Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
The reason Milton needed to make the greatest possible profit was to pay down the debt he had accrued.
Debt was worse than any collar around any dog's neck. No favor or foe could banish it.
When Fleur realized it, she looked at Milton with eyes afresh. To her surprise, despite having recited that famous scripture, Milton's eyes were now placid. They shone with a light that said, "Yes, I will return. Yes, all well be well. Yes, I will protect you."
For a moment Fleur was at a loss for words—because Milton, who labored so mightily to rid himself of his debt, had gone into debt all over again.
"If I—" Fleur began, then stopped out of nervousness and raised her chin.
Milton's eyes were soft. "If you?"
"If I said I wanted interest, what were you going to do?"
One didn't have to be a merchant to know that money was power. The reason Fleur had not been utterly destroyed when her house was ruined was not because she had Olar and Bertra.
It was because as a small revenge upon her husband, she had pilfered money from his coin purse as she went.
Milton's ability to earn money was so far ahead of Fleur's that it barely merited mention. But when it came to who had more influence—it was Fleur.
Not even able to dress herself and not paying their wages, Fleur's nobility alone was enough to command the service of the house servants in the manor.
Milton looked up and spoke slowly. "I knew you were a kind soul the first time I saw you."
"—!" Fleur utterly failed to feign nonchalance. She could feel her face flush, and though she looked down, it was too late.
Still, Fleur averted her gaze and coughed before responding. "P-people change when there's money at stake. Su-surely you know that much."
These were Olar's words, but in these circumstances the only thing Fleur could do was repeat the words of another. When she tried to think of something to say on her own, all she had were her feelings toward Milton.
"Yes, of course. That's why you can see someone's true nature when profit is involved. And," Milton continued with a smile, "you aren't going to charge interest. I would be quite certain of that even if you were wearing that scarf of yours. I would know."
Fleur knew only too well that she was being treated not as a fellow merchant, but as a young lady of noble birth. And yet—it was so comforting that she wanted to cry, to rage at it.
The comfort was frustrating, irritating, like scratching a spot afflicted by chilblains.
Surrendering, she wrung the words from her throat. "I...won't take interest. I promised we'd split the profits, after all." She paused, then added something in an effort to save some small amount of dignity. "As a merchant, I must keep my promises."
But Milton was merciless. "We haven't signed any contracts."
By this he meant that if Fleur decided to charge interest, she still could, though she could hardly imagine drawing such a contract up.
Just as Fleur had bit by bit smashed her own anxiety, perhaps Milton, too, had wanted to dispose of his.
Fleur shook her head, but instead of changing his expression, Milton only leaned back in the chair as though the strength had left his body. It did not seem like an act. She realized this was the first time she had seen him nervous.
"Perhaps now we can speak in specifics." He tossed the words out into the space between them.
He was every bit the noble youth cast out of his house. In the languor following the battle, he grabbed hold of the conversation.
"I do believe I can trust you." And in truth, Fleur's worries had disappeared.
Milton had arrived at the most reasonable possible decision and then come to her. All that was left was to buy the clothes and sell them.
"Now then, shall we discuss the styles and quantities of clothing?"
"Let's," said Fleur clearly and with a nod.
Dinnertime.
Around the table sat its usual occupants: Fleur, Bertra, and Olar. Fleur had tried to invite Milton but had been turned down.

Output:
She mused on the matter as she waited for Olar to look over the amounts, styles, colors, and provenance of the clothing Milton had proposed purchasing.
"Mm."
Having looked over the list, the first thing that came out of Olar's mouth was a sigh. Perhaps it was his age showing—he closed his eyes and leaned back, taking a deep breath and letting it out.
Fleur was mildly anxious, but lines had yet to appear on Olar's forehead, so whatever his thoughts were, they could not be so very bad.
"Rather impressive," he said. In truth, she hadn't expected him to say anything remotely complimentary.
"It's not bad?"
"Not at all. On the contrary, it's quite good. The whims of the nobility change very easily, but their basic preferences do not. The current fashion is for bright colors and delicate fabrics. Most impressively, he even has a grasp of textiles sourced from far away. All that matters now is how convincing he can manage to be."
"I've checked that already," said Fleur wryly, which made Olar clear his throat, his expression carefully neutral.
"Next, there's the matter of the contract regarding the funding of the Post lad."
"...Is there yet some problem?" Fleur asked, less out of displeasure than sheer exasperation. She had initially written out the basics of the lending, repayment, and profit-sharing arrangement she'd worked out with Milton, which Olar had then looked over to make sure she had not missed a single scrap of possible gain—and thereupon substantially rewritten it.
He had changed more than the terms, too. The language was very different. It was roundabout and rambling, using all sorts of terms that would never be used in ordinary conversation. It brought her back to when she was a child learning how to read and write, and convinced that Olar was just trying to confuse things as much as he could, Fleur sighed an irritated sigh and called for Bertra.
As Bertra brought down more and more of the not inexpensive paper for revisions, Fleur could see the lines on his face all too clearly.
"We cannot be too careful. If there is a mistake in this contract, we stand to lose all the profit we are going to such trouble to gain."
If Olar—who had spent so many decades of his life in trade—said so, then it was surely so. Yet Fleur could not help but think to herself that there had to be a limit.
After all, the other party in the contract was Milton. He was not some born merchant, but a former member of a noble and proud house, a house that relied upon its word and honor. If anything, he might be offended to be presented with such a meticulously constructed contract. At the very least, Fleur knew she would have been.
Whether he knew Fleur's thoughts or not, Olar made ready to read the contract over again, drawing his body up and holding the paper at arm's length, squinting as he read the words on it aloud.
"In the name of God. From Fleur von Eiterzental Bolan to Milton Post, a good man and true. These two, having met in trade by the grace of God, do now purpose to exchange via the Jones Company a quantity of fabrics of wool, linen, and silver, the cost of which shall be entirely borne by Bolan. However, five-tenths of this cost shall be counted as debt upon Post. Upon the purchase of these goods shall this debt be recorded. Upon this debt, Bolan pledges to hold no interest. Profits shall be split evenly. All purchased items shall be held under the ownership of Bolan. Concluded. God's blessing be upon this contract."
Having read the contract in its entirety, Olar's gaze remained fixed upon the paper—despite all the revisions, despite his scrutiny of every word, despite having finally written it all out.
Yet Fleur had a good idea of what Olar was likely to say next.
"About the amount we're loaning to Post."
It was just as she had guessed. Fleur grabbed a piece of bread out of protest. "Half is fine," she said briefly and with finality.
Olar stared at her, but she had no intention of caving in.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
She mused on the matter as she waited for Olar to look over the amounts, styles, colors, and provenance of the clothing Milton had proposed purchasing.
"Mm."
Having looked over the list, the first thing that came out of Olar's mouth was a sigh. Perhaps it was his age showing—he closed his eyes and leaned back, taking a deep breath and letting it out.
Fleur was mildly anxious, but lines had yet to appear on Olar's forehead, so whatever his thoughts were, they could not be so very bad.
"Rather impressive," he said. In truth, she hadn't expected him to say anything remotely complimentary.
"It's not bad?"
"Not at all. On the contrary, it's quite good. The whims of the nobility change very easily, but their basic preferences do not. The current fashion is for bright colors and delicate fabrics. Most impressively, he even has a grasp of textiles sourced from far away. All that matters now is how convincing he can manage to be."
"I've checked that already," said Fleur wryly, which made Olar clear his throat, his expression carefully neutral.
"Next, there's the matter of the contract regarding the funding of the Post lad."
"...Is there yet some problem?" Fleur asked, less out of displeasure than sheer exasperation. She had initially written out the basics of the lending, repayment, and profit-sharing arrangement she'd worked out with Milton, which Olar had then looked over to make sure she had not missed a single scrap of possible gain—and thereupon substantially rewritten it.
He had changed more than the terms, too. The language was very different. It was roundabout and rambling, using all sorts of terms that would never be used in ordinary conversation. It brought her back to when she was a child learning how to read and write, and convinced that Olar was just trying to confuse things as much as he could, Fleur sighed an irritated sigh and called for Bertra.
As Bertra brought down more and more of the not inexpensive paper for revisions, Fleur could see the lines on his face all too clearly.
"We cannot be too careful. If there is a mistake in this contract, we stand to lose all the profit we are going to such trouble to gain."
If Olar—who had spent so many decades of his life in trade—said so, then it was surely so. Yet Fleur could not help but think to herself that there had to be a limit.
After all, the other party in the contract was Milton. He was not some born merchant, but a former member of a noble and proud house, a house that relied upon its word and honor. If anything, he might be offended to be presented with such a meticulously constructed contract. At the very least, Fleur knew she would have been.
Whether he knew Fleur's thoughts or not, Olar made ready to read the contract over again, drawing his body up and holding the paper at arm's length, squinting as he read the words on it aloud.
"In the name of God. From Fleur von Eiterzental Bolan to Milton Post, a good man and true. These two, having met in trade by the grace of God, do now purpose to exchange via the Jones Company a quantity of fabrics of wool, linen, and silver, the cost of which shall be entirely borne by Bolan. However, five-tenths of this cost shall be counted as debt upon Post. Upon the purchase of these goods shall this debt be recorded. Upon this debt, Bolan pledges to hold no interest. Profits shall be split evenly. All purchased items shall be held under the ownership of Bolan. Concluded. God's blessing be upon this contract."
Having read the contract in its entirety, Olar's gaze remained fixed upon the paper—despite all the revisions, despite his scrutiny of every word, despite having finally written it all out.
Yet Fleur had a good idea of what Olar was likely to say next.
"About the amount we're loaning to Post."
It was just as she had guessed. Fleur grabbed a piece of bread out of protest. "Half is fine," she said briefly and with finality.
Olar stared at her, but she had no intention of caving in.

Output:
Olar had wanted to count the entire amount as a loan to Milton as a matter of course and explained that a greedier merchant might have pushed that to one and half again, or even double the loaned amount. It would have been cruel to do so, but the Church reluctantly allowed "thanks given for money lent" in amounts of up to 20 or 30 percent per year, and trades could take several years to complete from purchase to sale, so Fleur's insistence was a bridge too far.
But the profit would be split evenly and Milton's responsibility would amount to only half of the outlay, an extraordinarily, almost divinely generous arrangement the likes of which Olar had never seen.
And yet Fleur insisted upon it.
There was the fact that she trusted Milton, but that was not the most important point, which was this: By having a bit of money she had no power at all, whereas Milton was given the greater share of that same power. Just as Olar and Bertra had to bow to those who just happened to be born as nobility, there was Milton, who had to bow to those who just happened to have money, and he could no longer stand it.
In exchange for borrowing power, they would assume risk. Fleur felt this would put her and Milton on equal terms and that it would be cowardly, even despicable, to do otherwise.
It was just such despicable positions that her former husband would take, and yet he had brought such misfortune upon their house. Fleur was sure she could pursue profit without resorting to such tactics. She was sure.
She admitted, though, that her notions might be naive—but it was the only way to find a partner she could truly trust.
Fleur explained as much to Olar, insisting that nobody had any intentions of taking a loss, so the fuss over this particular condition wasn't going to amount to anything.
Olar looked steadily at Fleur, then closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. And then he folded.
The tension went out of Fleur's shoulders, and she smiled in relief.
"In that case, I have nothing else to say. We need only pray to God that all goes well." Olar tidied up the scattering of paper, then reached for the bread that Bertra had bought cheaply with her usual skill.
"It'll be fine. We don't need to pray." Having gotten Olar's approval, along with a fine demonstration of his skill, she was certain there was no need for divine intervention, Fleur thought to herself, her spirits high as she picked up her spoon and started to sample the soup.
But then she heard Olar clear his throat yet again. "You must not let your guard down. It is the nature of business to be unpredictable. Even if we do not make a single mistake, the ship could sink and our goods might never reach us, or bandits might attack while the goods are en route to their sale."
Olar's words were a splash of cold water on Fleur's good mood. Her smile disappeared and was replaced by a pout as she slurped her soup—his observation had hit the bull's-eye.
It was true. She could not ignore those possibilities, nor should she. But that hardly meant one should never do anything for fear of what might happen.
"Still, worrying over such things is for the servants. Milady would never get anywhere if she agonized over such things as I do."
At Olar showing the slightest bit of consideration, Fleur completely forgot the taste of her soup. While his logic might have been inconvenient or frustrating for her to hear, it was certainly sound, and she had to admit it would be a mistake for her to become displeased upon hearing it.
But when Fleur looked up, she saw Olar looking off into space, a rueful smile on his face.
Regardless of what it was he saw at the end of his vision, Fleur knew this expression well. She'd seen it when her former husband had been Olar's master.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
Olar had wanted to count the entire amount as a loan to Milton as a matter of course and explained that a greedier merchant might have pushed that to one and half again, or even double the loaned amount. It would have been cruel to do so, but the Church reluctantly allowed "thanks given for money lent" in amounts of up to 20 or 30 percent per year, and trades could take several years to complete from purchase to sale, so Fleur's insistence was a bridge too far.
But the profit would be split evenly and Milton's responsibility would amount to only half of the outlay, an extraordinarily, almost divinely generous arrangement the likes of which Olar had never seen.
And yet Fleur insisted upon it.
There was the fact that she trusted Milton, but that was not the most important point, which was this: By having a bit of money she had no power at all, whereas Milton was given the greater share of that same power. Just as Olar and Bertra had to bow to those who just happened to be born as nobility, there was Milton, who had to bow to those who just happened to have money, and he could no longer stand it.
In exchange for borrowing power, they would assume risk. Fleur felt this would put her and Milton on equal terms and that it would be cowardly, even despicable, to do otherwise.
It was just such despicable positions that her former husband would take, and yet he had brought such misfortune upon their house. Fleur was sure she could pursue profit without resorting to such tactics. She was sure.
She admitted, though, that her notions might be naive—but it was the only way to find a partner she could truly trust.
Fleur explained as much to Olar, insisting that nobody had any intentions of taking a loss, so the fuss over this particular condition wasn't going to amount to anything.
Olar looked steadily at Fleur, then closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. And then he folded.
The tension went out of Fleur's shoulders, and she smiled in relief.
"In that case, I have nothing else to say. We need only pray to God that all goes well." Olar tidied up the scattering of paper, then reached for the bread that Bertra had bought cheaply with her usual skill.
"It'll be fine. We don't need to pray." Having gotten Olar's approval, along with a fine demonstration of his skill, she was certain there was no need for divine intervention, Fleur thought to herself, her spirits high as she picked up her spoon and started to sample the soup.
But then she heard Olar clear his throat yet again. "You must not let your guard down. It is the nature of business to be unpredictable. Even if we do not make a single mistake, the ship could sink and our goods might never reach us, or bandits might attack while the goods are en route to their sale."
Olar's words were a splash of cold water on Fleur's good mood. Her smile disappeared and was replaced by a pout as she slurped her soup—his observation had hit the bull's-eye.
It was true. She could not ignore those possibilities, nor should she. But that hardly meant one should never do anything for fear of what might happen.
"Still, worrying over such things is for the servants. Milady would never get anywhere if she agonized over such things as I do."
At Olar showing the slightest bit of consideration, Fleur completely forgot the taste of her soup. While his logic might have been inconvenient or frustrating for her to hear, it was certainly sound, and she had to admit it would be a mistake for her to become displeased upon hearing it.
But when Fleur looked up, she saw Olar looking off into space, a rueful smile on his face.
Regardless of what it was he saw at the end of his vision, Fleur knew this expression well. She'd seen it when her former husband had been Olar's master.

Output:
This was not the sort of joke or jape that Olar occasionally made.
Fleur put her spoon down, and after politely wiping her mouth, she smiled a shy smile to hide her real embarrassment.
"You'll embarrass me saying such things to my face. And I'm likely to become rather full of myself if you keep it up."
"If you have that much self-awareness, then I have little to worry about. And as I said, worrying is my job, not yours. Caution is part of that. And of course Bertra will also be on hand."
A model servant, Bertra had betrayed no interest in her masters' conversation. Although it was more likely that her head was already full of the housework she planned to do next, given that she alone did an amount of work that would normally have been handled by several maids.
At Olar's words, though, she returned to herself with a start, her cheeks reddening as she looked intently down. Fleur wondered if she was angry.
"Risking Bertra's ire is the second worst thing I might do," said Fleur with a small smile, looking at Bertra cautiously.
"And what's the first?" Olar asked.
"The worst is making her cry."
Bertra's eyes fluttered; she seemed to understand in what light she was being discussed. She put her hands to her reddening cheeks. "Please stop making such fun of me!" she said.
Fleur couldn't help but be charmed by Bertra, who had seriousness beyond her young age.
"It seems I've nothing I ought add this time," said Olar.
"And that might be the happiest outcome of all."
The old man raised both hands in surrender. "God's blessings be upon us."
Night had quietly fallen.
Ship traffic was heavy.
The previous day had seen ships arrive from long distances for repair or resupply only to be gone the very next. Moreover, there was a limited number of priests praying for the safety of those ships and their sailors. If Fleur and Milton missed this shipment, it would be at least a month before the next chance to do business.
The very next day after her meeting with Milton, Fleur found herself at a table with him at the Jones Company.
But Hans, the man representing the Jones Company in this transaction, was nowhere to be seen.
Before they completed a contract with Hans, there was the matter of the contract between Fleur and Milton.
"Will this do?" It was the very same contract Olar had so carefully revised for Fleur ahead of time. Milton was no mere apprentice, so a brief look was all he needed.
The nobility used contracts only when they did not trust the other party or else wanted to deliberately insult them. Fleur was certain the thudding pain in her heart was not her imagination.
Milton accepted the proffered sheet of paper, then looked up and regarded Fleur uncertainly. She froze, and visions of his angry face flashed through her mind.
But far from being angry, Milton smiled. "Well, this is certainly a relief."
Fleur had trouble understanding what he meant, so though it made her sound like a fool, she asked, "A relief...?"
"Yes. I was mostly certain that you wouldn't assume a verbal contract would be sufficient—not that I don't trust you, Miss Fleur. But since you're the one lending your precious money, and money is life. If it had remained a verbal contract..." Milton jokingly patted the hilt of the short sword at his waist. "Like any knight, I'm ready to lay down my life."
Fleur realized what he meant with a start. "Ah!"
Unlike the relationship between a noble and their knight, the relationship between merchants was one of clear mutual responsibility, where profit and loss were shared.
Though Fleur might have infinite trust in her partner, the amount of profit that partner would bring her could be very small—uncomfortably so.
A large amount of trust invested did not necessarily lead to commensurate returns—such was the way of trade.
A knight could lay down his life. A merchant did not have that luxury.
"Still, this is very generous. No merchant is unhappy at being trusted. And this amount...I'll have to work like mad to be worthy of it."


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
This was not the sort of joke or jape that Olar occasionally made.
Fleur put her spoon down, and after politely wiping her mouth, she smiled a shy smile to hide her real embarrassment.
"You'll embarrass me saying such things to my face. And I'm likely to become rather full of myself if you keep it up."
"If you have that much self-awareness, then I have little to worry about. And as I said, worrying is my job, not yours. Caution is part of that. And of course Bertra will also be on hand."
A model servant, Bertra had betrayed no interest in her masters' conversation. Although it was more likely that her head was already full of the housework she planned to do next, given that she alone did an amount of work that would normally have been handled by several maids.
At Olar's words, though, she returned to herself with a start, her cheeks reddening as she looked intently down. Fleur wondered if she was angry.
"Risking Bertra's ire is the second worst thing I might do," said Fleur with a small smile, looking at Bertra cautiously.
"And what's the first?" Olar asked.
"The worst is making her cry."
Bertra's eyes fluttered; she seemed to understand in what light she was being discussed. She put her hands to her reddening cheeks. "Please stop making such fun of me!" she said.
Fleur couldn't help but be charmed by Bertra, who had seriousness beyond her young age.
"It seems I've nothing I ought add this time," said Olar.
"And that might be the happiest outcome of all."
The old man raised both hands in surrender. "God's blessings be upon us."
Night had quietly fallen.
Ship traffic was heavy.
The previous day had seen ships arrive from long distances for repair or resupply only to be gone the very next. Moreover, there was a limited number of priests praying for the safety of those ships and their sailors. If Fleur and Milton missed this shipment, it would be at least a month before the next chance to do business.
The very next day after her meeting with Milton, Fleur found herself at a table with him at the Jones Company.
But Hans, the man representing the Jones Company in this transaction, was nowhere to be seen.
Before they completed a contract with Hans, there was the matter of the contract between Fleur and Milton.
"Will this do?" It was the very same contract Olar had so carefully revised for Fleur ahead of time. Milton was no mere apprentice, so a brief look was all he needed.
The nobility used contracts only when they did not trust the other party or else wanted to deliberately insult them. Fleur was certain the thudding pain in her heart was not her imagination.
Milton accepted the proffered sheet of paper, then looked up and regarded Fleur uncertainly. She froze, and visions of his angry face flashed through her mind.
But far from being angry, Milton smiled. "Well, this is certainly a relief."
Fleur had trouble understanding what he meant, so though it made her sound like a fool, she asked, "A relief...?"
"Yes. I was mostly certain that you wouldn't assume a verbal contract would be sufficient—not that I don't trust you, Miss Fleur. But since you're the one lending your precious money, and money is life. If it had remained a verbal contract..." Milton jokingly patted the hilt of the short sword at his waist. "Like any knight, I'm ready to lay down my life."
Fleur realized what he meant with a start. "Ah!"
Unlike the relationship between a noble and their knight, the relationship between merchants was one of clear mutual responsibility, where profit and loss were shared.
Though Fleur might have infinite trust in her partner, the amount of profit that partner would bring her could be very small—uncomfortably so.
A large amount of trust invested did not necessarily lead to commensurate returns—such was the way of trade.
A knight could lay down his life. A merchant did not have that luxury.
"Still, this is very generous. No merchant is unhappy at being trusted. And this amount...I'll have to work like mad to be worthy of it."

Output:
But this was a company meeting room. Fleur chose her words carefully. "An old veteran knight who saw many battles once told me that it's only when you have no worries that you can reach your full potential."
"And worries can be banished with trust." Milton ran his eyes over the contract, then signed his name at the end. While the terms were indeed very favorable, he could still incur debt if things went poorly. "Next, it'll be my turn to banish your worries. I will sell it all!"
Her former husband had shouted those same words in their home. "Sell it all! Buy everything!"
She no longer found this vulgar. The words echoed in her mind like a horse's gallop on the battlefield.
"Now, let us turn to the purchase."
Fleur signed the contract after Milton, then rang a small bell that sat on the table, calling Hans back into the room.
"Woolen fabric from Lubick, thin, in various colors, twenty-two pieces. Hempen robes stamped with the mark of the Yirin Craftsmen's Guild, in various colors, twenty pieces. Silver jewelry from Chuaifult..."
Hans slowly read off the list of goods Milton had chosen and Fleur had written down. His expression was the same as it always was, so Fleur had no sense of the impression the list of goods might give. Yet she still had the sense that they had been well chosen.
Of course, since they were buying the goods through Hans's employer, she didn't expect there would be any trouble no matter how fine they were.
Hans checked the quantities again, looking carefully over the colors and prices, then rubbed his eyes and looked at Milton. "I don't know if I'll be able to get twenty-two pieces from Lubick right now. Their wool is very popular at the moment. There's no problem with supply, but they know what the current market here is like so they're keeping the price high. I might be able to get ten or fifteen. They won't be gold threaded, so shall I put the order in for that?"
Naturally Hans's company, being the importer, would earn more if the purchase were larger. And this was an overseas order, so his claim couldn't be immediately confirmed.
"I can't move on the price. Just get as many as you can in that range."
"Understood." Hans wrote the order directly on the paper, then moved to the next item. "The pieces from Yirin...these colors shouldn't be a problem, and at this price we should be able to buy ones with the guild seal on them. As for the Chuaifult silver...do you have a particular shop in mind?"
"Not particularly, so long as they all include either pearl or coral."
Hans's eyebrows went up for the first time at Milton's reply. "I see...so their amber's no longer moving, eh?"
"I wouldn't go that far."
The strangely antagonistic conversation was full of implications and somehow still friendly. Rather than feeling as though her own negotiation skills needed work, Fleur was taken back to her childhood and the way she had felt excluded when she heard boys exchanging secrets to which she was not privy.
"Understood. I'll do my very best to obtain the listed goods. Now, if you'll both sign here." Hans put the list down on the table with a smack, indicating the bottom of the page.
She wondered if this was a substitute for the contract. Milton glanced at her, and Fleur nodded. Milton accepted the quill pen and signed first, then allowed Fleur to take her turn.
"Please confirm the goods one more time," Hans said from across the table.
It was an order from across the sea, after all. If there were any mistakes, returning the goods would be no simple matter. Particularly when colors had similar spellings, small mistakes could cause huge problems. Having Fleur and Milton sign both the list and a warning statement was both for their protection and for Hans's.
Fleur thought back on Olar's words, words she had merely memorized, and started to feel a bit more appreciation toward them.
"Is this correct?"
Fleur didn't know how many times she'd checked the list, but she checked it yet again before signing her name: Fleur Bolan.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
But this was a company meeting room. Fleur chose her words carefully. "An old veteran knight who saw many battles once told me that it's only when you have no worries that you can reach your full potential."
"And worries can be banished with trust." Milton ran his eyes over the contract, then signed his name at the end. While the terms were indeed very favorable, he could still incur debt if things went poorly. "Next, it'll be my turn to banish your worries. I will sell it all!"
Her former husband had shouted those same words in their home. "Sell it all! Buy everything!"
She no longer found this vulgar. The words echoed in her mind like a horse's gallop on the battlefield.
"Now, let us turn to the purchase."
Fleur signed the contract after Milton, then rang a small bell that sat on the table, calling Hans back into the room.
"Woolen fabric from Lubick, thin, in various colors, twenty-two pieces. Hempen robes stamped with the mark of the Yirin Craftsmen's Guild, in various colors, twenty pieces. Silver jewelry from Chuaifult..."
Hans slowly read off the list of goods Milton had chosen and Fleur had written down. His expression was the same as it always was, so Fleur had no sense of the impression the list of goods might give. Yet she still had the sense that they had been well chosen.
Of course, since they were buying the goods through Hans's employer, she didn't expect there would be any trouble no matter how fine they were.
Hans checked the quantities again, looking carefully over the colors and prices, then rubbed his eyes and looked at Milton. "I don't know if I'll be able to get twenty-two pieces from Lubick right now. Their wool is very popular at the moment. There's no problem with supply, but they know what the current market here is like so they're keeping the price high. I might be able to get ten or fifteen. They won't be gold threaded, so shall I put the order in for that?"
Naturally Hans's company, being the importer, would earn more if the purchase were larger. And this was an overseas order, so his claim couldn't be immediately confirmed.
"I can't move on the price. Just get as many as you can in that range."
"Understood." Hans wrote the order directly on the paper, then moved to the next item. "The pieces from Yirin...these colors shouldn't be a problem, and at this price we should be able to buy ones with the guild seal on them. As for the Chuaifult silver...do you have a particular shop in mind?"
"Not particularly, so long as they all include either pearl or coral."
Hans's eyebrows went up for the first time at Milton's reply. "I see...so their amber's no longer moving, eh?"
"I wouldn't go that far."
The strangely antagonistic conversation was full of implications and somehow still friendly. Rather than feeling as though her own negotiation skills needed work, Fleur was taken back to her childhood and the way she had felt excluded when she heard boys exchanging secrets to which she was not privy.
"Understood. I'll do my very best to obtain the listed goods. Now, if you'll both sign here." Hans put the list down on the table with a smack, indicating the bottom of the page.
She wondered if this was a substitute for the contract. Milton glanced at her, and Fleur nodded. Milton accepted the quill pen and signed first, then allowed Fleur to take her turn.
"Please confirm the goods one more time," Hans said from across the table.
It was an order from across the sea, after all. If there were any mistakes, returning the goods would be no simple matter. Particularly when colors had similar spellings, small mistakes could cause huge problems. Having Fleur and Milton sign both the list and a warning statement was both for their protection and for Hans's.
Fleur thought back on Olar's words, words she had merely memorized, and started to feel a bit more appreciation toward them.
"Is this correct?"
Fleur didn't know how many times she'd checked the list, but she checked it yet again before signing her name: Fleur Bolan.

Output:
"Very well. I'll now sign. And...in the name of God..."
Neither Fleur not Milton were unused to writing with quill pens, but Hans was clearly in a different class altogether. Wil even bothering to sit down, he had the strongest and clearest hand of anyone present—even elegant. And as proof of the agreement that the three of them now shared, he wrote the usual godly phrase beneath the signatures.
Hans wrote his own name in a flowing script, but the benediction he wrote in bold, solemn letters.
How many styles of writing had he mastered? Fleur wondered at how many talents merchants concealed.
"Our company has entered into a contract with you both to obtain these goods on your behalf. May God's blessing be upon us."
Previously Fleur had engaged in trading only with Olar's help. This was the first time she was personally involved in signing documents.
With Hans's statement, the paper that Fleur and Milton signed would now determine their fate. Fleur felt something akin to regret, having now started down a path from which there would be no return.
She took a deep breath, then exhaled. It was a pleasant nervousness.
"We leave it in your capable hands," said Milton as he shook hands with Hans.
Hans then offered his hand to Fleur, which both surprised and pleased her. The feeling of being treated like a true merchant was a buoyant one.
"It will probably take around two weeks to procure the order."
"So quickly?" asked Fleur, which Hans smiled and nodded at.
"If we had to go to each town separately, it would take years. But the wonderful thing about the items written here is that procuring them is much simpler. They're all items that have been stockpiled in warehouses here and there nearby, and none of them will be difficult to find. Hence, two weeks. Of course, that's provided there are no delays with the ships."
Judging that the ink on the contract was dry, Hans carefully rolled up the signed document and placed it in a desk drawer. Fleur took note of this, but perhaps that was simply how deals proceeded when conducted via companies like this.
Most importantly, there was nothing in the contract that could be taken advantage of. As long as the specified items were purchased, all would be well. If the goods were not purchased, Fleur and Milton would be able to object.
Fleur reminded herself of that and directed her gaze toward the shelves on the wall. The many documents stored in those shelves were all records of trade, just like this one, and the notion stirred her heart. Even a quick glance revealed the enormous number of them.
When she tried to imagine how many transactions like this happened in the world, her imagination boggled at it.
"Let us hope all goes well," said Hans casually. Fleur and Milton both smiled and nodded.
To toast the commencement of their contract, Fleur and Milton went to the same tavern where Hans had first introduced them.
Mornings around the port were the busiest, as ship cargo was taken from the docks and distributed into the town. Come afternoon, the flow reversed, and goods were brought from the town to the docks. And in the evening came the work of loading those goods from the docks onto the ships that awaited them.
Those ships would depart early in the morning.
The work continued through the years, repeated tirelessly.
As Fleur savored her ale, she realized that as of today, she herself was now a participant in this great river of commerce.
Milton was not saying much, and Fleur did not ask him his thoughts. He was simply sitting across from her, smiling quietly.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
"Very well. I'll now sign. And...in the name of God..."
Neither Fleur not Milton were unused to writing with quill pens, but Hans was clearly in a different class altogether. Wil even bothering to sit down, he had the strongest and clearest hand of anyone present—even elegant. And as proof of the agreement that the three of them now shared, he wrote the usual godly phrase beneath the signatures.
Hans wrote his own name in a flowing script, but the benediction he wrote in bold, solemn letters.
How many styles of writing had he mastered? Fleur wondered at how many talents merchants concealed.
"Our company has entered into a contract with you both to obtain these goods on your behalf. May God's blessing be upon us."
Previously Fleur had engaged in trading only with Olar's help. This was the first time she was personally involved in signing documents.
With Hans's statement, the paper that Fleur and Milton signed would now determine their fate. Fleur felt something akin to regret, having now started down a path from which there would be no return.
She took a deep breath, then exhaled. It was a pleasant nervousness.
"We leave it in your capable hands," said Milton as he shook hands with Hans.
Hans then offered his hand to Fleur, which both surprised and pleased her. The feeling of being treated like a true merchant was a buoyant one.
"It will probably take around two weeks to procure the order."
"So quickly?" asked Fleur, which Hans smiled and nodded at.
"If we had to go to each town separately, it would take years. But the wonderful thing about the items written here is that procuring them is much simpler. They're all items that have been stockpiled in warehouses here and there nearby, and none of them will be difficult to find. Hence, two weeks. Of course, that's provided there are no delays with the ships."
Judging that the ink on the contract was dry, Hans carefully rolled up the signed document and placed it in a desk drawer. Fleur took note of this, but perhaps that was simply how deals proceeded when conducted via companies like this.
Most importantly, there was nothing in the contract that could be taken advantage of. As long as the specified items were purchased, all would be well. If the goods were not purchased, Fleur and Milton would be able to object.
Fleur reminded herself of that and directed her gaze toward the shelves on the wall. The many documents stored in those shelves were all records of trade, just like this one, and the notion stirred her heart. Even a quick glance revealed the enormous number of them.
When she tried to imagine how many transactions like this happened in the world, her imagination boggled at it.
"Let us hope all goes well," said Hans casually. Fleur and Milton both smiled and nodded.
To toast the commencement of their contract, Fleur and Milton went to the same tavern where Hans had first introduced them.
Mornings around the port were the busiest, as ship cargo was taken from the docks and distributed into the town. Come afternoon, the flow reversed, and goods were brought from the town to the docks. And in the evening came the work of loading those goods from the docks onto the ships that awaited them.
Those ships would depart early in the morning.
The work continued through the years, repeated tirelessly.
As Fleur savored her ale, she realized that as of today, she herself was now a participant in this great river of commerce.
Milton was not saying much, and Fleur did not ask him his thoughts. He was simply sitting across from her, smiling quietly.

Output:
Thinking about the profit that would result from that made Fleur spontaneously grin. She was like a daydreaming child as she called up the memory of the figures she had written down.
In a year, she would have twenty-two times her current wealth.
She could now understand why it was that merchants tended to snicker at the nobility. They must be earning such amounts every year. If she'd told Olar how easy she found trading, he'd surely scold her yet again.
But the outlook was so bright she wanted to tell him nonetheless—to tell him that there was such a thing as a fortunate encounter.
Fleur drained her first cup of ale with much greater speed than was her usual wont. She was not particularly strong with liquor, but she felt like she could do anything.
"Careful—if you overindulge, you may find yourself stumbling."
Fleur was overindulging enough that these were the first words out of Milton's mouth. She had just finished ordering her second round, and facing the tavern keeper with a raised hand, she lowered it in embarrassment.
"Although truth be told, I couldn't sleep at all last night. I stayed awake by candlelight, thinking of profit."
"Twenty percent in one trade. Double the money in four, right?"
Milton seemed surprised at Fleur's words but covered his smile with a quick sip from his cup. "Possibly, but I wasn't assuming that everything will proceed according to plan."
"Do you suppose the Jones Company is up to something sly? Or are you talking about your debt?"
After gazing out at the men busily working on the docks, Milton looked to Fleur. "There was also the possibility I wouldn't have been able to gain your trust."
"...Add that in, then."
It might have been better not to be in so crowded a place. But they had ended up here, which was why they were having the conversation in the first place.
"It might just be my prejudice to imagine trading companies to have a vicious side." Milton smiled self-consciously, but unlike their last meal together, there was more than just beans on the table. He stuck his knife into his roast mutton. "For good or ill...they will do anything that brings them profit."
"...Sometimes even things that drive one to rage."
Last time, Milton had chewed his beans in order to hide his rueful grin. Mutton was apparently less effective for such purposes.
"I've thought about that. They might've been more aggressive, like demanding a higher commission or worse conditions for the contract. And yet they were very accommodating. When you're a company as large as they are, there comes a time when you must worry about your reputation."
"So we should be able to worry less, then?"
Milton cocked his head slightly at Fleur's question, but not to refute or quibble. He seemed not at all displeased. "And I did receive terms so favorable from you I yet find them hard to believe."
Fleur looked bashfully aside at his teasing, though she did so deliberately. They both fell silent for a moment, and then unable to bear it any longer, they simultaneously burst out laughing.
After the ripples of laughter subsided, all that remained were hearts washed clean.
"So, here we begin," said Milton, extending his hand.
Even Fleur understood that when he said "here," he was thinking further ahead than this single trade.
Olar's warnings echoed in her ears, but Fleur wanted to treasure this fortuitous encounter, rather than doubting it. To earn, to profit—and soon.
And she was certain that it would be more fun for two merchants to chase whatever lay at the end of that road of anticipation than it would be for either to go alone. And Milton wasn't such a bad choice of partner for that journey.
While she had not remembered it, this was very different from their true meeting at the Milan banquet—in that this time, Fleur accepted the hand that was offered to her and grasped it firmly.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
Thinking about the profit that would result from that made Fleur spontaneously grin. She was like a daydreaming child as she called up the memory of the figures she had written down.
In a year, she would have twenty-two times her current wealth.
She could now understand why it was that merchants tended to snicker at the nobility. They must be earning such amounts every year. If she'd told Olar how easy she found trading, he'd surely scold her yet again.
But the outlook was so bright she wanted to tell him nonetheless—to tell him that there was such a thing as a fortunate encounter.
Fleur drained her first cup of ale with much greater speed than was her usual wont. She was not particularly strong with liquor, but she felt like she could do anything.
"Careful—if you overindulge, you may find yourself stumbling."
Fleur was overindulging enough that these were the first words out of Milton's mouth. She had just finished ordering her second round, and facing the tavern keeper with a raised hand, she lowered it in embarrassment.
"Although truth be told, I couldn't sleep at all last night. I stayed awake by candlelight, thinking of profit."
"Twenty percent in one trade. Double the money in four, right?"
Milton seemed surprised at Fleur's words but covered his smile with a quick sip from his cup. "Possibly, but I wasn't assuming that everything will proceed according to plan."
"Do you suppose the Jones Company is up to something sly? Or are you talking about your debt?"
After gazing out at the men busily working on the docks, Milton looked to Fleur. "There was also the possibility I wouldn't have been able to gain your trust."
"...Add that in, then."
It might have been better not to be in so crowded a place. But they had ended up here, which was why they were having the conversation in the first place.
"It might just be my prejudice to imagine trading companies to have a vicious side." Milton smiled self-consciously, but unlike their last meal together, there was more than just beans on the table. He stuck his knife into his roast mutton. "For good or ill...they will do anything that brings them profit."
"...Sometimes even things that drive one to rage."
Last time, Milton had chewed his beans in order to hide his rueful grin. Mutton was apparently less effective for such purposes.
"I've thought about that. They might've been more aggressive, like demanding a higher commission or worse conditions for the contract. And yet they were very accommodating. When you're a company as large as they are, there comes a time when you must worry about your reputation."
"So we should be able to worry less, then?"
Milton cocked his head slightly at Fleur's question, but not to refute or quibble. He seemed not at all displeased. "And I did receive terms so favorable from you I yet find them hard to believe."
Fleur looked bashfully aside at his teasing, though she did so deliberately. They both fell silent for a moment, and then unable to bear it any longer, they simultaneously burst out laughing.
After the ripples of laughter subsided, all that remained were hearts washed clean.
"So, here we begin," said Milton, extending his hand.
Even Fleur understood that when he said "here," he was thinking further ahead than this single trade.
Olar's warnings echoed in her ears, but Fleur wanted to treasure this fortuitous encounter, rather than doubting it. To earn, to profit—and soon.
And she was certain that it would be more fun for two merchants to chase whatever lay at the end of that road of anticipation than it would be for either to go alone. And Milton wasn't such a bad choice of partner for that journey.
While she had not remembered it, this was very different from their true meeting at the Milan banquet—in that this time, Fleur accepted the hand that was offered to her and grasped it firmly.

Output:
When she'd been first cast out of her house and walked on her own feet, she was surprised at how firm the ground had been—and now, shaking hands firmly for the first time, she was again thus surprised.
Milton smiled faintly as he gazed at her. Fleur returned his look, but this was no white-clothed table. After their hands had stayed clasped for a goodly span, they each grinned and returned their attention to their ale.
"This is the way for merchants, surely."
At Fleur's words, Milton feigned regret, a gesture she wouldn't forget.
Milton would be a good partner.
Fleur raised her cup and knocked it against his.
That evening over dinner, Fleur reported the details surrounding the contract to Olar, including the amount of time it would probably take, the commission Hans specified, and the impressions he'd given off.
Olar listened carefully, eyes closed, then finally opened them, his face slowly breaking into a smile. "Let us hope all goes well."
Fleur had to laugh—it was the very same thing Hans had said. Apparently all merchants of a certain experience level liked these words. Perhaps it was most prudent to hope for the best while not assuming that it would come to pass.
They had only placed the purchase order, and when it arrived, the work of selling it awaited them. But that evening, Fleur felt her chest unblocked by something, and for the first time in a while, she was able to take her meal. When she looked back on the experience later, she had the feeling that this moment was where her fate had taken a turn.
If only she had told Olar about that when she'd discussed the contract with him.
Hindsight was clear indeed.
Merchants were no saints.
Two weeks hence, she would come to understand that.
During those two weeks, Fleur did grunt work that required no capital.
If one was trustworthy and had a good sense of geography, the town fairly brimmed with people who needed goods taken from one place to another.
She took woven goods to a distant mill to be fulled, and on the return trip, she accepted a letter from a villager to a townsperson.
Both jobs were honest and steady, but the profit was proportionate to them—tiny.
In her heart, Fleur could think only of the clothing they had ordered. If the business went well, she wouldn't have to do these demeaning tasks anymore. She was sure of it.
As for Milton, he had been going around town intercepting servants and messengers, trying to learn the condition of the coin purses and tastes of the nobility.
She had known as much when she'd come down into the town, but evidently information on the goings-on within the manors around its outskirts was worth money. Servants sent into town on errands were well aware that the hints and gossip they possessed could be converted into cash.
In the past, Fleur had often wondered why the servants enjoyed going into town so much, and now she knew that in addition to the obvious reasons of food and shopping, there was this more direct incentive as well.
When she had asked Bertra about it, the housekeeper had looked away, embarrassed. Even she had done it and not just once.
Fleur had then asked Olar about the practice and learned that Olar's company at the time—the company run by Fleur's former husband—had paid a tidy sum to the servant who told them of the Bolan family's dire straits.
Surely it had been the maid who had gone missing a few days before the company master came knocking at their door with his proposal of marriage. Now, though, Fleur did not hold the maid in any real contempt and was actually rather impressed with her for taking advantage of her situation. There were crafty people all around, she realized.
"Milady," Bertra said to Fleur as the latter sipped her cheese stew at lunchtime. Bertra had just returned from speaking with a visitor to the house.
In her hand was an envelope.
Fleur looked to Olar, who nodded at her.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
When she'd been first cast out of her house and walked on her own feet, she was surprised at how firm the ground had been—and now, shaking hands firmly for the first time, she was again thus surprised.
Milton smiled faintly as he gazed at her. Fleur returned his look, but this was no white-clothed table. After their hands had stayed clasped for a goodly span, they each grinned and returned their attention to their ale.
"This is the way for merchants, surely."
At Fleur's words, Milton feigned regret, a gesture she wouldn't forget.
Milton would be a good partner.
Fleur raised her cup and knocked it against his.
That evening over dinner, Fleur reported the details surrounding the contract to Olar, including the amount of time it would probably take, the commission Hans specified, and the impressions he'd given off.
Olar listened carefully, eyes closed, then finally opened them, his face slowly breaking into a smile. "Let us hope all goes well."
Fleur had to laugh—it was the very same thing Hans had said. Apparently all merchants of a certain experience level liked these words. Perhaps it was most prudent to hope for the best while not assuming that it would come to pass.
They had only placed the purchase order, and when it arrived, the work of selling it awaited them. But that evening, Fleur felt her chest unblocked by something, and for the first time in a while, she was able to take her meal. When she looked back on the experience later, she had the feeling that this moment was where her fate had taken a turn.
If only she had told Olar about that when she'd discussed the contract with him.
Hindsight was clear indeed.
Merchants were no saints.
Two weeks hence, she would come to understand that.
During those two weeks, Fleur did grunt work that required no capital.
If one was trustworthy and had a good sense of geography, the town fairly brimmed with people who needed goods taken from one place to another.
She took woven goods to a distant mill to be fulled, and on the return trip, she accepted a letter from a villager to a townsperson.
Both jobs were honest and steady, but the profit was proportionate to them—tiny.
In her heart, Fleur could think only of the clothing they had ordered. If the business went well, she wouldn't have to do these demeaning tasks anymore. She was sure of it.
As for Milton, he had been going around town intercepting servants and messengers, trying to learn the condition of the coin purses and tastes of the nobility.
She had known as much when she'd come down into the town, but evidently information on the goings-on within the manors around its outskirts was worth money. Servants sent into town on errands were well aware that the hints and gossip they possessed could be converted into cash.
In the past, Fleur had often wondered why the servants enjoyed going into town so much, and now she knew that in addition to the obvious reasons of food and shopping, there was this more direct incentive as well.
When she had asked Bertra about it, the housekeeper had looked away, embarrassed. Even she had done it and not just once.
Fleur had then asked Olar about the practice and learned that Olar's company at the time—the company run by Fleur's former husband—had paid a tidy sum to the servant who told them of the Bolan family's dire straits.
Surely it had been the maid who had gone missing a few days before the company master came knocking at their door with his proposal of marriage. Now, though, Fleur did not hold the maid in any real contempt and was actually rather impressed with her for taking advantage of her situation. There were crafty people all around, she realized.
"Milady," Bertra said to Fleur as the latter sipped her cheese stew at lunchtime. Bertra had just returned from speaking with a visitor to the house.
In her hand was an envelope.
Fleur looked to Olar, who nodded at her.

Output:
In it was Hans's signature, along with news that the ship containing their cargo had safely arrived in port.
She folded the letter, tucked it into her breast, and stood. Even Olar, who was usually so insistent upon her finishing her meals, would surely overlook this one instance. Fleur apologized to Bertra and took out her cloak and scarf. "I'm off to make money," she said.
Bertra's eyes went wide, and Olar sighed a long-suffering sigh, both of which Fleur ignored as she put on her cloak and wrapped her scarf around her head.
Her destination was the lodging that Milton rented in a craftsman's workshop.
Back when she was as yet unaware of her family's privilege, she had employed a servant she got along with particularly well who now worked in that same workshop and who had introduced Milton to the place when he was cast out of his own home.
Human connections truly did cross much of the world—this was another thing Olar was fond of saying, and Fleur was coming to understand the truth of it.
"Excuse me, is Mr. Post in?" Fleur was becoming more and more confident in her ability to lower her voice to sound like a man.
A leatherworker who sat astride a long, narrow table, pounding a strip of leather, looked up in vague surprise.
Fleur asked again, and the man finally seemed to understand she was asking after Milton.
"Oh, Milton? He just came back from lunch. He's up the stairs on the fourth story."
"Thanks," she said clearly and briefly.
The young craftsman flashed her a pleasant smile. Fleur had learned how to charm craftsmen while coming and going from the waterwheel-powered fulling mill over the past few weeks.
She climbed the narrow, steep stairs, which felt very familiar to her, as they were not so very different from a waterwheel's use of different levels of water. She had received only a bit of profit out of her short employment there, but had learned much. She continued up the steps and soon arrived at the fourth floor.
What greeted her there was surprising, as she had expected to find a hallway and a door, which would have given her a chance to catch her breath.
Having run up the stairs in such a hurry, she was out of breath in a most embarrassing manner. And yet the moment she reached the top and rounded the handrail, Fleur was immediately greeted by the sight of a bored Milton eating a piece of bread.
"...Hello there," said a surprised Milton after swallowing his bread.
Fleur tried to respond but found that the words would not come. Flustered, she produced the letter and held it out. "Look—" she finally managed.
Truly important matters often did not require words.
Milton stood from his chair and rushed over. "The ship?"
Fleur nodded, which made Milton hurry to fetch his cloak.
Cutting through the heavy traffic of humans and horses that congested the port, they nearly flew to the Jones Company. The company employees stopped in their work to regard the pair with dubious eyes, but neither Fleur nor Milton cared.
"Where is Mr. Hans?" asked Milton, whereupon everyone—whether they were engaged in negotiations or taking inventory—pointed to the interior of the building.
Mumbling their thanks, Fleur and Milton hurried inside. The first step on their road to riches awaited them inside, after all.
"Hans!" said Milton in a strangled-but-still-loud voice, upon spotting Hans emerging from a room with a colleague.
He was exiting the room while looking down at a bundle of parchment in his hands, but as soon as he spotted Milton and Fleur, he gave the documents to the other man, along with some short instructions.
Perhaps they were part of a large deal, as Hans seemed a bit nervous, but they had nothing to do with Fleur. The other man bowed and headed the opposite way down the hallway at a trot, and Hans watched him go before turning to regard Milton and Fleur.
"Ah, your order? It's arrived." He flashed a too-perfect merchant's smile and brought his hands together in front of him as he did so.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
In it was Hans's signature, along with news that the ship containing their cargo had safely arrived in port.
She folded the letter, tucked it into her breast, and stood. Even Olar, who was usually so insistent upon her finishing her meals, would surely overlook this one instance. Fleur apologized to Bertra and took out her cloak and scarf. "I'm off to make money," she said.
Bertra's eyes went wide, and Olar sighed a long-suffering sigh, both of which Fleur ignored as she put on her cloak and wrapped her scarf around her head.
Her destination was the lodging that Milton rented in a craftsman's workshop.
Back when she was as yet unaware of her family's privilege, she had employed a servant she got along with particularly well who now worked in that same workshop and who had introduced Milton to the place when he was cast out of his own home.
Human connections truly did cross much of the world—this was another thing Olar was fond of saying, and Fleur was coming to understand the truth of it.
"Excuse me, is Mr. Post in?" Fleur was becoming more and more confident in her ability to lower her voice to sound like a man.
A leatherworker who sat astride a long, narrow table, pounding a strip of leather, looked up in vague surprise.
Fleur asked again, and the man finally seemed to understand she was asking after Milton.
"Oh, Milton? He just came back from lunch. He's up the stairs on the fourth story."
"Thanks," she said clearly and briefly.
The young craftsman flashed her a pleasant smile. Fleur had learned how to charm craftsmen while coming and going from the waterwheel-powered fulling mill over the past few weeks.
She climbed the narrow, steep stairs, which felt very familiar to her, as they were not so very different from a waterwheel's use of different levels of water. She had received only a bit of profit out of her short employment there, but had learned much. She continued up the steps and soon arrived at the fourth floor.
What greeted her there was surprising, as she had expected to find a hallway and a door, which would have given her a chance to catch her breath.
Having run up the stairs in such a hurry, she was out of breath in a most embarrassing manner. And yet the moment she reached the top and rounded the handrail, Fleur was immediately greeted by the sight of a bored Milton eating a piece of bread.
"...Hello there," said a surprised Milton after swallowing his bread.
Fleur tried to respond but found that the words would not come. Flustered, she produced the letter and held it out. "Look—" she finally managed.
Truly important matters often did not require words.
Milton stood from his chair and rushed over. "The ship?"
Fleur nodded, which made Milton hurry to fetch his cloak.
Cutting through the heavy traffic of humans and horses that congested the port, they nearly flew to the Jones Company. The company employees stopped in their work to regard the pair with dubious eyes, but neither Fleur nor Milton cared.
"Where is Mr. Hans?" asked Milton, whereupon everyone—whether they were engaged in negotiations or taking inventory—pointed to the interior of the building.
Mumbling their thanks, Fleur and Milton hurried inside. The first step on their road to riches awaited them inside, after all.
"Hans!" said Milton in a strangled-but-still-loud voice, upon spotting Hans emerging from a room with a colleague.
He was exiting the room while looking down at a bundle of parchment in his hands, but as soon as he spotted Milton and Fleur, he gave the documents to the other man, along with some short instructions.
Perhaps they were part of a large deal, as Hans seemed a bit nervous, but they had nothing to do with Fleur. The other man bowed and headed the opposite way down the hallway at a trot, and Hans watched him go before turning to regard Milton and Fleur.
"Ah, your order? It's arrived." He flashed a too-perfect merchant's smile and brought his hands together in front of him as he did so.

Output:
Was she the only nervous one? Fleur wondered.
"Your goods have safely arrived at the docks. The winds were uncertain and it looked as though they might be delayed, but fortunately our company was able to live up to its reputation."
Fleur smiled at Hans's mild boasting, but she couldn't help letting a bit of impatience creep into her expression.
Perhaps Milton noticed this, or perhaps he merely felt the same way himself. "So—" he interrupted. "We'd like to take delivery of them. Will today be possible?"
Speed was of the essence in business.
Hans nodded magnanimously, well aware of that fact himself. He pointed farther into the building. "The goods are secured in the rear loading dock. I've already asked to have the order document brought up. We must make sure there aren't any discrepancies between your order and the goods, after all."
That must have been the content of the exchange between Hans and the other man they had seen just moments earlier. They were very efficient. Olar had told her over and over again to check the goods carefully before taking receipt of them. Complaints stated after the fact would be too late.
They followed Hans as he led them down the hall, Milton ahead of Fleur. In the hallway, traces of the grandeur of the Jones Company could be seen—beautifully embroidered maps and portraits hung on the walls.
They passed an open door and through it caught a glimpse of a room filled with barrels, crates, and large earthen pots, the very existence of which made crystal clear that this was the intersection of sea and land. As they walked down the narrow hallway that led to the rear entrance, even Hans—whose position in the company was not at all low—had to step aside to allow others to get by as they busily traveled the passage.
They were all sorts, too—apprentices and young merchants and big, brawny men.
As they exited the hallway, Fleur was immediately struck by the fragrance of wheat. Perhaps it was the first crop to result from the spring thaw, and the dock was white and dusty with the flour. Workers carried burlap sacks of flour large enough to hold an adult man, and as they worked, the flour in the air caked their sweaty bodies.
Fleur and Milton were led to a corner of the room. The crates and barrels lined up there had yet to become covered in flour dust, which made clear just how recently they had been left there.
The attendant from earlier returned bearing under one arm a rolled parchment, which he gave to Hans.
Next to the crate stood an iron bar flattened at one end; perhaps it would be used to open it.
"Everything fit in one crate?"
The question was put to the attendant. The youth seemed to be even now enduring the sort of hardships that Hans had spoken of earlier, his keen eyes lively and body strong.
He nodded wordlessly and picked up the iron bar. "May I open the box?" he asked, careful to observe the correct protocol.
For a moment, the two former nobles felt as though they had never been asked such a question in their lives.
Milton stepped forward as their representative and nodded, and Hans gave the signal to continue.
The flat end of the iron bar was wedged under the crate's lid, and a little pressure brought the lid slightly open. The young attendant then set the bar aside and used a smaller tool of similar shape to begin removing the nails that secured the lid.
"We'll reuse the nails, you see. Although when we want to appear prosperous, sometimes we just break the crates open."
The pair nodded mutely at Hans's words. It seemed everything they were watching transpire had a meaning.
Having very cleanly removed all the nails from the lid, the youth stepped away, as though making it clearer than was strictly necessary that he had not touched anything inside the crate.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
Was she the only nervous one? Fleur wondered.
"Your goods have safely arrived at the docks. The winds were uncertain and it looked as though they might be delayed, but fortunately our company was able to live up to its reputation."
Fleur smiled at Hans's mild boasting, but she couldn't help letting a bit of impatience creep into her expression.
Perhaps Milton noticed this, or perhaps he merely felt the same way himself. "So—" he interrupted. "We'd like to take delivery of them. Will today be possible?"
Speed was of the essence in business.
Hans nodded magnanimously, well aware of that fact himself. He pointed farther into the building. "The goods are secured in the rear loading dock. I've already asked to have the order document brought up. We must make sure there aren't any discrepancies between your order and the goods, after all."
That must have been the content of the exchange between Hans and the other man they had seen just moments earlier. They were very efficient. Olar had told her over and over again to check the goods carefully before taking receipt of them. Complaints stated after the fact would be too late.
They followed Hans as he led them down the hall, Milton ahead of Fleur. In the hallway, traces of the grandeur of the Jones Company could be seen—beautifully embroidered maps and portraits hung on the walls.
They passed an open door and through it caught a glimpse of a room filled with barrels, crates, and large earthen pots, the very existence of which made crystal clear that this was the intersection of sea and land. As they walked down the narrow hallway that led to the rear entrance, even Hans—whose position in the company was not at all low—had to step aside to allow others to get by as they busily traveled the passage.
They were all sorts, too—apprentices and young merchants and big, brawny men.
As they exited the hallway, Fleur was immediately struck by the fragrance of wheat. Perhaps it was the first crop to result from the spring thaw, and the dock was white and dusty with the flour. Workers carried burlap sacks of flour large enough to hold an adult man, and as they worked, the flour in the air caked their sweaty bodies.
Fleur and Milton were led to a corner of the room. The crates and barrels lined up there had yet to become covered in flour dust, which made clear just how recently they had been left there.
The attendant from earlier returned bearing under one arm a rolled parchment, which he gave to Hans.
Next to the crate stood an iron bar flattened at one end; perhaps it would be used to open it.
"Everything fit in one crate?"
The question was put to the attendant. The youth seemed to be even now enduring the sort of hardships that Hans had spoken of earlier, his keen eyes lively and body strong.
He nodded wordlessly and picked up the iron bar. "May I open the box?" he asked, careful to observe the correct protocol.
For a moment, the two former nobles felt as though they had never been asked such a question in their lives.
Milton stepped forward as their representative and nodded, and Hans gave the signal to continue.
The flat end of the iron bar was wedged under the crate's lid, and a little pressure brought the lid slightly open. The young attendant then set the bar aside and used a smaller tool of similar shape to begin removing the nails that secured the lid.
"We'll reuse the nails, you see. Although when we want to appear prosperous, sometimes we just break the crates open."
The pair nodded mutely at Hans's words. It seemed everything they were watching transpire had a meaning.
Having very cleanly removed all the nails from the lid, the youth stepped away, as though making it clearer than was strictly necessary that he had not touched anything inside the crate.

Output:
Milton looked inside the crate.
Then—
"What?" It was not Milton's voice, but Fleur's.
Milton shied away from the crate, as though having seen something he should not have, spinning around and facing Fleur.
His face was ashen.
Milton didn't speak, instead looking again inside the crate, then back to Fleur, this time snatching the invoice out of Fleur's hand.
"What is going on here?" he groaned in a voice that seemed to come up from the abyss.
Fleur recoiled at his obvious rage. If it had been directed at her, she might very well have collapsed on the spot.
"What do you mean, 'What?'"
"Do not joke with me!" Milton's fury seemed likely to send the flour dust on the floor a scatter.
The loading dock buzzed with activity, with merchants hurrying this way and that. A single shout could have easily gone unnoticed, but Milton's was enough to make him the focus of all eyes and ears present.
"I'm sorry, a joke? No." Hans's face remained completely calm, even faintly teasing, as he reassured Milton.
"This...this order is an outrage!" Milton could barely speak through his rage. The parchment crumpled noisily in his clenched hand.
"An outrage? Not at all. I swear in God's name that we have committed no errors. These are the items you ordered in the quantities you specified."
Despite his fury, Milton seemed to notice something amiss in the calm quality of Hans's voice. He seemed to remember the invoice in his hand, and with trembling hands, he reopened and read it.
As he did so, Fleur took two steps forward and looked inside the crate. Inside it were clothes entirely in black.
As black as her future now was.
"This...this can't be..."
"The goods are exactly as stated on the order."
"That's absurd!" Milton roared, his voice hoarse. He dropped the invoice and glared at Hans with eyes full of rage.
Hans, meanwhile, seemed entirely unconcerned. The moment Milton took a step toward Hans, the youth from earlier came between them, his sword at the ready.
"That's the problem with nobility; they always want to duel. Unfortunately we are but merchants. Contracts on paper are everything to us. Surely even you can understand that." Hans's gaze was cold and his smile faintly mocking.
Fleur looked down at the paper beside Milton's feet. There upon it were hers and Milton's signatures and the list of items they had written.
They were all bright, colorful pieces, perfect for the fashion of the approaching spring. So why...?
She bent at the knee and picked the paper up, looking over it again, then rubbed her eyes as though dizzy. It was not an accident. The colors of the items written there had somehow changed.
A few short strokes had been added to characters here and there. That was all it took to change the colors of the specified items to black. All black.
How could this be?
Moreover, the order for four pieces of silver jewelry had been changed as well. Two strokes had been added to the word, and one of the existing strokes was smudged away and erased. Now instead of reading "silver," it clearly stated "amber."
Her vision dimmed, and she put her hand to her forehead in shock. The company's tricksters had far exceeded her imagination and were perfectly content to discard all morality. Olar had scrutinized the contract with Milton so closely in order to avoid exactly this situation—using difficult words whose spelling was unmistakable and difficult to alter and writing them very clearly.
But the truly astonishing thing was not just that they had so brazenly altered the contract. No, it was Hans's instincts that were most terrifying.
Perhaps having realized the contract could be rewritten the moment he saw it, he had immediately signed it. If Fleur or Milton had thought to ask for a copy to be made, they might have been able to protect themselves now, but Hans had carefully never given them that opportunity.
He had simply signed it on the spot, put it in his desk, and given them a merchant's smile.
Fleur couldn't even bring herself to cry.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
Milton looked inside the crate.
Then—
"What?" It was not Milton's voice, but Fleur's.
Milton shied away from the crate, as though having seen something he should not have, spinning around and facing Fleur.
His face was ashen.
Milton didn't speak, instead looking again inside the crate, then back to Fleur, this time snatching the invoice out of Fleur's hand.
"What is going on here?" he groaned in a voice that seemed to come up from the abyss.
Fleur recoiled at his obvious rage. If it had been directed at her, she might very well have collapsed on the spot.
"What do you mean, 'What?'"
"Do not joke with me!" Milton's fury seemed likely to send the flour dust on the floor a scatter.
The loading dock buzzed with activity, with merchants hurrying this way and that. A single shout could have easily gone unnoticed, but Milton's was enough to make him the focus of all eyes and ears present.
"I'm sorry, a joke? No." Hans's face remained completely calm, even faintly teasing, as he reassured Milton.
"This...this order is an outrage!" Milton could barely speak through his rage. The parchment crumpled noisily in his clenched hand.
"An outrage? Not at all. I swear in God's name that we have committed no errors. These are the items you ordered in the quantities you specified."
Despite his fury, Milton seemed to notice something amiss in the calm quality of Hans's voice. He seemed to remember the invoice in his hand, and with trembling hands, he reopened and read it.
As he did so, Fleur took two steps forward and looked inside the crate. Inside it were clothes entirely in black.
As black as her future now was.
"This...this can't be..."
"The goods are exactly as stated on the order."
"That's absurd!" Milton roared, his voice hoarse. He dropped the invoice and glared at Hans with eyes full of rage.
Hans, meanwhile, seemed entirely unconcerned. The moment Milton took a step toward Hans, the youth from earlier came between them, his sword at the ready.
"That's the problem with nobility; they always want to duel. Unfortunately we are but merchants. Contracts on paper are everything to us. Surely even you can understand that." Hans's gaze was cold and his smile faintly mocking.
Fleur looked down at the paper beside Milton's feet. There upon it were hers and Milton's signatures and the list of items they had written.
They were all bright, colorful pieces, perfect for the fashion of the approaching spring. So why...?
She bent at the knee and picked the paper up, looking over it again, then rubbed her eyes as though dizzy. It was not an accident. The colors of the items written there had somehow changed.
A few short strokes had been added to characters here and there. That was all it took to change the colors of the specified items to black. All black.
How could this be?
Moreover, the order for four pieces of silver jewelry had been changed as well. Two strokes had been added to the word, and one of the existing strokes was smudged away and erased. Now instead of reading "silver," it clearly stated "amber."
Her vision dimmed, and she put her hand to her forehead in shock. The company's tricksters had far exceeded her imagination and were perfectly content to discard all morality. Olar had scrutinized the contract with Milton so closely in order to avoid exactly this situation—using difficult words whose spelling was unmistakable and difficult to alter and writing them very clearly.
But the truly astonishing thing was not just that they had so brazenly altered the contract. No, it was Hans's instincts that were most terrifying.
Perhaps having realized the contract could be rewritten the moment he saw it, he had immediately signed it. If Fleur or Milton had thought to ask for a copy to be made, they might have been able to protect themselves now, but Hans had carefully never given them that opportunity.
He had simply signed it on the spot, put it in his desk, and given them a merchant's smile.
Fleur couldn't even bring herself to cry.

Output:
"A contract is a contract," said Hans, placing his hand on the shoulder of the young man who blocked Milton's way. "Now, if you please, the payment."
Hans's faithful servant held out his master's thick ledger book and quill pen.
A candle burns brightest the moment before it goes out.
As though to prove those words true, Milton's fury had vanished in the time it took to carry their cargo from the loading dock, and he said not a word.
Receiving help moving the crate from anyone in the Jones Company was humiliating, but it would have taken too much time with Fleur alone. With the help of one of the workers on the loading dock, they got the entirety of the order loaded onto a single mule with much effort. In place of any thanks, Fleur spared the man a few copper coins.
"My thanks," he said.
Fleur wondered if she was doomed to become a greedy merchant who saw the world only through the lens of money. A bitter taste arose in her mouth. Yet if she had been one of the greedy merchants she so loathed, she would not have most of her assets, turned into garbage by such a simple trick.
That was the source of Milton's silence. The clothes they had received were essentially garbage. She felt guilty for thinking it, but while they might be able to sell them for a reasonable price, they could never make back what Fleur had paid.
Meanwhile, the Jones Company had managed to sell dark, shabby clothes for a huge profit. All that was left to her were the clothes as dark as her future and Milton, who was a hollow husk of a man.
Well, that and the contract she had signed with Milton.
"...The clothes," Fleur said, unable to stand any more silence as they trudged down the street. Milton did not look in her direction, but she could see his body stiffen. "They aren't all dark colors."
Even though she knew it was little comfort, this was not something to utterly despair over. She wanted to say as much, but Milton first looked back at the mule that plodded slowly along behind them, then to her, his lips curling up in an exhausted smile. "Like silver turned to amber, our hopes have turned to trash."
"That's—" Not true, she tried to finish, but stumbled over the words.
Milton smiled. He smiled an angry smile and shook his head. He excelled at selling fine clothes to the nobility and so knew all too well that the cargo they were carrying was worth very little.
Fleur was only acting resolute because she did not understand the true way of the world.
"...How much do you think we can sell them for?" It couldn't be nothing, after all. Surely for 70 percent of what they'd paid—surely.
"..." Milton wordlessly opened his hand. He showed four fingers.
Forty percent.
"Even if a few of the pieces have some value, the rest are essentially worthless. If the fabric isn't poor quality, such dark colors are fit for funerals and not much else."
When a person was truly desperate, their smile quivered pathetically at the edges. Fleur thought of the last time she had seen her former husband.
But unlike then, she did not hate the person she was now looking at.
"But if we can make back forty percent, that's good enough, is it not? We'll just need to find trades that'll double our money in four deals, then do that four times, and we'll be back to where we started."
Milton looked at Fleur blankly. He seemed about to say something and then snapped his mouth shut. And then, unable to help himself—
"Stupid."
His face was distorted in disgust, and he seemed unable to articulate his own thoughts. Fleur herself did not understand what he meant by that single short word.
Before Fleur even had enough time to reply, Milton turned away, diverting off the street.
"Mil—" Her voice vanished into the tumult of the crowd, naturally far from sufficient to stop Milton. He was gone almost before she realized he was going. Left behind were Fleur and her goods, worth at most 40 percent of what she had paid. That and the mule that carried them.


Instruction: Given first part of the popular LightNovel spice and wolf as input, continue the story the best you can.

Input:
"A contract is a contract," said Hans, placing his hand on the shoulder of the young man who blocked Milton's way. "Now, if you please, the payment."
Hans's faithful servant held out his master's thick ledger book and quill pen.
A candle burns brightest the moment before it goes out.
As though to prove those words true, Milton's fury had vanished in the time it took to carry their cargo from the loading dock, and he said not a word.
Receiving help moving the crate from anyone in the Jones Company was humiliating, but it would have taken too much time with Fleur alone. With the help of one of the workers on the loading dock, they got the entirety of the order loaded onto a single mule with much effort. In place of any thanks, Fleur spared the man a few copper coins.
"My thanks," he said.
Fleur wondered if she was doomed to become a greedy merchant who saw the world only through the lens of money. A bitter taste arose in her mouth. Yet if she had been one of the greedy merchants she so loathed, she would not have most of her assets, turned into garbage by such a simple trick.
That was the source of Milton's silence. The clothes they had received were essentially garbage. She felt guilty for thinking it, but while they might be able to sell them for a reasonable price, they could never make back what Fleur had paid.
Meanwhile, the Jones Company had managed to sell dark, shabby clothes for a huge profit. All that was left to her were the clothes as dark as her future and Milton, who was a hollow husk of a man.
Well, that and the contract she had signed with Milton.
"...The clothes," Fleur said, unable to stand any more silence as they trudged down the street. Milton did not look in her direction, but she could see his body stiffen. "They aren't all dark colors."
Even though she knew it was little comfort, this was not something to utterly despair over. She wanted to say as much, but Milton first looked back at the mule that plodded slowly along behind them, then to her, his lips curling up in an exhausted smile. "Like silver turned to amber, our hopes have turned to trash."
"That's—" Not true, she tried to finish, but stumbled over the words.
Milton smiled. He smiled an angry smile and shook his head. He excelled at selling fine clothes to the nobility and so knew all too well that the cargo they were carrying was worth very little.
Fleur was only acting resolute because she did not understand the true way of the world.
"...How much do you think we can sell them for?" It couldn't be nothing, after all. Surely for 70 percent of what they'd paid—surely.
"..." Milton wordlessly opened his hand. He showed four fingers.
Forty percent.
"Even if a few of the pieces have some value, the rest are essentially worthless. If the fabric isn't poor quality, such dark colors are fit for funerals and not much else."
When a person was truly desperate, their smile quivered pathetically at the edges. Fleur thought of the last time she had seen her former husband.
But unlike then, she did not hate the person she was now looking at.
"But if we can make back forty percent, that's good enough, is it not? We'll just need to find trades that'll double our money in four deals, then do that four times, and we'll be back to where we started."
Milton looked at Fleur blankly. He seemed about to say something and then snapped his mouth shut. And then, unable to help himself—
"Stupid."
His face was distorted in disgust, and he seemed unable to articulate his own thoughts. Fleur herself did not understand what he meant by that single short word.
Before Fleur even had enough time to reply, Milton turned away, diverting off the street.
"Mil—" Her voice vanished into the tumult of the crowd, naturally far from sufficient to stop Milton. He was gone almost before she realized he was going. Left behind were Fleur and her goods, worth at most 40 percent of what she had paid. That and the mule that carried them.

Output:
Fleur took the mule's lead and trudged back toward her home.
She could not clearly remember the expression on Olar's face when she arrived.
"There is nothing to be done."
The next morning, Fleur awoke and descended the stairs to the first floor, gazing despondently out into the rainy courtyard and desperately wishing the previous day's events would turn out to be a bad dream—but when she came to the table, those were words Olar spoke without even turning around.
After speaking, though, he did turn around. Despite the gloom, she caught sight of a small piece of glass in his hand.
The glass was a lens, the sole thing he had managed to recover when a company he worked for long ago had fallen to ruin. Fleur imagined that he had been examining the documents she brought back with her, trying to find some way out of the predicament.
When she looked at the table, she saw a burned-down candle sitting in the candlestick there.
"There is nothing to be done. He was very thorough." Olar sighed in a weary voice, free of anger or frustration. More than anything else, he seemed exhausted, which pained Fleur deeply.
"I'm sorry." She murmured again the words she had said over and over again the previous night.
Olar only narrowed his eyes and said nothing, but as Bertra brought in some warm sheep's milk, he gestured for her to sit.
"By my guess, the clothing is worth about half what you paid for it. But our man Post's estimate is probably more accurate, since I don't keep up on the latest fashions. Still, I must admit I'm impressed the company had these clothes stored away for so long. It's true, though, there was once a time when dark colors like these were quite popular," he said, gesturing to the contents of the crate that sat beside the table.
Fleur remembered Milton's words: "Such dark colors are fit for funerals and not much else."
"Still, it's fortunate that you did not take on any debt to buy these. You won't owe interest, nor are you facing immediate ruin. The clothes that will sell will sell, so to turn them into money...unfortunately, I'm afraid you'll have no choice but to do the hard work yourself."
Fleur nodded at Olar's plainspoken words.
Bertra was adding honey to the milk in a cup she had carved herself.
Fleur knew that this was not a time for tears, nor for apologies, but she could not yet force herself to look up. What she needed to do was to raise her head and proudly proclaim it: I will not fail next time! Never!
But no such energetic, undaunted voice was heard—only the emptily echoing sound of the rain outside.
Just like the politics of a noble banquet, merchants tried to overcome suspicion, gain trust, and then use that trust to their own advantage. And now she had gotten a glimpse of the true nature of that world.
They cared nothing for human emotion and would happily use it for monetary gain, always trying to take the best course, at the best time, to reap the best outcome.
Because no matter how it was earned, money was money. That's what Olar would say. And it was true.
"...I'm so sorry," murmured Fleur, holding the cup in both hands and wishing she could pour her shame into it.
Olar was motionless. Bertra started to stand, but Fleur saw that Olar stopped her.
"Perhaps you should rest for a while. Miss Bertra, if you would..."
Olar addressed Bertra and had her move the crate into the storeroom, while he said he was going to check on the severity of the rain and left the room.
And then Fleur was alone.
Rain continued to fall outside, and now that she was alone the sound was oppressive. No one would notice the sound of a couple more drops falling.
She found her own excuses pathetic as she held her cup and cried. She was frustrated, of course, and felt utterly useless. But worst of all was her rage at the fact that she was still going to have to trade with these despicable merchants.
She couldn't. She couldn't do it.