Chương 7: Room at the Table

I woke at the first bell feeling as though I had slept twice as long as I had. The recovery array beneath the bed gave one faint pulse when I sat up, then settled. My back felt loose. The heaviness that usually lingered behind my eyes after a short night was gone. I still needed to measure how much mana the array consumed. Later. By the time I came downstairs, three people were gathered around the order cabinet. Tomas held a wooden token in one hand and the instruction sheet in the other.

A younger guard stood beside him, reading over his shoulder. The third man was a laborer from the workshop across the road. None of them appeared to be following the instructions. I opened the front door.

"The restaurant is closed." Tomas looked up.

"We know."

"You are standing inside the doorway."

"We need help."

"With what?" He held up the token.

"I put this in the slot."

"You are supposed to keep it."

"That was not clear." The instruction sheet beside his hand read: KEEP YOUR TOKEN. I pointed to the line. Tomas looked at it.

"That could mean anything."

"It means keep the token." The workshop laborer tapped the order box.

"I wrote what I wanted and put the paper inside."

"That is correct."

"Then I put my money in."

"Also correct."

"Where does the food come out?"

"When it is ready, I place it in the compartment matching your token." He looked at the numbered doors.

"So it does not come out immediately."

"No."

"Then why did Tomas say it would?"

"I said it should," Tomas replied.

"You said the cupboard made food."

"I misunderstood Joe's explanation."

"You were not present when I explained it."

"That may have contributed." I took Tomas's token from him and opened compartment six. Three wrapped breakfast parcels rested inside. Steam escaped when the door opened. The guards leaned closer. Tomas pointed.

"That one is mine."

"All three are for the morning patrol."

"How do you know?"

"I prepared them."

"That is a good system," the younger guard said.

"It is the system I explained yesterday."

"It makes more sense when there is food inside." I handed them the parcels, closed the compartment, and watched until all three men left. The cabinet had survived its first night. Most customers had understood the process. Orders placed before evening bell had been prepared in advance, labeled, and stored before I went upstairs. The morning patrol collected theirs on the way home. Workshop laborers tended to order for midday. Several people had requested evening meals. I had estimated the quantities well enough.

No food had been wasted, and only one man had attempted to open the wrong compartment. The warning pulse worked. Possibly too well. He claimed he could feel his fingertips again before leaving. I locked the front door and returned to the quiet dining room. The restaurant would remain closed for two more days. I intended to use them properly. The original floor plan rested beneath my accounting book. I spread it across the largest table and weighed the corners down with salt jars.

The room had been arranged around whatever furniture the previous owner left behind. Tables stood where they fit. Chairs filled the spaces between them. The arrangement worked when the restaurant was half full. Once every table was occupied, movement became difficult. Customers sitting near the center had to turn sideways whenever someone passed. The table nearest the kitchen blocked the shortest route to the service counter.

During the last evening service, two guards had eaten while standing because every chair was taken. One claimed he preferred it. He was lying. I removed my coat and began moving furniture. The first table shifted closer to the front window. The second moved toward the western wall. I carried chairs into the rear yard, then brought them back one at a time as I tested the space between each table. Enough room for a person carrying plates. Enough room for customers to stand without striking the people behind them.

Moving through the room alone was easy. Moving through it with a tray was different. I filled four bowls with water, placed them on a wooden board, and walked from the kitchen to every table. At the third table, my hip caught the back of a chair. Water sloshed over the rim. I moved the chair. At the fifth, the corner of the board nearly struck the wall. I shifted the table several inches. The final arrangement left the center of the dining room open, with two clear paths from the kitchen.

It reduced the number of chairs by four. That was unfortunate. It also meant fewer customers would be wearing their meals. I marked the new positions on the floor plan. The room could hold more people if I replaced the largest tables with narrower ones. Two additional tables might fit near the windows if I found chairs small enough to avoid crowding the entrance. New furniture would cost money. Repairing old furniture would cost less. Finding old furniture worth repairing would require time.

I added it to the notebook. Then I stood behind the service counter and imagined the restaurant at its busiest. Someone entered. They needed to know where to sit. They needed a menu. Someone had to take the order and make sure it reached the kitchen. The finished food had to reach the correct table while it was still hot. Dirty plates had to return without blocking the next order. Payment needed to be collected before the customer left. Until now, Mara or Amon had filled whichever gap appeared. One carried bowls.

The other cleared tables. Sometimes they both did everything while I cooked. That could not continue. With the new layout, one person could manage the counter, take orders, and collect payment. Another could carry food and clear the tables. During quiet periods, a single person could do both. During the evening rush, two would be safer. Three, including me. I stared at the floor plan. Eventually, I might need four. That seemed excessive for a restaurant that had been open less than a week.

The crowded evenings suggested otherwise. I marked each table with a number, beginning near the entrance and moving toward the kitchen. A menu would remain on every table. Orders could be written beside the table number and passed through the counter window. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Simple. The person taking payment could maintain a list of open orders. If someone needed to leave before paying, the amount could remain under their name.

That presented another problem. Names were not always unique. Tomas alone worked with two other men named Tomas. One of them had begun answering to Tall Tomas, though he was the shortest of the three. A token could identify the customer, just as it did with the order cabinet. Regular customers might keep a small account mark tied to a numbered plate. I stopped. That was becoming another cabinet. I closed the notebook. The restaurant needed a workable system, not a device for every human interaction.

I moved to the menu. Breakfast had been the easiest meal to manage. Eggs. Potatoes. Toast. Tea. Small portions of fried rice for guards who refused to accept that rice belonged to any particular time of day. Lunch required food that could be prepared quickly and carried back to nearby workshops. Fried rice, stew, meat pies, bread, and roasted vegetables worked well. Evening meals could take longer. Chicken, monster-boar dishes, larger portions of stew, and whatever fresh ingredients were available from the market.

I divided the menu by time of day. Fewer choices would keep the kitchen manageable. Customers might complain. They would still eat. The hours needed more care. Opening at the sunrise bell had brought the night patrol. Closing before midday gave me time to clean and prepare lunch. I wrote: Breakfast: sunrise bell until shortly before eleven. Cleaning and preparation. Lunch: noon until three. Preparation and rest. Evening: six until late. I looked at the final line. Late was not a time.

The evening guards often arrived near the end of their shifts. Workshop laborers came after their doors closed. Guild parties appeared whenever they returned from outside the wall, which rarely matched a reasonable schedule. Closing near midnight would give most of them enough time. It would also leave only a few hours before breakfast. The recovery bed made short sleep more effective. That did not make sleep unnecessary. Once I hired help, the hours could rotate.

For now, the dining room did not need to remain open every day. The order cabinet could handle meals during the quiet periods. I added: Hours may change until staffing is settled. That sounded indecisive. It was also true. I moved into the kitchen and opened the brewing book. Serving ale would require a separate permit, storage barrels, grain, yeast, and several weeks of waiting. Wine required even longer. I had no intention of turning The Second Spark into a tavern.

People still wanted something pleasant to drink after work. Tea was simple. Mara already supplied several dried herbs, and the market sold blends meant for sleep, digestion, and headaches. Drinks meant to restore energy were more complicated. Certain mushrooms and bitter herbs helped with fatigue, though using too much caused shaking hands and sleeplessness. I would need to test them carefully. I turned to the section on fruit fermentation. A jar of crushed red berries sat beneath the preparation table.

I had mixed them with water and a small amount of honey the previous day, then sealed the top loosely. Tiny bubbles clung to the sides. I lifted the lid. A sweet, sharp scent escaped. The berries had begun fermenting. Not enough to become wine. Enough to produce air inside the jar. I poured a spoonful into a cup of water. The flavor was weak. I added another. Small bubbles rose to the surface. When I was a child, I used to blow through a hollow reed into cups of water and drink before the bubbles disappeared.

My mother had asked me to stop after I spilled three cups across the table. The bubbles had not changed the flavor. They had changed the sensation. I took a clean length of reed, placed one end near the surface of the fermenting jar, and blew gently into a second cup. The water bubbled. I tasted it. Ordinary water. I stared at the fermentation jar. The air inside it was different from breath. It carried the sharpness of the berries and the yeast.

If I could move that air into a sealed drink and keep it there, the bubbles might last. A pressure rune could force it into the liquid. A containment rune could prevent it from escaping. I stopped. That sounded disturbingly similar to a fireball. Containment. Pressure. Direction. Stability. I moved the brewing book aside and opened my private notebook. The armor drawing from the previous night filled half a page. A breastplate did not need to make me stronger by itself.

It needed to support movement, spread force, and protect the places I could not guard. Amon's shoulder plate had worked better after I changed the relationship between the leather and metal. The weight spread through the strap instead of pulling against one point. An entire suit could follow the same principle. Boots that returned some of the force from each step. Bracers that steadied the wrist. Plates that passed an impact across the body instead of absorbing it in one place.

I drew a line from the shoulder to the opposite hip. Then another around the ribs. If the runes acted together, the armor might amplify movement without requiring me to control each piece separately. I could travel beyond the wall. I could enter old ruins. I could— Someone knocked on the front door. I looked up. The brewing book lay open beside a bubbling jar. The floor plan covered one table. Half the dining room remained in its new arrangement, while the other half was still crowded with spare chairs.

Another knock came. I closed the notebook and went to the door. Two children stood outside. Both were werekin. The older one looked perhaps ten or eleven. Gray ears rose through her dark hair, one bent slightly at the tip. A thin tail curled close around one leg. The younger child stood behind her, holding the back of her coat. His ears were darker, almost black. Both wore clothing that had been repaired several times. Neither had enough flesh on their faces. The older child looked past me into the restaurant.

"Is Auntie Mara here?"

"No." Her ears lowered.

"She has the key."

"Yes."

"Did she come this morning?"

"Not yet." The child glanced toward the bakery street. Mara usually delivered bread shortly after sunrise. The cabinet orders had delayed my usual preparations enough that I had not noticed her absence.

"She may be working," I said.

"Her bakery is open."

"We checked."

"Was the door locked?" The girl nodded.

"Maybe she went to the market."

"That is possible."

"Okay, mister. Thank you." She turned away. The smaller child followed. Neither asked about the food. They had looked at the kitchen twice. I watched them reach the edge of the awning.

"Wait." They stopped. The older child looked back.

"Have you eaten?" Her ears lifted slightly.

"Yes." The younger child looked at her. She nudged him with one elbow. The answer required revision.

"When?" I asked.

"This morning."

"What did you eat?" She hesitated.

"Bread." The younger child continued staring at her.

"What kind of bread?" I asked. Her eyes narrowed.

"Bread kind." That was not convincing.

"I need someone to test a meal." She looked toward the kitchen again.

"We don't have money."

"I did not ask whether you had money."

"Auntie Mara says we shouldn't take things without paying."

"Then you can pay with useful information."

"What information?"

"Whether the food tastes good." The younger child stepped out from behind her.

"We can do that." The older one caught his sleeve. He looked up at her.

"We're good at eating." I opened the door wider.

"That is the qualification I need." They entered cautiously. I seated them at the table nearest the kitchen, where I could see them while cooking. The younger child climbed onto the chair and immediately placed both hands beneath his legs, as though preventing himself from touching anything. The older girl remained standing until I pointed to the chair across from him.

"You can sit."

"We're dirty."

"The floor has survived guards." That seemed to satisfy her. I went into the kitchen. The morning orders had left several potatoes, four eggs, half a loaf of bread, and a small amount of cooked monster boar. I heated a pan. The children whispered behind me.

"He's making eggs," the younger one said.

"I can see."

"With meat."

"I can also see that."

"Do you think Auntie Mara is coming?"

"She said she would."

"When?"

"I don't know." I diced the potatoes and crisped them in a little boar fat. The meat went in next, followed by the eggs. I kept the seasoning mild and added a little cheese before folding everything together. The mana within the boar spread through the fat. The potatoes held it better than I expected. I guided the current gently, enough to give the meal warmth without concentrating the restorative effect too strongly. Children did not need the same portion as exhausted guards.

I divided the food between two bowls and added thick slices of toasted bread. The younger child stared when I placed his bowl down.

"All of it?"

"Yes."

"For me?"

"The bowl is in front of you." He picked up the spoon. The older girl caught his wrist.

"What do we have to tell you?"

"Whether it tastes good."

"That's all?"

"If it tastes bad, explain why." The younger child took a bite before she released him. His eyes widened.

"It's good."

"You have barely chewed." He began chewing with great seriousness. The girl tried hers. Her tail uncurled from her leg. That seemed promising. For several minutes, neither spoke. They ate too quickly. I filled two cups with water and placed them on the table.

"Slow down." The girl stopped. The younger child did not. She touched his arm, and he lowered the spoon.

"Sorry," she said.

"There is more." Both of them looked toward the pan. I had not intended to serve more. I returned to the kitchen and divided what remained. When I placed the second portions down, the older girl looked at me carefully.

"What's your name?"

"Joe."

"I'm Lysa. He's Perrin." The younger child raised his spoon.

"Perry."

"Perrin," Lysa corrected.

"Perry is shorter."

"Then Joe can call you Perry." Perry nodded, satisfied.

"Why are you looking for Mara?" I asked. Lysa's attention returned to her bowl.

"She said she might have work."

"What kind?"

"Carrying baskets. Cleaning trays. Things like that." Mara had not mentioned hiring children. That did not mean she had not offered them a small task.

"Where do you live?"

"With Mrs. Vale and the others."

"The others?"

"The war children." She said it plainly. The fighting along the northern border had ended several years ago. People still arrived in the city with nowhere else to go. Some had family. Some had names written on old papers and no one left to answer them. Perry wiped the bowl with his bread.

"Can we test food again tomorrow?" Lysa looked embarrassed. I considered the question. The restaurant needed customers. It needed employees. It needed a better menu, more chairs, sensible hours, drinks, storage, and perhaps one day an owner capable of leaving the city in rune-carved armor. At that moment, it had two empty bowls and two children waiting for an answer.

"I will probably require more testing," I said. Perry smiled. Lysa tried not to. A key turned in the front lock. Mara entered carrying two bread baskets and stopped when she saw the table.

"Lysa?" The girl stood quickly.

"You weren't at the bakery."

"I went to the mill. I told Mrs. Vale."

"She forgot." Mara set down the baskets and looked at the empty bowls. Then at me.

"They tested breakfast," I said.

"Twice," Perry added. Mara's expression softened.

"I see."

"The potatoes were good," Lysa said.

"The eggs too."

"Useful information," I replied. Mara looked at me for a moment. She did not thank me. That would have made the children feel as though they had received charity. Instead, she removed two small rolls from her basket and placed one beside each empty bowl.

"For completing the test." Perry picked his up immediately. Lysa waited half a breath before doing the same. I returned to the floor plan. Two smaller chairs might fit near the table by the kitchen. I marked the space in pencil. The restaurant was closed for improvements. Apparently, the menu still required testing.