Chương 8: One more day

The restaurant was supposed to remain closed for three days. It remained closed for seven. Every morning, I considered turning the sign around. Every morning, I found another problem that would become worse if I ignored it. The new table arrangement worked, though it left four fewer seats than before. The kitchen needed better storage. The order cabinet needed a larger receiving tray. The washroom was functional, but functional was not the same as suitable for customers. Then there were the walls.

Once I removed the old shelves near the service counter, I discovered two different shades of paint, several nail holes, and a narrow crack that ran almost to the ceiling. The crack was harmless. It was also visible from three tables. I repaired it. That led to repainting the wall. Repainting the wall made the old lighting look too harsh.

By the fifth day, I had purchased six additional chairs, two narrow tables, three wall lamps, a stack of menu boards, and enough paint to make my accounting book feel personally betrayed. I sat behind the counter and checked the remaining balance. The number was still healthy. It simply looked less healthy than it had a week ago. Outside, someone opened the order cabinet. A compartment door closed. Coins dropped into the payment box.

The restaurant continued earning money while the dining room remained closed, though less than it would have earned during full service. The cabinet had become popular enough that I no longer considered removing it. That created another problem. There were only twelve compartments. Several customers placed orders the night before. Guards collected breakfast after leaving the wall. Workshop laborers ordered lunch. Families from the nearby streets had begun leaving requests for evening meals.

Twice, every compartment had been occupied. I considered building a second cabinet. Then I remembered I already owned a restaurant. The cabinet was supposed to support the dining room, not replace it. I closed the accounting book and looked around. The new tables were narrower than the old ones. They allowed the room to seat nearly the same number of people while leaving enough space to walk between them. Each table had a number carved into one corner and a small holder for the menu.

I had rewritten the menu three times. The first version included too many choices. The second used descriptions long enough to require two boards per table. The third was readable. Breakfast offered eggs, potatoes, toast, tea, and a smaller portion of fried rice for the guards who continued arguing that rice belonged at every meal. Lunch offered stew, fried rice, meat pies, bread, and roasted vegetables. The evening menu changed depending on what I could purchase.

Chicken, monster boar, river fish, and whatever vegetables arrived fresh from the market. That gave customers choices without giving me twenty different dishes to prepare alone. The hours remained more complicated. Breakfast would begin at the sunrise bell and end shortly before eleven. Lunch would run from noon until three. Evening service would begin at six and continue until the late bell. Between those periods, the dining room would close for cleaning and preparation. The order cabinet would remain available.

It was a workable schedule. It was also too much for one person to maintain every day. I needed help. Lysa and Perry came by most mornings. They never asked directly for food after the first time. Instead, they appeared with questions. Did I need anyone to test the potatoes? Did the bread need carrying? Was the floor supposed to have that much dust near the wall? Perry was particularly concerned about unfinished food. Leaving half a roll on a plate seemed to offend him personally. I fed them whenever they came.

In exchange, they gave opinions with very little restraint. Perry approved of nearly everything. Lysa did not.

"The carrots are too soft," she said during one test.

"They were cooked in stew."

"They still feel tired."

"Carrots do not become tired."

"These did." She was correct. The next batch went into the pot later. Mrs. Vale ran the house where they lived. I had not met her yet, though Mara spoke of her often. According to Mara, Mrs. Vale had taken in children displaced by the northern fighting until every room in her home was full. Then she converted the storage building behind it. When that filled, she began asking nearby families for spare beds. Most of the expense came from her own savings. Mara supplied bread whenever she could.

Others in the district contributed clothing, firewood, or coins. Lysa and Perry were among the older children who ran errands and helped with the younger ones. They might eventually help at The Second Spark. Small tasks. Carrying clean utensils. Wiping tables. Folding napkins. Delivering nearby orders. They were too young to work the kitchen, and I would not bring them into the dining room during the evening rush without speaking to Mrs. Vale first. They also deserved wages if they worked. Food was not a wage.

I wrote that at the bottom of the staffing page. Pay properly. I underlined it once. The restaurant's new lighting gave a low glow. I had divided the wall array into several smaller sections. The tables near the windows needed less light during the day. The rear tables needed more. The service counter now remained bright enough to read orders without making the entire room resemble an examination hall. A thin rune line ran behind the walls. I touched the control mark beside the counter. Soft music filled the room.

A string melody drifted from the front wall, followed by a low wooden flute. The sound came from a small recording crystal I had purchased from a secondhand magical-goods stall. The previous owner had apparently used it for dancing lessons. Most of the music was too lively for dining, though several slower pieces worked. I adjusted the volume until it sat beneath the sound of the street. During service, conversation would cover most of it. That was the intention.

Music should soften silence, not compete with people. I switched to the next recording. A drum began pounding through the wall. I changed it back immediately. The slower melody returned. Much better. I stood in the center of the room and listened. New tables. Clear walkways. Warm lights. Menus at every seat. Music low against the walls. For the first time, the dining room felt planned. Before, it had been a repaired room filled with whatever furniture remained. Now it belonged to The Second Spark.

I should have been satisfied. Instead, I looked toward the front window. The western wall rose above the rooftops. Scaffolding covered the section where Engineer Hart's crew worked. Stone dust drifted through the air whenever they cut into the old repair channel. The damaged line had been opened two days earlier. Guards redirected foot traffic away from the base of the wall while workers replaced the mortar and separated the newer channel from the buried junction.

The repair had become larger than the crack suggested. Whenever the maintenance crew came for food, their conversations quieted when I entered the room. I heard my name once. Then the words defect and crossing line. The guard who first found me near the wall now nodded whenever he passed the restaurant. Tomas had begun telling people that I had discovered a flaw in the city's defenses. That was inaccurate. I had noticed an inefficient repair before it caused further damage. The distinction mattered.

It did not appear to matter to Tomas. A maintenance worker opened the front door, saw the CLOSED FOR IMPROVEMENTS sign, and held up an order slip.

"The cabinet is full." I looked outside. All twelve numbered plates glowed.

"Of course it is."

"Can I leave this with you?"

"The dining room is closed."

"I only need somewhere to put the paper." I accepted the slip. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Four portions of fried rice for the wall crew. Collection at the afternoon bell.

"Payment?" He placed sixteen kamera on the counter. Then he looked around.

"This is nicer."

"It was already acceptable."

"It used to look like Bernard's place."

"It was Bernard's place."

"Now it looks like yours." He left before I could decide how to respond. I placed the order beside the kitchen board. The cabinet needed expansion. Perhaps I could connect it directly to the kitchen. A narrow passage through the outer wall could allow prepared meals to move from the service counter into the correct compartment. A sliding tray would be simpler than a teleportation array. Teleportation was possible. It was also expensive, unstable, and likely to place someone's stew inside the wall.

A guided track would work. I sketched a narrow channel between the kitchen and the cabinet. Each container could travel along a numbered route, stop behind the correct door, and alert the customer when it arrived. That would reduce the time spent walking outside. It would also turn the cupboard into a system running through the building. I stared at the drawing. Then I closed the notebook. The existing cabinet worked. Improvement could wait until the restaurant reopened. That thought lasted less than a minute.

I opened the notebook again and added: Future: internal delivery track. The kitchen floor moved behind me. I turned. A broom passed slowly across the boards. No one held it. The handle leaned forward while the bristles gathered dust into a narrow line. Behind it, a second broom followed the edge of the preparation table. A mop waited beside the wash basin. The cleaning array was one of the simpler additions.

Each broom followed a carved route through the room, gathering loose dirt toward a collection mark near the rear door. The mop activated only after the floor was clear. It used a small amount of water and stopped before reaching the pantry. The first test had gone poorly. One broom had trapped itself beneath a chair. The other had swept a bag of flour into the collection line. The mop had attempted to clean the flour. I spent most of that morning removing paste from the kitchen floor.

The current version worked better. I watched the first broom pass the cold cabinet, turn, and continue toward the door. The cleaning runes would never replace proper scrubbing. Grease, spills, and food waste still required attention. They could handle dust and crumbs between services. That alone would save time. I followed the broom into the dining room. A smaller cleaning mark ran through the washroom.

The room contained a basin, a toilet connected to the drainage line, and enough space for one person to turn around without striking the wall. I had replaced the cracked mirror. A clean-water mark now refreshed the basin. Another rune drew unpleasant air toward the outer vent. The room no longer smelled like damp stone. That was progress. I wiped one hand across the counter. No dust. The broom continued past my boots. The restaurant was nearly ready. Amon was still not back. He had said four days.

Possibly a week if the trail around the old breach was difficult. Today was the seventh day. I had asked at the guild office that morning. His team had not reported a problem. They had also not returned. Expeditions ran late. Trails washed out. Monsters changed territory. A team might remain outside to complete a contract rather than travel back and leave the work unfinished. I knew all of that. I still looked toward the eastern road whenever someone large passed the window. Mara noticed.

She had begun checking in more often, usually with an excuse. A basket needed returning. The oven dial made a noise. She had baked too many honey buns. The oven dial did not make a noise. The honey buns continued appearing. That afternoon, she entered through the front door carrying six of them.

"The sign says closed," I said.

"I have a key."

"That does not change the sign."

"It changes whether I need permission." She placed the buns on the counter and examined the room.

"You moved the tables again."

"Only the two near the window."

"You moved them yesterday."

"They were too close to the wall."

"They looked fine."

"They interrupted the walking path." Mara walked between them. Her skirt did not touch either table.

"You measured this."

"Yes."

"With bowls of water?"

"A loaded tray." She nodded as though that confirmed something. The music continued through the wall. Mara stopped.

"What is that?"

"Music."

"I know what music is."

"It is connected to the lighting array."

"Why?"

"The wall already carried mana. A second line would have been wasteful." She listened for several moments.

"I like it."

"The next recording has drums."

"I heard it from the bakery." I lowered the volume slightly. Mara looked toward the kitchen board.

"More orders?"

"The wall crew."

"They are still working?"

"They opened the damaged channel."

"Is the wall safe?"

"Yes."

"You answered quickly."

"The repair is controlled. The anchor remains stable."

"That is not what people are saying."

"What are they saying?"

"That you found a crack that could have brought down the western wall."

"That is absurd."

"I know."

"A surface crack could not bring down the entire wall."

"I know."

"The damaged channel increased pressure through one section of mortar. The long-term problem was repeated degradation." Mara waited. I stopped.

"You were about to explain the whole wall," she said.

"The rumor is inaccurate."

"Rumors usually are." She leaned against the counter.

"Any word from Amon?"

"No."

"He said a week."

"He said perhaps a week."

"This is the seventh day."

"Yes." Mara looked toward the street. The concern in her face matched the feeling I had been avoiding.

"He'll come back," I said. Her gaze returned to me.

"You sound very certain."

"He usually does."

"That is not the same thing." No. It was not. I opened the box of honey buns.

"One of these has less glaze."

"That one is mine."

"They all appear to have less glaze than before."

"I'm testing a different recipe."

"You are reducing the sugar."

"It is expensive."

"Your last order of honey increased." Mara narrowed her eyes.

"You looked at my delivery?"

"It was beside the bakery door."

"You noticed the amount?"

"There were four jars." She took the box from me.

"You can have one."

"I was already going to."

"I changed my mind." I took one before she moved the box. The bun was still warm. It had less glaze. It was better. Mara watched me chew.

"Well?"

"The dough is softer."

"And?"

"The reduced glaze allows more of the spice to come through."

"And?"

"It is good." She smiled slightly.

"Useful information." The front lock turned again. My parents entered together. My father carried a wooden crate. My mother carried enough folded cloth to cover every table twice.

"You're closed," Father said.

"That was intentional." Mother looked around the dining room.

"Oh." I had learned that her different uses of oh carried different meanings. This one was approval.

"The lights are warmer," she said.

"They can be adjusted by section."

"And music."

"A recording crystal." She touched the edge of one of the new tables.

"These match."

"Mostly." Father lowered the crate beside the counter.

"Replacement hinges."

"For what?"

"You said the pantry door sagged."

"I repaired it."

"With what?"

"Mana-bonded pins." He walked into the kitchen to inspect them. Mara followed, carrying the honey buns beyond my reach. Mother began placing folded cloths on the tables.

"What are those?"

"Table coverings."

"I did not ask for them."

"You didn't ask for curtains either."

"That does not establish a permanent right to decorate the restaurant."

"It establishes precedent." I helped her spread one across the nearest table. The cloth was a deep brown with a narrow gold edge. It matched the curtains. Of course it did. Father returned from the kitchen.

"The pins will hold."

"I know."

"For now."

"Mana bonding does not weaken that quickly."

"We'll see." He looked toward the wall where the music played.

"Where is the instrument?"

"There is no instrument."

"That sounds unfortunate."

"It is recorded." He listened.

"Too quiet."

"It is background music."

"Then why have it?"

"To remain in the background." Father looked at Mother.

"He spent money on quiet music."

"It is nice," she said. He grunted. That meant he also thought it was nice. I prepared tea while they finished inspecting the restaurant. The leaves came from a stall near the eastern market. They were commonly used by scholars and record keepers. The seller claimed they improved clarity. I had felt a faint mana current in them. Not strong. The energy sharpened when the leaves met hot water, then faded if steeped too long. I added dried apple to soften the bitterness and a small amount of honey.

The mana settled into the water. I guided it gently. We sat at one of the window tables. Mother took the first sip. Her expression changed. Father noticed.

"What?" She shook her head.

"Nothing." He drank. For a while, neither spoke. Mother looked toward the window, though I did not think she was seeing the western street. Father rested both hands around the cup. The lines beside his eyes softened.

"What does it do?" Mother asked.

"The tea?"

"Yes."

"It may improve mental clarity." She smiled faintly.

"I remembered the old house."

"The one near the river?" Father asked.

"The kitchen window. It never closed properly."

"You kept putting cloth around it."

"You said you would repair it."

"I did."

"Three winters later."

"It was a difficult hinge." Mother looked at him over the cup.

"It was wood."

"The frame was uneven." They fell quiet again. Their expressions said more than the conversation. The tea had not created the memory. It had cleared enough space for the memory to rise. I wrote that down later. Not all restorative food needed to affect muscles. Some ingredients might sharpen thought. Others might settle fear or encourage sleep. The possibilities were larger than fried rice. After the tea, Mother went upstairs to inspect the bedroom. She returned several minutes later.

"That bed is dangerous."

"It is a recovery array."

"I lay down for a moment."

"And?"

"I nearly stayed."

"That suggests it works."

"You need a second bed."

"There is a cot in the kitchen." Mother stopped.

"You sleep in the kitchen?"

"Only when needed."

"Why would it be needed?"

"If you and Father stay here." Father looked up from the hinge crate.

"We have a home."

"The walk is long. You could use the bedroom."

"And you would sleep beside the stove?" Mother asked.

"Near the preparation room."

"That is still a kitchen."

"There is a wall between them."

"A thin wall."

"The cot is clean." Mother closed her eyes. Father appeared to be hiding a smile.

"It is for emergency naps," I added.

"That does not help," she said. They left before the evening bell, carrying fewer concerns than they had arrived with and none of the table coverings. Those remained. Mara returned to her bakery. The maintenance workers collected their fried rice. The automatic brooms completed their final route. By nightfall, the restaurant became quiet again. I climbed upstairs. The bed adjusted beneath me when I lay down. Sleep came quickly. The dream returned.

The world tree rose beyond the city, its branches covering half the sky. Fire climbed through the leaves. People ran beneath it. The wizard stood before the flames with one hand raised. This time, I saw more. The wizard was not stopping the fire. He was holding something inside it. A shape moved behind the burning branches. Too large to be a person. The tree split. Light poured through the crack. I woke with my hand raised toward the ceiling. The recovery array gave a faint pulse beneath the mattress.

My breathing slowed. I sat up and looked toward the window. The western watchtowers glowed beyond the rooftops. I had dreamed of the burning tree when I was a child. I had forgotten it for years. Now it had come twice in one week. Perhaps it meant something. Perhaps the changes to my bed encouraged deeper dreams. Perhaps I had spent too many hours thinking about magic, walls, and places beyond the city. I did not have time to care. The restaurant needed to reopen. The order cabinet needed another row.

I needed employees, reliable suppliers, and someone who could manage the kitchen when I eventually left the city. I still wanted to see what lay beyond the wall. Adventuring could provide money, ingredients, and access to places ordinary merchants never reached. Rune armor might allow me to travel safely without depending on spellcasting. First, I needed someone capable of cooking in my absence. Lysa could learn basic preparation when she was older. Perry could learn not to eat the test ingredients.

Neither solved the immediate problem. I dressed and went downstairs. The front window showed the first gray light of morning. The scaffolding along the western wall stood empty. No hammers. No cutting tools. The repair crew had not begun for the day. I checked the order tray. Seven slips waited inside. The eighth was folded around a small coin. One portion of fried rice. Keep warm. Returning after evening bell. No name. The handwriting was large and uneven. It resembled Amon's. I unfolded it again.

Returning after evening bell. My shoulders loosened. I placed the order at the top of the kitchen board. Then I turned toward the front window. The sign still read: CLOSED FOR IMPROVEMENTS I left it there for one more day.