter the amount."

"It alters whether anyone remembers it." Father continued painting.

"Put it beside the product cost."

"That will make the catalog crowded." Mother reached for the pen. I moved the book out of reach.

"I will add it to the cost sheet."

"Good. And make the writing large enough that your father can read it without borrowing my lenses." Father looked over.

"I can read it."

"You held the last contract beside the window and turned it three times."

"The light was poor."

"It was midday." The combined products belonged to the business as finished designs. Mother retained her garment patterns. Father retained his housing, clasp, cutoff, and frame drawings. I retained the rune structures. None of us could sell a complete combined product through another company without the others agreeing. It appeared complicated in writing.

In practice, Mother owned the apron, Father owned the parts that stopped it from becoming dangerous, and I owned the part most likely to become dangerous if the other two were ignored. That seemed fair. Father finished the first word and stepped back. BENSON. The letters were neat and plain, without ornament. Mother looked from the sign to the papers.

"Now the prices." I turned to the next page.

"Cooling work apron, thirty-two kamera. Warming work apron, thirty. Support belt, eighteen. Butcher cuffs, twelve per pair. Oven-control dial, ten. Physical cutoff kit, eight. Pan-observation frame, nine." Mother read the list without speaking. Father returned to painting. The silence lasted long enough to become deliberate.

"What?" Mother tapped the cooling apron.

"How much is the cloth?"

"Seven kamera for the smaller pattern."

"The straps, thread, lining, and reinforced pocket?"

"Four."

"The insert?"

"Eight, including conductor cloth and refill housing."

"That is nineteen."

"Yes."

"How long does the fitting take?"

"That depends on the wearer."

"How long did Mara's take?"

"Forty-three minutes."

"And Tovan's?"

"One hour and twelve."

"Then why have you charged nothing for the fitting?"

"The labor is included in the garment." She waited. I looked back at the price. I had included the materials, expected failures, and a portion of the workshop expenses. I had not given Mother's time a separate line because the result seemed too expensive. Father spoke without turning from the sign.

"How many aprons can your mother make in one day?"

"Two, once the pattern is established."

"One," Mother said.

"Two if no one enters the room, asks questions, changes the insert, or decides the refill point should move after I finish the seam." I ignored the final portion.

"One reliably."

"And how much should one day of skilled work earn?" Father asked.

"That depends on market rates." The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Mother folded her arms. I had researched market rates. I had not applied them because the resulting price had seemed high.

"A fitted work apron without magic sells for fourteen to twenty kamera," I said.

"Special heat cloth can reach twenty-six."

"And ours still works as an apron without the insert."

"Yes."

"It is fitted."

"Yes."

"It can be washed and repaired."

"Yes."

"It has survived six hot washes, five bakery shifts, four restaurant services, and Tovan putting his notebook into a pocket that was not designed for it."

"The pocket has been reinforced."

"Because he will do it again." That was likely. Father finished the second word. PRACTICAL. He cleaned the brush before joining us at the account book.

"What happens if an insert fails during the first week?"

"We replace it."

"Without charging the customer?"

"Yes."

"Then replacement cost belongs in the price."

"The failure rate is currently low."

"The sample size is six." I looked at him. He had been listening when I discussed the tests. Father pointed to the cutoff kit.

"You priced that at the cost of the parts."

"The construction is simple."

"It is simple because I made the third version. The first one jammed."

"The first was a prototype."

"It still took time." Mother turned the book toward herself and wrote new figures beside mine. Cooling work apron: fifty-four kamera. Warming work apron: fifty-two. Support belt: thirty-four. Butcher cuffs: twenty-two per pair. Oven-control dial: eighteen. Physical cutoff kit: sixteen. Pan-observation frame: fourteen. I stared at the first figure.

"Fifty-four is high."

"It is four kamera more than an ordinary high-quality heat apron."

"It is also a new product with no established service life."

"Then we include adjustments and repairs." Father added the terms beneath the list. First fit adjustment included. Workmanship faults within thirty days repaired or replaced without charge. Ordinary-wear repairs charged at material cost for the first six months. Inserts refilled separately. Replacement parts sold individually. No sealed housings. Manual cutoff required. I read the terms twice. The included adjustment would cost time. Repair promises required spare material.

Selling replacement components would sometimes prevent the sale of a complete new product. It would also make the products easier to trust.

"We need a repair reserve," I said. Mother's expression softened slightly.

"Yes."

"Five percent from each completed sale." Father considered it.

"Ten until we know what breaks."

"Ten is high."

"So was fifty-four."

"That is not the same calculation."

"No. It is the next one." I wrote ten percent. The first catalog fit onto one sheet after Mother removed most of my descriptions. My original entry for the cooling apron listed the maximum safe charge, expected heat movement, refill-cell size, insert length, failure threshold, and limits under wet conditions. Mother replaced it with: A fitted work apron with a removable cooling insert. Designed for kitchens, bakeries, laundries, workshops, and other hot indoor work. Washable after the insert is removed.

Manual stop included. The technical page would remain available to anyone who asked. Most people would not ask. I found that disappointing. Mother turned the order sheet over.

"Now we decide how the products reach people."

"The workshop is here."

"And the restaurant is across the city."

"Customers can come for fittings."

"A baker cannot leave an oven for half a day because her apron needs measuring. A butcher cannot close his counter because a belt presses against his hip." Father pulled a city map from beneath a stack of repair invoices. The paper had softened along its folds. Small pencil marks showed houses, mills, warehouses, and workshops where he had repaired something over the years.

"We fit people where they work when the order is large enough," he said.

"One apron comes here. Four aprons, we go there."

"That adds travel time."

"It also brings four orders." I studied the distance between the eastern workshop and the western district. A separate journey for every fitting, delivery, and repair would make the business inefficient before its second week.

"We need scheduled routes." Mother drew a line down the center of the order sheet.

"Eastern work on this side. Western work on the other."

"The eastern deliveries can go out when they are completed," Father said.

"Most are close enough for the handcart."

"The western district requires a full route. Twice each week should be enough at the current volume." Mother wrote beneath the western column: Second day — fittings and repair collections. Fifth day — deliveries and repaired items returned.

"The restaurant cannot become a second workshop," I said.

"It should not hold unfinished products, accept fitting changes, perform repairs, or mix payments into Nessa's accounts."

"No one suggested that," Mother said. Father studied the map.

"It can be a collection point." I looked at him.

"A locked cabinet," he continued.

"Finished orders only. Marked with the customer's name and order number. The customer pays Benson Practical Works. Nessa records that the parcel arrived and that it was collected. Nothing more." That would allow customers near the western wall to receive finished items without crossing the city. It would also let one delivery cart serve several people at once.

"Payment should be completed before the item enters the cabinet." Mother glanced at me.

"Some people will pay on collection."

"Then the payment must remain separate from restaurant money."

"A locked payment drawer beside the cabinet," Father said.

"Different key. Different ledger."

"Nessa should not be responsible for chasing late payments."

"She will not be."

"She will if the rules are unclear." Mother added another heading. Western collection cabinet: Finished and repaired goods only. No fittings. No workshop consultations. No unfinished work. Separate payments and receipts. Two-day collection limit unless arranged in advance.

"We need numbered tags," I said.

"One on the item, one in the workshop ledger, and one on the receipt." Father nodded.

"I can make them from scrap wood."

"And a delivery case that keeps the inserts separate from damp cloth."

"I can make that too." Mother looked between us.

"We have turned carrying an apron across the city into three new objects."

"They are necessary objects."

"That is what both of you always say." The workshop opened for ordinary repair customers at the third bell. The new sign remained on the bench to dry while Father repaired a grain-mill handle near the doors and Mother arranged the sample products on a long table beneath the window. I had planned a quiet first day. Mara arrived with Miri before the paint had finished drying. Mara wore the revised cooling apron. Flour marked the front, and one strap had been tied differently from the way Mother intended.

Mother noticed before greeting her.

"Why is that twisted?" Mara looked down.

"It stays away from my shoulder that way."

"It should stay away without twisting."

"It does until I lift the large trays." Mother untied the strap and began adjusting it while Mara remained standing. Miri picked up the catalog.

"Are these the prices?"

"Yes."

"She said mine would be cheaper because I am smaller." Mara looked toward her.

"I did not."

"You said it would use less cloth."

"That is not the same thing."

"It will use less cloth," I said.

"The fitting and insert remain similar. The price would be fifty." Miri studied the numbers.

"Four kamera less is not much."

"You do not become easier to fit because you are shorter." She looked at Mother, who was pinning Mara's strap into a new position.

"That sounds unfair."

"It often does," Mother said. Mara ordered two cooling aprons, one for herself and one for Miri, along with an oven-control dial. The total came to one hundred and twenty-six kamera. I reached for the order ledger. Mara placed sixty-three kamera on the bench.

"You do not need to pay half before we finish them." The sentence left my mouth before I considered it. Mother stopped adjusting the strap. Father's file went quiet near the doors. Mara looked at the coins, then at me.

"Is that what the order sheet says?"

"Yes."

"Then take it."

"You supplied several early test shifts."

"And your mother altered the apron after every one."

"The testing was useful."

"So was the apron." I looked at the sixty-three kamera. Mara pushed the coins closer.

"You cannot open a business and become surprised when people pay it."

"I am not surprised."

"You have been staring at the money for some time." I entered the deposit. Rook's order arrived before Mara left. Darin came alone, carrying one of the original support belts rolled beneath his arm. The outer cloth had darkened from butcher work, though the seams remained firm. He placed it on the bench and pressed his thumb against the lower support strip.

"This helps when I lift. This part presses into my hip when I turn." Mother took the belt and held it around his waist without fastening it.

"Because Joe placed the support line where your body would be if you stood still all day."

"The first design required a stable anchor." Darin glanced at me.

"Do you stand still while cooking?"

"No."

"Then why did you think I would?"

"That issue has been corrected." Mother gave me a look over his shoulder.

"It has now." Rook's ordered two revised support belts, two pairs of butcher cuffs, and a cutoff kit for the meat saw. Darin paid a sixty-four-kamera deposit, then spent another ten minutes discussing whether the cuffs should close at the wrist or farther up the forearm. I would have chosen the longer version because it provided greater coverage. Darin chose the shorter design because he needed to wash his hands and arms repeatedly without removing the entire cuff. That distinction had not appeared in my drawings.

Before leaving, he added Rook's to the western route. Mother would perform the final belt fitting at the butcher shop on the next second day. Father would inspect the meat saw while he was there. By the fifth bell, two neighboring workshop owners had entered after seeing the unfinished sign through the open doors. The joiner ordered one cooling apron and one support belt for an older worker whose back stiffened during long bench work.

The pottery shop ordered a cooling apron and a cutoff kit for a glaze mixer that had continued turning after its activation rune cracked. Father refused to sell the cutoff until he inspected the mixer. The potter agreed and paid the deposit anyway. Twelve products had been ordered before the sign reached the wall. The total value came to four hundred and twelve kamera. Half had been paid in advance. I checked the number twice.

"Two hundred and six," I said. Mother folded the sample warming insert into its case.

"That is usually half of four hundred and twelve."

"I know."

"Then why did you check again?"

"The first total may have been wrong." Father climbed down from the ladder after securing the sign above the doors. BENSON PRACTICAL WORKS stretched across the ash board in dark brown letters. Smaller words beneath it read: WORK CLOTHING, PRACTICAL TOOLS, REPAIRS The second line had not been discussed.

"It fits," Father said when he noticed me reading it.

"It does." That appeared to be enough. I returned to the cash page. The business had begun with my six-hundred-kamera loan. Registration, the sign, order sheets, wooden tags, labels, and the first lock for the western collection cabinet had cost seventy-two kamera. Initial fabric, conductor cloth, copper, fasteners, refill housings, storage bins, delivery cases, and small tools had taken another two hundred and forty-six. After the deposits, four hundred and eighty-eight kamera remained in the business box.

Some of that money belonged to customers until their orders were completed. None of it was profit. The business still possessed unused materials, tools, patterns, half-finished inserts, a delivery case, and the lock Father would fit into the collection cabinet at The Second Spark. It had also acquired work. Mother came beside me and read the page.

"You look worried."

"We accepted twelve products."

"That was the reason for opening."

"The cooling aprons require fittings. The support belts need separate patterns. Father must inspect two machines. The cuffs are unfinished. We also need to build and install the collection cabinet."

"So we make them."

"The restaurant requires work."

"The restaurant has Nessa and Tovan. This workshop has your father and me. You are not responsible for standing in every room."

"I designed the inserts."

"Then you produce the inserts on the agreed days."

"What if something changes?"

"We send a note."

"What if the change affects safety?"

"We stop production."

"What if—" Mother placed one hand against my cheek. She had done the same thing when I told her I had failed the wizard examination for the final time.

"Joe. This business cannot depend on your guilt any more than it can depend on free labor." I grew still. She lowered her hand but kept her eyes on me.

"You offered the money because you could afford to risk it. You gave us the designs because we are building them with you. That does not mean you must make every seam, approve every strap, deliver every parcel, repair every housing, and apologize whenever someone pays the listed price."

"I was not apologizing."

"Mara thought you were."

"Mara often decides what I mean before I finish saying it."

"She has known you long enough to make educated guesses." Father joined us with the empty paint tin.

"You can go back to the restaurant after Sela arrives." I looked toward the clock. The sixth bell was twelve minutes away.

"There are still papers."

"We can read."

"The order totals need to be copied into the production ledger." Mother pointed toward the stool.

"Sit down and wait for the person you invited."

"I remember inviting her."

"You were looking at the door as though she might forget."

"She has another inspection first." Father returned to the front bench.

"Then she may be late."

"She said near the sixth bell."

"That is not a precise time."

"It was the time she gave." Mother took the account book from my hands and placed it beside the workshop ledger.

"You have now checked the door three times."

"I was looking at the sign."

"The sign is above the door."

"That does not make the statements incompatible." The sixth bell sounded while Father was fitting the new lock into a wooden cabinet frame. Sela arrived several minutes later, carrying my drawings inside a narrow leather case. Stone dust marked one side of her gray municipal coat, likely from the eastern inspection she had mentioned in her reply. She stopped beneath the new sign.

"You chose a name."

"This morning." Her gaze moved past me to the order ledger, the coins on the workbench, and the sample products arranged beneath the window.

"You also started selling them."

"We accepted twelve orders." Sela looked down at the leather case beneath her arm.

"Then the question you sent me is no longer the question we need to answer."

"I asked about the cutoff limits."

"That was when you had prototypes." She entered the workshop and placed the case beside the ledger.

"Now you have customers." Mother set down the apron she had been folding.

"Are you saying we should not have accepted the orders?"

"I have not examined enough to say that." Sela opened the case and removed my drawings. Several pages carried her narrow notes along the margins. Her first question concerned the cutoff kit.

"Where has this version been tested?"

"The base mechanism has operated in the restaurant equipment for several months."

"The base mechanism is not the finished product."

"The structure is the same."

"The housing is different. The user is different. The environment may be different. The force placed against it is different. The failure path is different." I stopped. That was true. Father came closer, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"The cutoff for the pottery mixer will not be installed until I inspect the machine."

"Good. Who sets the safe load after you inspect it?"

"Joe can calculate it." Sela looked at me.

"And who checks his calculation?"

"I do."

"You designed it. You receive money when it sells. You lent money to the company selling it."

"I am also the person most familiar with the runes."

"That makes you necessary to the review. It does not make you independent." Mother folded her arms.

"What do we need?"

"Clear test records for each product. Intended uses. Uses that are prohibited. Load limits. Washing limits. Refill limits. Inspection points. A process for recording failures and repairs."

"We have most of that," I said.

"You have notes."

"They are detailed."

"I know. I read them." Sela turned one page around.

"This says the cooling insert remained stable for four hours and thirteen minutes. It does not say what happened to the cloth, the wearer, the seams, or the cutoff after four hours."

"The cloth and wearer are in Mother's records."

"And the housing is in Neil's. Your information is divided between three people because the design belongs to three people." Father looked at the ownership agreement on the bench.

"We wrote down who owns each part."

"That is useful. You also need one record for the complete product." Sela moved to the sample table and examined the removable housing. She tested the manual stop, opened the outer cover, and removed the insert without asking for help.

"The pieces are accessible. That is good."

"No sealed housings," Father said. She nodded.

"Keep that rule." Mother picked up the order ledger.

"Can we complete the aprons?"

"I see no reason to stop the garment orders. You have work tests, wash tests, removable inserts, a manual stop, and adjustment terms. Mark them as first-production items. Record every repair and complaint."

"And the machine cutoffs?" Father asked.

"Inspect the machines first. Do not install anything until the limit has been reviewed."

"By you?" I asked. Sela looked at me for a moment.

"That is another problem."

"You work for the city."

"Yes."

"The engineering office did not approve Rusk's providers."

"No."

"It worked beside the offices that did." Her expression tightened, though her voice remained level.

"I know." The answer carried more weight than the words required. Sela closed the housing and set it down carefully.

"You need to register the designs before copies appear in the market. You also need credible safety records from someone who is not paid when the products sell."

"The municipal office provides registrations."

"It does."

"You do not trust it."

"I trust parts of it. I no longer trust the process enough to tell a small business that a city stamp will protect them." Father looked toward the new sign. Sela followed his gaze.

"A name on the workbench is useful. A name on the safety record is better. Otherwise, someone copies the insert badly, seals it inside cheap cloth, injures a worker, and tells the city they purchased a Benson design."

"We can mark the original components," I said.

"You should. Mark them, number them, and record where they go. Also register the design claims before someone else registers a poor copy." Mother rested her hand on the order ledger.

"Can you help us do that?" Sela did not answer immediately. The workshop quieted around her. Beyond the open doors, a handcart rolled down the lane. Someone called to a neighbor from an upper window.

"I can explain the current process," she said.

"I can examine your records informally. I cannot promise the office will treat you fairly, and I should not become the only person signing products owned by people I know."

"That is more cautious than the city permit process," I said.

"That is not a high standard." Father picked up the first cutoff housing.

"What would a useful standard look like?" Sela studied the device in his hand.

"Failure testing. Repair records. Clear ownership. Registered design claims. Someone responsible for keeping the records current. Someone independent enough to refuse approval when the product belongs to a friend." The statement sounded less like an answer she had prepared and more like one she was building as she spoke. I looked at the stone dust on her sleeve, the municipal coat, and the notes she had made across my drawings.

"You have considered this before."

"I have considered what the city offices failed to do."

"Is that why you agreed to come?"

"I agreed because you asked about a cutoff." She glanced toward the order ledger again.

"I did not expect to find a company beneath a wet sign."

"The sign is nearly dry," Father said. Sela's mouth moved slightly.

"Then you are ahead in one area." She placed the drawings back into the case, leaving one page on the workbench. It contained a list. Product record. Test history. Ownership. Allowed uses. Prohibited uses. Maintenance schedule. Replacement parts. Manual failure response. Independent review. Registered claim.

"Bring these records to the western engineering office tomorrow," she said.

"The apron tests, the cutoff drawings, the warranty terms, the delivery rules, and the ownership agreement." Mother looked at the page.

"Will that register the designs?"

"No. It will show us what is missing before you submit anything."

"And after that?" I asked. Sela fastened the case.

"After that, we decide whether the current system is capable of protecting useful work." She left several minutes later, heading back toward the eastern market before returning to the western office. Father stood beneath the sign with the first cabinet lock in one hand. Mother remained at the workbench, reading Sela's list beside the order ledger. The business existed. It had owners, tools, customers, debt, deposits, prices, promises, delivery routes, repair terms, and more work than it had possessed that morning.

It also had a name someone else might steal and safety claims none of us could credibly approve alone. I gathered my account book. Nessa had expected me back before lunch. I was already late. For once, that was not the largest problem waiting for me.