Chương 12: It Takes Money to Make Money

If the walk back from the pigments shop felt chillier than before, I couldn't blame it all on the weather. Wynnie was less than thrilled with our purchase. On the walk, she wavered between despondent and griping about spending so much on something as frivolous as paint. She kicked rocks along the road and nearly beheaded a weathered dandelion puff with a swift toe. Her head hung defeated at her chest.

"I don't even paint myself up. Why do I have to empty my pockets to give my inn that kind of treatment?" she mumbled.

"Because you don't need makeup to look pretty." She blushed.

"You're sweet, but that's not the point. We could stretch that money for weeks! Maybe even find a permanent spot out on the docks!"

"Does it ever rain out there?"

"Yeah."

"Get so cold you can't warm your fingers no matter how hard you try?"

"Sometimes."

"Get bright and hot enough to burn your skin and hurt your eyes?"

"What's your point?" she asked, letting exasperation color her tone.

"The best job is one you can do inside, comfortably, no matter the weather. No lugging stuff to and from the docks. No paying a fee every time we want to sell something. The inn is a good business, or at least it could be. Paint is the first step." Somehow, that resonated. Or at least, it started to. As we passed a particularly pungent shop that sold dried meats—fish mostly, from the smell—she stopped kicking things and lifted her head up again. It would have to do.

I could swear up and down that the expense would pay itself back in no time, but the proof would come later. For now, we had a lot of work to do, and we weren't even done shopping yet. We returned with the handcart and got our cans of weatherproof eggshell and sky blue. After stashing the paint back at the inn, we took a trip to another store. Well, store was a generous term.

Apparently, when Lady Talia accused me of getting drunk from some backwoods distiller's hooch, she said that because that's who made the liquor around here. Real, actual backwoods distillers. Emphasis on backwoods, too, because at some point we took a turn off the beaten path to hike through overgrown brush. I almost wanted to judge Wynnie for knowing her way there despite the lack of obvious trail or markers.

As we bushwhacked, the elf explained a bit more about why we were risking getting eaten by wolves in the coastal forest. Apparently sometimes, sailors and merchants came in with barrels of the good stuff. The rest of the time, there was just bathtub swill. From the way Wynnie described it, it sounded like the bathtubs they used might not have been clean enough to bathe in. We went to Gus-Gus. He was the distiller that Wynnie described as being generally safer.

It wasn't the most confidence-inspiring descriptor, but what could I do? It wasn't as though we were in a world where major regulations and oversight could ensure the quality of the product—or its safety. Unfortunately, it meant that I didn't have any good stuff to work with. Most of what he had was fresh from the still, and it was pure grain alcohol. Not whiskey. No flavoring like gin. Not made from cane sugar like rum. Just extremely high-proof clear spirits. Vodka on steroids. Which, whatever.

I'd worked with more difficult ingredients than that. Actually, I kind of relished the challenge. Moreover, although the guy was missing several teeth and more than a few screws, he was pretty kind. His scraggly beard could've used a brush, and his flannel shirt would've benefitted from several washes, but other than that, he seemed harmless.

"I'll cut you a deal if you buy double," he offered, right as I was about to bite the bullet and purchase two gallons of nearly undrinkable, hot hooch.

"What kind of deal?" I asked.

"How about, um, one extra silver and I double the lot." I thought about the amount in our coin purse. We'd spent 37 of our 57 copper already. The booze was running us another 12. That left us only eight copper to our name, and we were planning to use that to buy bread for our meals. It's not as though we had much else to eat at that point. We were banking on the sales of another round of punch to get us flush again. Besides, we couldn't even afford his offer.

And something told me that bargaining with a cocktail or two wouldn't move the needle on a guy who had access to as much liquor as he could stand. My wizard could have just cast a suggestion spelI. Maybe something with invisibility or telekinesis. This was one of the only problems that couldn't be fixed with a fireball, since the hooch would explode and burn up. No, I needed to see if I could work some of my magic sales charm one more time. Bard stuff again.

"How about this? We'll buy a double batch, and we'll agree to buy another double batch next week for the same price. But to make this deal, you charge us only half now, and we'll pay the rest later?" He scratched his beard, and an insect fell out. Its hard shell clacked against the wood when it landed. Wynnie couldn't take her eyes off it as it scurried away on the rotting floor. I was just glad that he hadn't picked it back up and put it back in his beard. Or eaten it.

"How do I know that you'll return with the coin?" he asked.

"You know where the Breakwater Inn is. You can come collect anytime if you want. We should be good for it within a few days." Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"The Breakwater?" He squinted at Wynnie.

"That's still standing?"

"Barely," she muttered. He looked at her with renewed interest.

"Oh, hey. You're that gal, Wynderriel. I didn't recognize you at first. You gained a few pounds, didn't you?" She blushed and looked down, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her shirt. It was just like before. My heart went out to her, and I wanted to say something to make her feel better. Or defend her. Or something.

"Well, I suppose I can trust you. And if you don't have the money to pay me back, then a little charity never hurt someone in your position," the old-timer said.

"Tell you what. Half price. Five copper today to double it. Just a one-time thing." Wynnie looked almost ready to cry.

"Are you sure?"

"Hells, no. I ain't sure about a thing. Bit too much sampling of my own goods. But if you're trying to make a go of turning the place around…" He scratched his beard again.

"Or if you're just trying to burn it down. S'pose my product's just as good for stripping paint and starting fires as it is for drinking." Even though I wanted to give the guy a tongue lashing for his comment about her weight, now clearly wasn't the time. Good deeds shouldn't be punished with scolding, no matter how well deserved. And the deal he gave us evened things out, just about. We loaded the heavy bottles into Wynnie's handcart. The liquid sloshed dangerously.

It seemed closer to fuel than fernet, but it'd get the job done. I just hoped it wouldn't explode if we went over a bump too hard. As we began our trek home, Wynnie remained noticeably quiet. Her mood had shifted considerably. I had to check in.

"Are you okay?" She almost jumped, startled by my voice. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and then pushed her glasses back up on her nose.

"Yeah. Fine." Sure. I'd heard girlfriends say that they were fine in the past, using exactly that tone. If I'd learned one thing from all my failed relationships, it was that "fine" in that specific tone never actually meant fine. It meant she was the opposite of fine. It also meant it was up to me to improve things. Left to her own devices, she would likely spiral, replaying what was bothering her over and over until she had a full breakdown. Ugh. I wished I'd at least played a charismatic sorcerer.

All my roleplaying practice was doddering and mysterious. I liked to chime in with lore and curmudgeonly quips while other players did the talking. But I could try a pep talk.

"You know, we did great today, and we're just getting started!"

"Yeah." She gave me a soft smile that looked far more sad than happy.

"New paint, enough alcohol to make at least four more batches of punch, and a few copper left over for bread and citrus!"

"Yeah." Same tone. It wasn't the grumbly one about spending money. This was sad, small, and defeated. Unfortunately, it was just as I feared. The comments people had made about her figure had gotten to her. And if they hadn't, then what I was about to say would sound really weird.

"That really bothered you back there, didn't it?"

"Huh?"

"And in the paint shop, too." She looked away, chewing her lip.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, back in my world, people would describe you as a bombshell." She let out a defeated sigh.

"And what's a bombshell? A big, fat pig?"

"No! It's a woman with highly desirable proportions. You know, like… big curves. I mean, dammit, there has to be a better way to say this."

"There probably is, but you started it, so you might as well see it through." The handcart's wheel hit a rut, jolting us both. The liquor bottles clanked loudly, and my teeth ground together. No explosion though, so it was at least more stable than nitroglycerin, if only barely. I steadied it before continuing.

"It sounded as though you got a little rattled by people not recognizing you today. At least, not at first."

"So I gained a few pounds. So what? I'm not a teenager anymore. Everyone adds an inch or two around the waist when they become an adult, right?"

"Right."

"And so what if I added a few more inches around my butt? The size of my rump is none of their business. It's not as though I can afford cushions for the chairs at the inn, anyway. I had to make my own. At least now I can find a comfortable seat."

"That's the spirit!" I said, letting her get there herself.

"And who cares if my boobs got huge? It's nobody else's burden but my own. They might give me some backaches every now and then, but everyone who comments about them is giving me a headache!" I let out a laugh despite myself. How a woman with an X-rated body managed such G-rated outbursts was beyond me. Also beyond me was the fact that so many people around town had seen fit to make comments about her. Offhandedly rude ones, at that. Back in the States, it was considered uncouth.

Only youths and men who never grew up had the audacity to comment on women's bodies, unasked-for.

"I'm comfortable in my body. Most of the time." Wynnie looked down at her voluptuous figure.

"But sometimes, when people talk about how I've changed or suggest that I've gained weight, it really hurts, you know?" She stopped walking and looked at me with a hurt expression. The two of us stood facing each other near the edge of town. Nearby, I could see the ditch in which I'd first woken up. My heart went out to her. Back on Earth, she'd be practically worshiped. And yeah, maybe she had a few extra pounds on her, but she wore it incredibly well.

Half the internet would ask her to crush them between her thighs. The other half would ask her to step on them. I just wanted to see her smile again.

"Wynnie, you are an incredibly beautiful person. You have a kind soul and a warm heart. It takes a lot of smarts to make it in a world such as this. Believe me, this isn't the easiest place to live by any means, and you weren't dealt the best hand." This time, her expression appeared less sad. If anything, I might describe it as thankful. But there was something more, too. I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

"I don't want to sound crass, but in my world, you could get rich just off your looks."

"Really?" Her voice was small, uncertain.

"You mean, there's a whole world of men who are into busty, slightly chubby girls with glasses and freckles?" The world appeared to shake violently because I was nodding so hard.

"Add in the soulful, wise eyes and pointy ears, and I'd say absolutely yes. Probably, you could convert a few women as well." Her smile turned bashful. Or maybe I was just reading into her expression too much. I barely knew the girl, I realized. I'd like to know her better, though. Nope! Nope. Shut that thought down immediately. We agreed to be just friends. It would be too weird for me to shack up with the first person I met in a new world, right?

Especially when she was the one in charge of whether I had a place to sleep or not. Power dynamics, or whatever. And it'd be a little embarrassing to spin such a quick 180. I needed to wait at least, um, a few more days to be sure my growing affection was real. Yet Wynnie didn't feel so restrained. Her hand let go of the handcart and reached out for me. Without a word, she pulled me into a tight embrace. The fullness of her aforementioned proportions pressed against mine, soft and warm.

I was thankful for every square inch. I hoped her backaches were worth it to her, because at the moment, they certainly were to me. My hands hovered awkwardly for a moment before settling between her shoulders. We fit together perfectly. Only a few seconds passed before she released her grip. She stammered an apology, embarrassed. Her cheeks flushed pink beneath her freckles.

"I'm—I'm sorry. Was that inappropriate? We are doing just friends, right?" Yes, and I was regretting every second of it. It was easily one of the worst ideas I'd had in a long time… and I'd cast fireball in my own face just a few days prior. I ground out my reply, barely even able to say the word, but my heart wasn't in it.

"Right." She picked up the handcart handles again, and we started walking. A tense silence stretched between us until the Breakwater came back into view. When it finally did, it was as though a spell had lifted. Simultaneously, both of us sighed in relief, no longer overthinking our every interaction. Wynnie stopped the cart at the porch step.

"So, did you want to start painting immediately?"

"Only if you want to skip dinner. Or wait until tomorrow to see what punch tastes like when it's made with moonshine."

"I'll start a fire in the stove."