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

Input:
That, too, had been a misunderstanding. What had Holo said she enjoyed about travel?
"You mean your favorite sort of idle chatter?"
"Aye. If you'd only thought to confirm that, not only would you not have need to make a meadow detour, you'd have been able to quite thoroughly cheer me up." Holo's tone was very amused.
No doubt she was very amused. She had bested him, after all.
"So, what is your favorite way to converse?" asked Lawrence. Immediately thereafter, his eye widened in surprise—Holo seemed neither angry nor exasperated. She neither scorned him nor mocked him. At Lawrence's question, she seemed actually embarrassed.
"Heh-heh...to be quite honest, I'd never be able to admit it if the conversation had not come to this place," she said, looking down bashfully, her voice ticklish as she giggled to herself.
If her favorite sort of conversation was indeed something so embarrassing, then this was surely the best time to admit it—she had the overwhelming advantage now.
No matter what she said, it could be forgiven.
"What I like best is...falling asleep while talking like this. Just drifting off to the sound of idle conversation..."
She was so self-conscious at this last part that she looked away when she finished speaking. And it was true, falling asleep to conversation was not so very different from falling asleep to a lullaby.
And now that Lawrence thought about it, this had happened before. Holo often drifted to sleep while they talked.
Lawrence had always attributed that to her selfishness, never dreaming that this was the truth.
He peered at Holo's turned-away face, imagining that if this was no joke, then she would be blushing red.
"So—rather foolish, eh?"
"...Unfortunately, yes."
Holo looked back at him, eyes resentful as she bumped her head into his shoulder. "Yet who is it that holds the advantage here?"
It hardly needed to be said who was the greater fool. If he'd asked this of her before, Lawrence would have the advantage over Holo.
There would have been no need to fixate on the meadow nor to be so pointlessly stubborn. Indeed, it might have been Holo who turned stubborn. But Holo had discerned the conversational flow more clearly, and so she was the victor.
"I just can't win with you, can I?"
"I should say not." Holo shifted under the blanket. Her ears twitched, and Lawrence heard her yawn. "Come now...I told you what sort of conversation I like—so will you not speak?"
She wheedled like a child, despite still holding the reins. Though Lawrence found this rather frustrating, he knew there was no cause for him to resent her. With nothing else to say, he turned the conversation to their dinner menu.
As usual, they were limited to bland bread and jerky, along with some dried fruit. If they foraged in the forest, it was possible they might catch a quail or rabbit, though, and Lawrence had to laugh at the way Holo's ears perked up at the mention of this.
They continued to share idle conversation, and eventually Lawrence heard the sound of Holo's sleeping breath. It was as though having toyed so thoroughly with him, the wolf had grown tired from play. When he looked at her, Lawrence wondered if he would ever become clever enough to gain the conversational advantage from Holo.
It wasn't as warm as the meadow might have been, but nothing was so comfortable as being under the blanket, as long as two people were there together. And all the more so when the other person was Holo, whose body temperature was slightly warmer than his, like a child's would be.
Yet he could scarcely believe how blameless she looked while sleeping. It was as though he could pinch her nose without her awakening or stick his finger into the downy fur inside her ears. Having suffered at her hands so much, Lawrence toyed with the notion of revenge as he regarded her innocent face.
And then it was as though God had heard his plea.
She seemed about to fall over, so as Lawrence moved to support her, he made his gentle counterattack.

Output:
"You pass."
Upon hearing Holo's quiet voice, he froze. This was where the whole conversation had been leading all along.
Holo looked up slightly and smiled a devilish smile, her fangs glinting beneath her lips.
"'Tis best to leave your snare at the base of a waterfall."
Lawrence couldn't help but finish the statement. "And the foolish fish will swim right into it."
Holo nodded and snickered.
Lawrence rolled his eyes upward, taking his arm from around her shoulders and wrapping it gently around her neck out of sheer frustration. Holo's tail wagged happily.
He was such a fool. Truly a fool.
For a merchant, taking an indulgent detour like this was like tying a noose around his own neck. The victor had been decided the moment he'd taken this rash course of action.
And who was it that held the other end of the rope he'd so happily tied around his neck? The answer was obvious.
Exhausted, Lawrence slumped over, resting his own head on Holo's, as though to say, "This particular conversation should end here."
End.
***
Having finished unloading the hay bales, she could finally take a short rest.
There were still patches of snow here and there, but Fleur found herself perspiring nonetheless, owing to the early spring sun to which she was yet unaccustomed.
"That's good hay. The livestock will grow well this year," said the man from the Jones Company as he counted up the bales.
Fleur brushed away the hay that clung to her clothes, and with some effort, she beamed a cheerful smile at the man, who was roughly old enough to be her father. "In truth they'll grow too much, and come winter you'll have nothing but meat."
"Oh? Perhaps I should buy up more than usual, then. Hmm."
"For how much?"
The merchant scratched his chin with his quill pen, seemingly only remembering the payment at Fleur's words. He counted up the hay bales again and answered only after a lengthy interval. "Seventeen ligot."
"I was promised at least twenty," she replied immediately, at which the man only twirled his quill pen. It was the sort of pause that merchants used when they didn't take the other party seriously.
As the last trace of the pleasant expression on Fleur's face drained away, she heard another voice, this one from behind her.
"You're supposed to push for more—twenty-five, say."
"Olar!" Fleur looked back and saw an older merchant.
The man with the pen scratched his temple, then chuckled through his nose while cocking his head. "All right. Given your nerve, let's call it twenty ligot."
"And of course that'll include the rental for the wagon." Though little of Olar's fine silver hair remained, he still treated it with egg whites every day. The other merchant was not particularly young, but compared with Olar he looked like a child.
"Certainly. The finder's fee is also included."
"Thanks be to God."
The conversation was taking place entirely over Fleur's head, and she said nothing to interrupt. It was only when Olar finally began unloading the hay from the wagon's bed that she hit upon something she could do.
"We'll be going," was all Olar said after returning the wagon and confirming the figure the other merchant wrote in his ledger. He then began to walk away.
Olar was sturdier than he looked, and even with a heavy load on his back, he could move quickly and lightly.
Despite the port's cargo docks being crowded with men, horses, and wagons moving this way and that, Olar moved through them almost magically, never once bumping into anyone else.
Fleur was still unused to hiding the fact that she was a young woman behind a scarf and found it difficult just to travel in a straight line. She only managed to come alongside Olar when he turned down a narrow alley that was barely wide enough to admit the two of them side by side.


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

Input:
"You pass."
Upon hearing Holo's quiet voice, he froze. This was where the whole conversation had been leading all along.
Holo looked up slightly and smiled a devilish smile, her fangs glinting beneath her lips.
"'Tis best to leave your snare at the base of a waterfall."
Lawrence couldn't help but finish the statement. "And the foolish fish will swim right into it."
Holo nodded and snickered.
Lawrence rolled his eyes upward, taking his arm from around her shoulders and wrapping it gently around her neck out of sheer frustration. Holo's tail wagged happily.
He was such a fool. Truly a fool.
For a merchant, taking an indulgent detour like this was like tying a noose around his own neck. The victor had been decided the moment he'd taken this rash course of action.
And who was it that held the other end of the rope he'd so happily tied around his neck? The answer was obvious.
Exhausted, Lawrence slumped over, resting his own head on Holo's, as though to say, "This particular conversation should end here."
End.
***
Having finished unloading the hay bales, she could finally take a short rest.
There were still patches of snow here and there, but Fleur found herself perspiring nonetheless, owing to the early spring sun to which she was yet unaccustomed.
"That's good hay. The livestock will grow well this year," said the man from the Jones Company as he counted up the bales.
Fleur brushed away the hay that clung to her clothes, and with some effort, she beamed a cheerful smile at the man, who was roughly old enough to be her father. "In truth they'll grow too much, and come winter you'll have nothing but meat."
"Oh? Perhaps I should buy up more than usual, then. Hmm."
"For how much?"
The merchant scratched his chin with his quill pen, seemingly only remembering the payment at Fleur's words. He counted up the hay bales again and answered only after a lengthy interval. "Seventeen ligot."
"I was promised at least twenty," she replied immediately, at which the man only twirled his quill pen. It was the sort of pause that merchants used when they didn't take the other party seriously.
As the last trace of the pleasant expression on Fleur's face drained away, she heard another voice, this one from behind her.
"You're supposed to push for more—twenty-five, say."
"Olar!" Fleur looked back and saw an older merchant.
The man with the pen scratched his temple, then chuckled through his nose while cocking his head. "All right. Given your nerve, let's call it twenty ligot."
"And of course that'll include the rental for the wagon." Though little of Olar's fine silver hair remained, he still treated it with egg whites every day. The other merchant was not particularly young, but compared with Olar he looked like a child.
"Certainly. The finder's fee is also included."
"Thanks be to God."
The conversation was taking place entirely over Fleur's head, and she said nothing to interrupt. It was only when Olar finally began unloading the hay from the wagon's bed that she hit upon something she could do.
"We'll be going," was all Olar said after returning the wagon and confirming the figure the other merchant wrote in his ledger. He then began to walk away.
Olar was sturdier than he looked, and even with a heavy load on his back, he could move quickly and lightly.
Despite the port's cargo docks being crowded with men, horses, and wagons moving this way and that, Olar moved through them almost magically, never once bumping into anyone else.
Fleur was still unused to hiding the fact that she was a young woman behind a scarf and found it difficult just to travel in a straight line. She only managed to come alongside Olar when he turned down a narrow alley that was barely wide enough to admit the two of them side by side.

Output:
Yet, Fleur reflected, people can adapt to almost anything.
As they passed, she stroked the throat of a cat napping next to a potted plant on a windowsill.
The life of a commoner wasn't so bad.
"Milady."
At the sudden sound of Olar's stern voice, the cat dashed back into the house.
She shot the insensitive source of that voice a harsh glare but was met with eyes that were still harsher.
"Are you not regretful of your actions?"
Fleur tended to laugh in the face of criticism from those older and more experienced than her, but this was not because she was particularly fearless. Rather, she had become used to it, since from a young age her tutors had often scolded her.
"Ah. Sorry. I am a bit," she said. In truth, she had been perfectly useless during bargaining. "I was hoping you'd appreciate how I held my temper when that merchant tried to break his promise, but it seems that ship has sailed."
"Milady!" Olar's mostly bald forehead wrinkled in consternation at the little joke. While he was stone-faced during negotiations, he had a surprising abundance of expressions other times, which Fleur always found impressive.
"Come, don't be angry. And I thought I told you to stop calling me 'milady.'"
"Then I'd ask you to try and think a bit more like a merchant." Olar's gaze remained so even and steady that Fleur found herself looking away.
She was constantly aware of the necessity of thinking like a merchant. After all, she was no longer one of the nobility.
Fleur von Eiterzental Mariel Bolan, eleventh generation scion of the house of Bolan.
These days she almost felt nostalgic for the long name.
"Of course I think like a merchant. I moved so much herring my hands smell of it, and coming back I brought great loads of hay."
"And that's quite wonderful. I'm sure no one would suspect that until recently you were terrified to ride a horse."
It didn't sound much like a compliment, as Olar was still angry. Fleur knew why, too, but it seemed as though the strict Olar wouldn't be satisfied until she said the words with her own mouth.
"Twelve ligot to buy the herring. Four ligot for taxes. Provisions including bread, mutton jerky, and pickled pork, cheese, and wine, half a ligot. Two for the horse feed and wagon rental. Add it all up and what does it come to?"
Fleur sighed beneath her scarf at Olar's question.
Adding everything up, they'd spent eighteen and a half ligot on the load of herring. If she'd been foolish enough to accept the merchant's offer of seventeen, they'd be in the red.
The nobility lived in a world of giving and receiving, but merchants could not afford to naively count gifts received and given against one another. When giving something to someone else, they always had to receive something of greater utility in return.
Otherwise, they could not survive.
"I had no intention of taking that offer."
"Is that so?" said Olar, looking straight ahead as he continued to walk without so much as glancing in Fleur's direction. She was beginning to find his attitude irritating.
"Are you saying I'm such a coward I won't argue at all?"
At these words, he immediately looked in her direction. "No. But, milady, while you might insist that you were promised twenty, you have nothing to prove that."
"I know I heard him strike the bargain at that price. Do you doubt me?"
"It is not that I doubt you. But nothing is so terrible to witness as a pointless argument, and normally both sides give a little and strike a bargain somewhere in the middle."
"So that's why you said twenty-five ligot?"
Olar nodded a tired nod that said yes, but that it was such basic common knowledge among merchants that he was reluctant to explain it.
And it was true—Olar had been born into the mercantile life and had once kept the ledger for a large trading company.


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

Input:
Yet, Fleur reflected, people can adapt to almost anything.
As they passed, she stroked the throat of a cat napping next to a potted plant on a windowsill.
The life of a commoner wasn't so bad.
"Milady."
At the sudden sound of Olar's stern voice, the cat dashed back into the house.
She shot the insensitive source of that voice a harsh glare but was met with eyes that were still harsher.
"Are you not regretful of your actions?"
Fleur tended to laugh in the face of criticism from those older and more experienced than her, but this was not because she was particularly fearless. Rather, she had become used to it, since from a young age her tutors had often scolded her.
"Ah. Sorry. I am a bit," she said. In truth, she had been perfectly useless during bargaining. "I was hoping you'd appreciate how I held my temper when that merchant tried to break his promise, but it seems that ship has sailed."
"Milady!" Olar's mostly bald forehead wrinkled in consternation at the little joke. While he was stone-faced during negotiations, he had a surprising abundance of expressions other times, which Fleur always found impressive.
"Come, don't be angry. And I thought I told you to stop calling me 'milady.'"
"Then I'd ask you to try and think a bit more like a merchant." Olar's gaze remained so even and steady that Fleur found herself looking away.
She was constantly aware of the necessity of thinking like a merchant. After all, she was no longer one of the nobility.
Fleur von Eiterzental Mariel Bolan, eleventh generation scion of the house of Bolan.
These days she almost felt nostalgic for the long name.
"Of course I think like a merchant. I moved so much herring my hands smell of it, and coming back I brought great loads of hay."
"And that's quite wonderful. I'm sure no one would suspect that until recently you were terrified to ride a horse."
It didn't sound much like a compliment, as Olar was still angry. Fleur knew why, too, but it seemed as though the strict Olar wouldn't be satisfied until she said the words with her own mouth.
"Twelve ligot to buy the herring. Four ligot for taxes. Provisions including bread, mutton jerky, and pickled pork, cheese, and wine, half a ligot. Two for the horse feed and wagon rental. Add it all up and what does it come to?"
Fleur sighed beneath her scarf at Olar's question.
Adding everything up, they'd spent eighteen and a half ligot on the load of herring. If she'd been foolish enough to accept the merchant's offer of seventeen, they'd be in the red.
The nobility lived in a world of giving and receiving, but merchants could not afford to naively count gifts received and given against one another. When giving something to someone else, they always had to receive something of greater utility in return.
Otherwise, they could not survive.
"I had no intention of taking that offer."
"Is that so?" said Olar, looking straight ahead as he continued to walk without so much as glancing in Fleur's direction. She was beginning to find his attitude irritating.
"Are you saying I'm such a coward I won't argue at all?"
At these words, he immediately looked in her direction. "No. But, milady, while you might insist that you were promised twenty, you have nothing to prove that."
"I know I heard him strike the bargain at that price. Do you doubt me?"
"It is not that I doubt you. But nothing is so terrible to witness as a pointless argument, and normally both sides give a little and strike a bargain somewhere in the middle."
"So that's why you said twenty-five ligot?"
Olar nodded a tired nod that said yes, but that it was such basic common knowledge among merchants that he was reluctant to explain it.
And it was true—Olar had been born into the mercantile life and had once kept the ledger for a large trading company.

Output:
The next time Olar and Fleur met was the day Olar's master came to make fast the contract that would make Fleur his bride.
It wasn't so very long ago, but the memories of the event were already starting to fade.
"So, milady—how much did you buy that hay for?"
She'd been lost in thought for only a moment. Reality was constantly moving and always before her very eyes. Her house had been bought up by a wealthy merchant, and now that wealthy merchant had gone utterly bankrupt.
And now he wanted to know how much she'd paid for hay?
"Two ligot." Fleur had been raised as a noblewoman—able to hide her true feelings in social situations. She named the figure matter-of-factly, which made the still-expressionless Olar raise his hands exaggeratedly and quicken his step.
Evidently she'd made him angry now.
The merchant had paid both to have the herring transported to an inland village and for the hay they'd brought back as return cargo. And if the herring plus expenses came to eighteen and a half ligot, with two ligot for hay added on top of that, then even payment of twenty ligot would leave them with a loss.
Fleur was certainly aware of that. She caught up with the angrily quick-striding Olar and drew alongside him. "The villagers were in dire straits. Their sickles were chipped and dull and had to be repaired. They swore they couldn't survive unless they got two ligot."
"Is that so?" came the flat reply.
While Olar was a commoner, Fleur was still nobility—fallen nobility, but still. And when she became frustrated, her lineage made itself known.
"Do you suppose I'm lying?"
Olar stopped for a moment but then began walking again without looking at Fleur. He strode even more quickly than before. It was obvious who was at fault. Fleur was no longer a noblewoman who'd hired Olar—she was his student, learning how to be a merchant so that she might survive.
Running through the narrow alley, she again caught up with Olar. "I'm sorry, Olar. But you called me 'milady.' You know how that irritates me."
At this, Olar truly did stop walking. Fleur was unable to halt quickly enough and stumbled a few more steps ahead before looking back. When she did, she saw a rueful grin on Olar's face.
"A proper merchant needs a proper excuse."
Fleur slumped, then relieved Olar of some of the load he carried.
When they finally exited the alley, they were in view of their home, nestled in a row of houses that all looked very much the same.
"So, milady, after all that work you still took a loss?" Bertra the maid was an honest woman and always said just what she was thinking.
"It wasn't a loss."
"Then what was it?" She was shorter than Fleur and a year younger. The difference in their social status was like night and day.
Yet when it came to her ability at managing the affairs of the house, Fleur could do nothing but defer to her.
Without money they wouldn't be able to afford tomorrow's bread. When she'd been among the nobility, she could fall back on her family name, but now that was of no great comfort. Fleur made as though she were putting her scarf and mantle away and attempted to flee.
"Milady, I may be an uneducated woman, but I know well enough to understand what Mr. Oura said."
"Stop calling me 'milady.'"
"I will not stop. Milady!"
Fleur extracted herself from Bertra's obstruction and escaped into the next room. From the other side of the door, she could hear Bertra's exasperated sigh, but Fleur passed through the room and into the hallway, bypassing the washroom and climbing to the second floor.
Through a window situated halfway up the staircase, she could see the garden that Bertra tended. It supplied them with all the vegetables, spices, and medicinal herbs they could use, with enough left over that they could be taken to the marketplace and exchanged for meat.
And what did Fleur bring to the household?
Not much, she knew, so when Bertra, the mistress of the household, scolded her, she had nothing to say in her own defense.


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

Input:
The next time Olar and Fleur met was the day Olar's master came to make fast the contract that would make Fleur his bride.
It wasn't so very long ago, but the memories of the event were already starting to fade.
"So, milady—how much did you buy that hay for?"
She'd been lost in thought for only a moment. Reality was constantly moving and always before her very eyes. Her house had been bought up by a wealthy merchant, and now that wealthy merchant had gone utterly bankrupt.
And now he wanted to know how much she'd paid for hay?
"Two ligot." Fleur had been raised as a noblewoman—able to hide her true feelings in social situations. She named the figure matter-of-factly, which made the still-expressionless Olar raise his hands exaggeratedly and quicken his step.
Evidently she'd made him angry now.
The merchant had paid both to have the herring transported to an inland village and for the hay they'd brought back as return cargo. And if the herring plus expenses came to eighteen and a half ligot, with two ligot for hay added on top of that, then even payment of twenty ligot would leave them with a loss.
Fleur was certainly aware of that. She caught up with the angrily quick-striding Olar and drew alongside him. "The villagers were in dire straits. Their sickles were chipped and dull and had to be repaired. They swore they couldn't survive unless they got two ligot."
"Is that so?" came the flat reply.
While Olar was a commoner, Fleur was still nobility—fallen nobility, but still. And when she became frustrated, her lineage made itself known.
"Do you suppose I'm lying?"
Olar stopped for a moment but then began walking again without looking at Fleur. He strode even more quickly than before. It was obvious who was at fault. Fleur was no longer a noblewoman who'd hired Olar—she was his student, learning how to be a merchant so that she might survive.
Running through the narrow alley, she again caught up with Olar. "I'm sorry, Olar. But you called me 'milady.' You know how that irritates me."
At this, Olar truly did stop walking. Fleur was unable to halt quickly enough and stumbled a few more steps ahead before looking back. When she did, she saw a rueful grin on Olar's face.
"A proper merchant needs a proper excuse."
Fleur slumped, then relieved Olar of some of the load he carried.
When they finally exited the alley, they were in view of their home, nestled in a row of houses that all looked very much the same.
"So, milady, after all that work you still took a loss?" Bertra the maid was an honest woman and always said just what she was thinking.
"It wasn't a loss."
"Then what was it?" She was shorter than Fleur and a year younger. The difference in their social status was like night and day.
Yet when it came to her ability at managing the affairs of the house, Fleur could do nothing but defer to her.
Without money they wouldn't be able to afford tomorrow's bread. When she'd been among the nobility, she could fall back on her family name, but now that was of no great comfort. Fleur made as though she were putting her scarf and mantle away and attempted to flee.
"Milady, I may be an uneducated woman, but I know well enough to understand what Mr. Oura said."
"Stop calling me 'milady.'"
"I will not stop. Milady!"
Fleur extracted herself from Bertra's obstruction and escaped into the next room. From the other side of the door, she could hear Bertra's exasperated sigh, but Fleur passed through the room and into the hallway, bypassing the washroom and climbing to the second floor.
Through a window situated halfway up the staircase, she could see the garden that Bertra tended. It supplied them with all the vegetables, spices, and medicinal herbs they could use, with enough left over that they could be taken to the marketplace and exchanged for meat.
And what did Fleur bring to the household?
Not much, she knew, so when Bertra, the mistress of the household, scolded her, she had nothing to say in her own defense.

Output:
"Milady." There was a knock on the door. It was Olar's voice.
In the old days, the door might have been flimsy, but it would've taken her twenty paces to walk to it from her desk. These days, all it took was three long strides.
"Bertra's in tears. She said you wouldn't listen to her."
***
Olar was totally merciless. He had a knack for understanding a person's reluctance or delight better than they did themselves. Olar said this was a crucial skill in business, but the ability seemed very useful in education as well. When it came to making Fleur understand just how great a sin it was to willfully sustain a loss, there was no better way than using Bertra.
Fleur nodded in defeat, then nodded again more forcefully and took a deep breath. "I know. I know."
"And?"
"I'll apologize to Bertra. And I promise I'll listen to what she says."
***
"And I promise I'll eat all my dinner."
Olar smiled. "Please just rest a while," he said, then closed the door and left her to her thoughts.
Fleur sighed a tired sigh, then smiled to herself as she sat in her shabby little chair.
Her family's great house had been taken and all their various special privileges sold off. Their servants had been scattered to the winds. She'd found herself living in lodging meant for craftsmen or low-ranking town officials, and her poverty was such that she could barely afford to raise a pig, let alone feed fine horses.
She was the very image of an impoverished noblewoman, and yet Fleur did not think of her daily life as being a particular burden. It was true that dealing with merchants did not come easily for someone with her noble sensibilities and was frequently difficult. Sometimes it was vexing, but it was hardly impossible.
After all, Olar had said he would spend his remaining years tending to her education, as well as her ledger, and her closest servant, Bertra, had stayed on to continue to take care of her, which allowed Fleur to continue to live as comfortably as she did. Between the two of them, they reminded Fleur that the entire world was not her enemy and that her family name was not the only thing others might value in her.
That was enough for one to keep on living.
But Fleur was well aware that it would take money to sustain such a life, which meant that she could not go on taking losses like this.
"I'm a merchant, after all," she said aloud to remind herself, then went downstairs to apologize to Bertra.
Midday, the following day.
After Fleur had finished the gruel she'd finally become used to eating, Olar slowly spoke up.
"If that hay is as good as it is, the horse trade might be a good one."
"Horses?"
"It seems that war may break out in the far south of the continent across the sea. If it does come to war, then the price of horses will soar, as though they themselves had wings."
Fleur didn't doubt Olar's information-gathering abilities, but she still responded dubiously. "If it's such a good opportunity, won't others already be doing it?"
"There's no particular need to be first. If there's truly profit to be had, it should be good enough to be second or third." As he spoke, Olar picked the mold off the piece of bread he was eating, then brought it to his mouth.
Fleur had once furrowed her brow at the prospect of eating moldy bread, but now having been on more than one trading journey, such minor details no longer concerned her. And indeed, she had eventually been told that even in her own manor, the servants had frequently eaten such bread while she had been none the wiser.
When Bertra had first told her of this, Fleur had been at once surprised and strangely accepting of the fact.
"So. Horses, eh?"
Horses were always considered a luxury, and as such were reliably expensive.
Back when the Bolan family name had been worth something, the greatest part of the family's modest income had come from the usage fees the family levied on the collection of feed from the family forests, which the farmers needed to raise their horses and pigs.


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

Input:
"Milady." There was a knock on the door. It was Olar's voice.
In the old days, the door might have been flimsy, but it would've taken her twenty paces to walk to it from her desk. These days, all it took was three long strides.
"Bertra's in tears. She said you wouldn't listen to her."
***
Olar was totally merciless. He had a knack for understanding a person's reluctance or delight better than they did themselves. Olar said this was a crucial skill in business, but the ability seemed very useful in education as well. When it came to making Fleur understand just how great a sin it was to willfully sustain a loss, there was no better way than using Bertra.
Fleur nodded in defeat, then nodded again more forcefully and took a deep breath. "I know. I know."
"And?"
"I'll apologize to Bertra. And I promise I'll listen to what she says."
***
"And I promise I'll eat all my dinner."
Olar smiled. "Please just rest a while," he said, then closed the door and left her to her thoughts.
Fleur sighed a tired sigh, then smiled to herself as she sat in her shabby little chair.
Her family's great house had been taken and all their various special privileges sold off. Their servants had been scattered to the winds. She'd found herself living in lodging meant for craftsmen or low-ranking town officials, and her poverty was such that she could barely afford to raise a pig, let alone feed fine horses.
She was the very image of an impoverished noblewoman, and yet Fleur did not think of her daily life as being a particular burden. It was true that dealing with merchants did not come easily for someone with her noble sensibilities and was frequently difficult. Sometimes it was vexing, but it was hardly impossible.
After all, Olar had said he would spend his remaining years tending to her education, as well as her ledger, and her closest servant, Bertra, had stayed on to continue to take care of her, which allowed Fleur to continue to live as comfortably as she did. Between the two of them, they reminded Fleur that the entire world was not her enemy and that her family name was not the only thing others might value in her.
That was enough for one to keep on living.
But Fleur was well aware that it would take money to sustain such a life, which meant that she could not go on taking losses like this.
"I'm a merchant, after all," she said aloud to remind herself, then went downstairs to apologize to Bertra.
Midday, the following day.
After Fleur had finished the gruel she'd finally become used to eating, Olar slowly spoke up.
"If that hay is as good as it is, the horse trade might be a good one."
"Horses?"
"It seems that war may break out in the far south of the continent across the sea. If it does come to war, then the price of horses will soar, as though they themselves had wings."
Fleur didn't doubt Olar's information-gathering abilities, but she still responded dubiously. "If it's such a good opportunity, won't others already be doing it?"
"There's no particular need to be first. If there's truly profit to be had, it should be good enough to be second or third." As he spoke, Olar picked the mold off the piece of bread he was eating, then brought it to his mouth.
Fleur had once furrowed her brow at the prospect of eating moldy bread, but now having been on more than one trading journey, such minor details no longer concerned her. And indeed, she had eventually been told that even in her own manor, the servants had frequently eaten such bread while she had been none the wiser.
When Bertra had first told her of this, Fleur had been at once surprised and strangely accepting of the fact.
"So. Horses, eh?"
Horses were always considered a luxury, and as such were reliably expensive.
Back when the Bolan family name had been worth something, the greatest part of the family's modest income had come from the usage fees the family levied on the collection of feed from the family forests, which the farmers needed to raise their horses and pigs.

Output:
"I'll talk to the company merchants when I go to collect our payment tomorrow," said Fleur as she dipped bread Bertra had carefully scraped free of mold into her gruel.
"Please do your best to avoid losing money, milady."
Fleur nodded at Bertra's words, smiling sheepishly. Then her gaze was drawn elsewhere, but not because of anything Bertra had said.
"Oh, again? How's it getting in, I wonder." Bertra followed Fleur's gaze to its object, standing out of her chair as she did so.
In the doorway that led to the kitchen and washroom sat a puppy, small enough to be picked up under one arm.
"Do you suppose this dog's the one who tore the wheat sacks?"
Towns were full of animals to an extent Fleur could never have imagined when she had lived in a manor surrounded by fields and forests. They seemed to cause Bertra no end of headache, but for Fleur it was just the opposite.
"Here, boy."
The puppy slunk away from Bertra as she'd tried to approach it, but when it spied the bread Fleur held in her outstretched hand, it seemed to regain its courage. It sprang to its feet and ran between Bertra's legs toward Fleur.
"Milady!" cried the long-suffering Bertra, who warred daily with kitchen invaders like mice, cats, and dogs.
Fleur looked up only once the puppy had finished eating the bread. "My husband only stole from others. I have no mind to follow his example."
Even the puppy seemed to understand the ways of the world and was happy to pledge temporary loyalty to the source of its food.
It held still while Fleur patted its head, even wagging its tail. But unfortunately a dog was not a knight, and Fleur was no longer a noblewoman.
Bertra approached and picked up the puppy, shooing it out through an open window. "You are much too kind, milady."
"Too kind to live among the common folk?"
Fleur knew perfectly well that it was a malicious question to ask, and unsurprisingly Bertra was stunned into silence—but Olar then stepped in.
"We're all perfectly aware of how things were when you were a wife, and while I have no praise to give my former master, we must still earn our living via trade. Unless milady has discovered some other way of making a livelihood?"
Fleur was not so naive as to be unaware of the fates that awaited fallen nobility. And for a young woman, the possibilities were even more limited.
"You can't give away what you haven't first earned. Anyone of quality would cry to hear one of their own say such things."
"And the bookkeepers of any kind landlord are always in tears."
"Quite so. And I hate to see Bertra's crying face so." Fleur popped the remainder of the bread into her mouth and stood. "Now then, I'm off to do business. I won't lose money this time."
Bertra looked at her steadily, still wearing an apron that had faded somewhat since the times when she had worn it in the old manor. Finally she smiled a relieved smile and spoke. "Off you go, then, milady."
This was no longer the fine, beautiful manor of the old days, but Fleur's smile was just as genuine.
When a river froze, it was not just the water that ceased moving. During winter in the north, boats were stuck—entire ports froze. So come spring, shipping traffic was especially heavy, as though releasing pent-up demand.
At least that had been the explanation given to her by Olar, and it seemed to be true. The weather was fine, and the port fairly bustled with activity.
"Right, here's your payment."
Given that it had tried to push the price from twenty down to seventeen, the company did not hesitate to pay what it owed.
As a rule, merchants were an eccentric bunch. Fleur mused on the fact as she broached the topic Olar had discussed with her over lunch.
"Horses?"
"Yes. We've heard there may be war and thus a need for horses."
"Mm, well, yes...Horses, you say." The merchant scratched his chin with his quill pen and closed his eyes.
"You've got to pay usage fees in order to get hay to feed them, do you not? If hay is expensive, it takes money just to keep them."


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

Input:
"I'll talk to the company merchants when I go to collect our payment tomorrow," said Fleur as she dipped bread Bertra had carefully scraped free of mold into her gruel.
"Please do your best to avoid losing money, milady."
Fleur nodded at Bertra's words, smiling sheepishly. Then her gaze was drawn elsewhere, but not because of anything Bertra had said.
"Oh, again? How's it getting in, I wonder." Bertra followed Fleur's gaze to its object, standing out of her chair as she did so.
In the doorway that led to the kitchen and washroom sat a puppy, small enough to be picked up under one arm.
"Do you suppose this dog's the one who tore the wheat sacks?"
Towns were full of animals to an extent Fleur could never have imagined when she had lived in a manor surrounded by fields and forests. They seemed to cause Bertra no end of headache, but for Fleur it was just the opposite.
"Here, boy."
The puppy slunk away from Bertra as she'd tried to approach it, but when it spied the bread Fleur held in her outstretched hand, it seemed to regain its courage. It sprang to its feet and ran between Bertra's legs toward Fleur.
"Milady!" cried the long-suffering Bertra, who warred daily with kitchen invaders like mice, cats, and dogs.
Fleur looked up only once the puppy had finished eating the bread. "My husband only stole from others. I have no mind to follow his example."
Even the puppy seemed to understand the ways of the world and was happy to pledge temporary loyalty to the source of its food.
It held still while Fleur patted its head, even wagging its tail. But unfortunately a dog was not a knight, and Fleur was no longer a noblewoman.
Bertra approached and picked up the puppy, shooing it out through an open window. "You are much too kind, milady."
"Too kind to live among the common folk?"
Fleur knew perfectly well that it was a malicious question to ask, and unsurprisingly Bertra was stunned into silence—but Olar then stepped in.
"We're all perfectly aware of how things were when you were a wife, and while I have no praise to give my former master, we must still earn our living via trade. Unless milady has discovered some other way of making a livelihood?"
Fleur was not so naive as to be unaware of the fates that awaited fallen nobility. And for a young woman, the possibilities were even more limited.
"You can't give away what you haven't first earned. Anyone of quality would cry to hear one of their own say such things."
"And the bookkeepers of any kind landlord are always in tears."
"Quite so. And I hate to see Bertra's crying face so." Fleur popped the remainder of the bread into her mouth and stood. "Now then, I'm off to do business. I won't lose money this time."
Bertra looked at her steadily, still wearing an apron that had faded somewhat since the times when she had worn it in the old manor. Finally she smiled a relieved smile and spoke. "Off you go, then, milady."
This was no longer the fine, beautiful manor of the old days, but Fleur's smile was just as genuine.
When a river froze, it was not just the water that ceased moving. During winter in the north, boats were stuck—entire ports froze. So come spring, shipping traffic was especially heavy, as though releasing pent-up demand.
At least that had been the explanation given to her by Olar, and it seemed to be true. The weather was fine, and the port fairly bustled with activity.
"Right, here's your payment."
Given that it had tried to push the price from twenty down to seventeen, the company did not hesitate to pay what it owed.
As a rule, merchants were an eccentric bunch. Fleur mused on the fact as she broached the topic Olar had discussed with her over lunch.
"Horses?"
"Yes. We've heard there may be war and thus a need for horses."
"Mm, well, yes...Horses, you say." The merchant scratched his chin with his quill pen and closed his eyes.
"You've got to pay usage fees in order to get hay to feed them, do you not? If hay is expensive, it takes money just to keep them."

Output:
In order to avoid being swindled, one had to grasp what one's opponent was saying even as they spoke and formulate a response by the time they had finished. Olar was always saying so, and he seemed to have quite mastered the devilish trick of it.
Fleur nodded.
"Mm," the man murmured, looking around before continuing. "And do you suppose that you're the first person to think of that?" His tone was a condescending one; perhaps he'd noticed that beneath her scarf Fleur was a young girl.
"Not at all. But there's profit enough to be had for even the second or third." Olar had said so, and Fleur repeated his words.
The man put his finger to his mouth, as though trying to mask the smile that rose unbidden there—but if Fleur let her own triumph show on her face, the loss would be hers.
"Apologies. You're getting better at this every day. It's as you say. But as you can see, we have our hands quite full with business here, so we've no time to go out and buy horses. So if you were to obtain them for us—well, I won't say we wouldn't buy them."
Merchants always left things a bit vague.
"So would you or wouldn't you?" she pressed, at which the man frowned.
"Well, we can't buy a starving, stubborn nag, now, can we? I won't make any promises."
It would be just like a noblewoman to ask if he did not trust her. Fleur realized his point and apologized.
"Of course, even if we couldn't buy them, there would be plenty of people who would want to. If you gauge the market and buy them for the right price, you won't have trouble selling them."
"I see."
"Still..."
***
The man closed his ledger and tucked it under an arm before continuing. "I do think it could be difficult. Horses are living creatures, after all. It's not uncommon for a prize horse to turn into a wagon nag while you're transporting it."
"I suppose that's true..." When she lived in the manor, Fleur remembered hearing that caring for the horses was a difficult job. And having rented horse-drawn wagons, she knew from experience that a capricious horse was trouble.
If she made the effort of buying a horse and wound up having to sell it cheaply, Bertra wouldn't be the only one weeping.
"But consider this."
"Hmm?"
"If you've got enough money on hand to be buying horses, there are other lines of business."
"Other lines of business?"
The man smiled and pulled his ledger back out from under his arm, opening it and licking his finger. "No fuss, no risk of illness, no need to worry about feed or care. With an opportunity like this, even an inexperienced merchant won't fail too badly. A horse may sell dear, but in exchange they're quite a bit of trouble."
Everything the man said was true. And even though she was aware he was an unsavory fellow, she could not help but be taken off guard by his generous explanations of everything. Somehow she found herself completely absorbed in what he was saying.
"And what is this other business?"
"Clothing, my dear!"
"...Clothing?" she repeated.
The man seemed to find what he was looking for in his ledger and tilted it toward her. "This figure is how much I paid when buying it up. And here's what I sold it for. The margin isn't so great as a horse might have, but...as you can see, every single item from top to bottom turned a profit."
Assuming this had not been entirely fabricated to convince her, it was indeed as the man said. And he had not had time to manufacture all these figures in the short time they had been talking. Having decided that much, Fleur nodded politely.
"It's a reliable trade," said the man as he closed the ledger.
What opened next was Fleur's mouth. "But what sort of clothing would I buy?"
"That would be your decision to make."
Fleur had to admit that was obvious enough, but having left decisions about what to wear entirely up to others throughout her life, she knew very little about clothing. As she was agonizing over whether to first consult with Olar, the man clapped his hands together and spoke.


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

Input:
In order to avoid being swindled, one had to grasp what one's opponent was saying even as they spoke and formulate a response by the time they had finished. Olar was always saying so, and he seemed to have quite mastered the devilish trick of it.
Fleur nodded.
"Mm," the man murmured, looking around before continuing. "And do you suppose that you're the first person to think of that?" His tone was a condescending one; perhaps he'd noticed that beneath her scarf Fleur was a young girl.
"Not at all. But there's profit enough to be had for even the second or third." Olar had said so, and Fleur repeated his words.
The man put his finger to his mouth, as though trying to mask the smile that rose unbidden there—but if Fleur let her own triumph show on her face, the loss would be hers.
"Apologies. You're getting better at this every day. It's as you say. But as you can see, we have our hands quite full with business here, so we've no time to go out and buy horses. So if you were to obtain them for us—well, I won't say we wouldn't buy them."
Merchants always left things a bit vague.
"So would you or wouldn't you?" she pressed, at which the man frowned.
"Well, we can't buy a starving, stubborn nag, now, can we? I won't make any promises."
It would be just like a noblewoman to ask if he did not trust her. Fleur realized his point and apologized.
"Of course, even if we couldn't buy them, there would be plenty of people who would want to. If you gauge the market and buy them for the right price, you won't have trouble selling them."
"I see."
"Still..."
***
The man closed his ledger and tucked it under an arm before continuing. "I do think it could be difficult. Horses are living creatures, after all. It's not uncommon for a prize horse to turn into a wagon nag while you're transporting it."
"I suppose that's true..." When she lived in the manor, Fleur remembered hearing that caring for the horses was a difficult job. And having rented horse-drawn wagons, she knew from experience that a capricious horse was trouble.
If she made the effort of buying a horse and wound up having to sell it cheaply, Bertra wouldn't be the only one weeping.
"But consider this."
"Hmm?"
"If you've got enough money on hand to be buying horses, there are other lines of business."
"Other lines of business?"
The man smiled and pulled his ledger back out from under his arm, opening it and licking his finger. "No fuss, no risk of illness, no need to worry about feed or care. With an opportunity like this, even an inexperienced merchant won't fail too badly. A horse may sell dear, but in exchange they're quite a bit of trouble."
Everything the man said was true. And even though she was aware he was an unsavory fellow, she could not help but be taken off guard by his generous explanations of everything. Somehow she found herself completely absorbed in what he was saying.
"And what is this other business?"
"Clothing, my dear!"
"...Clothing?" she repeated.
The man seemed to find what he was looking for in his ledger and tilted it toward her. "This figure is how much I paid when buying it up. And here's what I sold it for. The margin isn't so great as a horse might have, but...as you can see, every single item from top to bottom turned a profit."
Assuming this had not been entirely fabricated to convince her, it was indeed as the man said. And he had not had time to manufacture all these figures in the short time they had been talking. Having decided that much, Fleur nodded politely.
"It's a reliable trade," said the man as he closed the ledger.
What opened next was Fleur's mouth. "But what sort of clothing would I buy?"
"That would be your decision to make."
Fleur had to admit that was obvious enough, but having left decisions about what to wear entirely up to others throughout her life, she knew very little about clothing. As she was agonizing over whether to first consult with Olar, the man clapped his hands together and spoke.

Output:
"Quite the eye?"
"Yes. We've had him sell clothing we've bought up in the past, and he's quite talented at it. The pieces just fly out of our hands left and right. He's been saying he wants to move from buying to managing and has been looking for someone with capital."
Fleur was well aware that her own mind was not especially sharp, yet the meaning of what the merchant was saying proved difficult for her to grasp. Perhaps there was something about it that gave her a strange feeling.
"So...I would supply the capital, and the profit would be shared?"
"Even so. And in addition to the profit, you'd gain knowledge of the clothing business. And your partner would handle everything from purchase onward, so you'd maximize your profit."
"Well..." It seemed like quite an opportunity. Perhaps the world wasn't filled with only bad people after all, Fleur thought.
The man flipped through a few more pages in his ledger, then gave her a name. "The man's name is Milton Post."
It sounded like the name of a nobleman.
Whenever she had coin in her pocket, Fleur could not help but do some shopping. On her way home, she bought some of the cheese she knew Bertra liked and the wine of a particular village that Olar had praised very highly.
Their budget was not such that there was room for wasteful expenditures, but Bertra and Olar had not become so unsympathetic as to furrow their brows at gifts bought especially for them. And besides, Fleur had also gotten a lead on a new business opportunity.
"The clothing business, eh?" murmured Olar several times, his eyes closed as he inhaled the scent of the wine. He seemed to be enjoying it very much, though there was only a small amount, enough to fill a hand-sized cask.
Fleur had related what the man at the trading company had told her, but she could not tell whether Olar was really listening to her.
"Yes. So, perhaps we should take the opportunity to...Olar?"
At the sound of his name, Olar finally looked at Fleur. "Apologies. This rich scent is terribly nostalgic. But yes, the clothing business. You would—"
"The company has a man whom they entrust with the sale of the clothing they buy up, and this man is looking to do the buying himself this time, it seems."
"I see..."
Olar again inhaled the wine's scent through his hooked nose and then held his breath.
Fleur could not help but laugh at the way he acted like a former man-about-town and quite forgot to be angry with him. "His name's Milton Post."
The instant she spoke the name, Olar's eyes snapped open, their sharp gaze lancing out from between his deeply wrinkled eyelids. "Of the Post family?"
"You know him?"
"...Mm. Of course I do."
Olar breathed in the wine's scent one last time, then pushed the stopper back in the cask and set it on the table. The house was quiet, as Bertra was out doing her afternoon shopping at the market.
"The head of the house was a knight renowned as much for his courtly elegance as for his bravery. The tales of his romances are many, but he was also an honorable, family-minded man. It is said that he left no less than thirty descendants behind."
Families with many siblings in a single generation were not uncommon, nor was keeping a mistress or two within one's home. Once children from different mothers were added into the mix, just listing their names was like reciting scripture, or so the jokes went—but in reality there were not very many families like that.
Fleur could see why the name would be a famous one.
"Since it would've been impossible for all of his children to inherit land, he's probably one of them. You said he helps the trading company sell clothing?"


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

Input:
"Quite the eye?"
"Yes. We've had him sell clothing we've bought up in the past, and he's quite talented at it. The pieces just fly out of our hands left and right. He's been saying he wants to move from buying to managing and has been looking for someone with capital."
Fleur was well aware that her own mind was not especially sharp, yet the meaning of what the merchant was saying proved difficult for her to grasp. Perhaps there was something about it that gave her a strange feeling.
"So...I would supply the capital, and the profit would be shared?"
"Even so. And in addition to the profit, you'd gain knowledge of the clothing business. And your partner would handle everything from purchase onward, so you'd maximize your profit."
"Well..." It seemed like quite an opportunity. Perhaps the world wasn't filled with only bad people after all, Fleur thought.
The man flipped through a few more pages in his ledger, then gave her a name. "The man's name is Milton Post."
It sounded like the name of a nobleman.
Whenever she had coin in her pocket, Fleur could not help but do some shopping. On her way home, she bought some of the cheese she knew Bertra liked and the wine of a particular village that Olar had praised very highly.
Their budget was not such that there was room for wasteful expenditures, but Bertra and Olar had not become so unsympathetic as to furrow their brows at gifts bought especially for them. And besides, Fleur had also gotten a lead on a new business opportunity.
"The clothing business, eh?" murmured Olar several times, his eyes closed as he inhaled the scent of the wine. He seemed to be enjoying it very much, though there was only a small amount, enough to fill a hand-sized cask.
Fleur had related what the man at the trading company had told her, but she could not tell whether Olar was really listening to her.
"Yes. So, perhaps we should take the opportunity to...Olar?"
At the sound of his name, Olar finally looked at Fleur. "Apologies. This rich scent is terribly nostalgic. But yes, the clothing business. You would—"
"The company has a man whom they entrust with the sale of the clothing they buy up, and this man is looking to do the buying himself this time, it seems."
"I see..."
Olar again inhaled the wine's scent through his hooked nose and then held his breath.
Fleur could not help but laugh at the way he acted like a former man-about-town and quite forgot to be angry with him. "His name's Milton Post."
The instant she spoke the name, Olar's eyes snapped open, their sharp gaze lancing out from between his deeply wrinkled eyelids. "Of the Post family?"
"You know him?"
"...Mm. Of course I do."
Olar breathed in the wine's scent one last time, then pushed the stopper back in the cask and set it on the table. The house was quiet, as Bertra was out doing her afternoon shopping at the market.
"The head of the house was a knight renowned as much for his courtly elegance as for his bravery. The tales of his romances are many, but he was also an honorable, family-minded man. It is said that he left no less than thirty descendants behind."
Families with many siblings in a single generation were not uncommon, nor was keeping a mistress or two within one's home. Once children from different mothers were added into the mix, just listing their names was like reciting scripture, or so the jokes went—but in reality there were not very many families like that.
Fleur could see why the name would be a famous one.
"Since it would've been impossible for all of his children to inherit land, he's probably one of them. You said he helps the trading company sell clothing?"

Output:
"Well, I imagine he mostly sells to the nobility. We ourselves once did something similar—hiring the impoverished second or third sons of noble families. The idea being that when you go to introduce yourself, if you say you're from the cobblers or the smiths, you'll be turned away at the door, but if you have a name of quality...and the fashion of the nobility changes quickly. We needed people with both names and know-how to do our selling."
"I see..."
"So you met this Post fellow, did you?"
The goat finally seemed to have decided the plants' leaves were inedible and gave an irritated baa before wandering away.
"Not yet. I thought it would be better not to rush and check with you first."
"Is that so? Perhaps milady is finally beginning to open her eyes."
"I've already made terrible mistakes twice over by trusting my own judgment."
Olar smiled, then deliberately cleared his throat. He pointed to what was left of the twenty ligot that remained after Fleur's shopping.
"...?" Fleur cocked her head, which elicited a small sigh from Olar.
"But you still have much to learn, and the road will be hard. The coins they paid milady with..."
"The coins? Are they the wrong amount?" That can't possibly be, she was about to say, but was interrupted by Olar's small head shake.
"With coins that have this much shaved from their edges, I doubt a money changer would give us their face value for them. We might lose as much as ten percent in the transaction."
Fleur hastily looked down at the coins on the table, and it was true—some of them were quite misshapen from how deeply their edges had been ground down.
"Still, you couldn't remember every single lesson even if I could give it all to you at once. One step at a time. Of course..."
"Of course?"
"If you were an apprentice that I might whip and beat into shape, things might be different." Olar didn't often make jokes. He must have been genuinely enjoying the wine she had bought for him.
"I was slapped once during a banquet. I cried for a week."
Olar smiled amusedly, collecting the coins in a box, then closing its lid. "Now then, on to this new opportunity."
"I'd like that."
"So, as far as this notion of selling clothing goes, what are your thoughts?"
Fleur was caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. Unable to switch her mind over to the new topic in time, she said the first thing that came to her. "I thought it seemed good."
"Is that so?" replied Olar casually, writing a figure in the ledger that was spread open on the table. Given the amount of coin Fleur had returned with, there was sadly a loss recorded in the right-most column.
"Is it...not?"
"Not at all. If milady decides it is, then I think it is fine. Just as the company fellow said—horses can be sick, injured, or even die, but clothing can last for years if properly cared for. There was once a time when dealing in clothes meant it would be three years or more before you could record the profit or loss in a ledger like this. It's a business where it's hard to sustain heavy losses, so for training purposes I think it's quite suitable."
"So—" Fleur said, and Olar nodded decisively.
"This will be milady's third time making a trade as a merchant."
When she had lived in the manor, her duties amounted to wearing the clothing presented to her and eating her meals. She had no influence over the prosperity or downfall of the house, no choice in whom to marry—she had but to exist and do as she was told.
She had still not become accustomed to the life of a merchant. It was difficult for her to see through the lies of other traders, and often she wished she didn't have to converse at all.
And yet being able to do work with her own hands was deeply appealing.
Fleur took a quiet breath, then nodded definitively.
"But you've got to listen to my advice. Is that understood?"
He'd boosted his spirits and made her happy only to drive the nail down. But if she turned displeased here, it would mean failure for her.


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

Input:
"Well, I imagine he mostly sells to the nobility. We ourselves once did something similar—hiring the impoverished second or third sons of noble families. The idea being that when you go to introduce yourself, if you say you're from the cobblers or the smiths, you'll be turned away at the door, but if you have a name of quality...and the fashion of the nobility changes quickly. We needed people with both names and know-how to do our selling."
"I see..."
"So you met this Post fellow, did you?"
The goat finally seemed to have decided the plants' leaves were inedible and gave an irritated baa before wandering away.
"Not yet. I thought it would be better not to rush and check with you first."
"Is that so? Perhaps milady is finally beginning to open her eyes."
"I've already made terrible mistakes twice over by trusting my own judgment."
Olar smiled, then deliberately cleared his throat. He pointed to what was left of the twenty ligot that remained after Fleur's shopping.
"...?" Fleur cocked her head, which elicited a small sigh from Olar.
"But you still have much to learn, and the road will be hard. The coins they paid milady with..."
"The coins? Are they the wrong amount?" That can't possibly be, she was about to say, but was interrupted by Olar's small head shake.
"With coins that have this much shaved from their edges, I doubt a money changer would give us their face value for them. We might lose as much as ten percent in the transaction."
Fleur hastily looked down at the coins on the table, and it was true—some of them were quite misshapen from how deeply their edges had been ground down.
"Still, you couldn't remember every single lesson even if I could give it all to you at once. One step at a time. Of course..."
"Of course?"
"If you were an apprentice that I might whip and beat into shape, things might be different." Olar didn't often make jokes. He must have been genuinely enjoying the wine she had bought for him.
"I was slapped once during a banquet. I cried for a week."
Olar smiled amusedly, collecting the coins in a box, then closing its lid. "Now then, on to this new opportunity."
"I'd like that."
"So, as far as this notion of selling clothing goes, what are your thoughts?"
Fleur was caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. Unable to switch her mind over to the new topic in time, she said the first thing that came to her. "I thought it seemed good."
"Is that so?" replied Olar casually, writing a figure in the ledger that was spread open on the table. Given the amount of coin Fleur had returned with, there was sadly a loss recorded in the right-most column.
"Is it...not?"
"Not at all. If milady decides it is, then I think it is fine. Just as the company fellow said—horses can be sick, injured, or even die, but clothing can last for years if properly cared for. There was once a time when dealing in clothes meant it would be three years or more before you could record the profit or loss in a ledger like this. It's a business where it's hard to sustain heavy losses, so for training purposes I think it's quite suitable."
"So—" Fleur said, and Olar nodded decisively.
"This will be milady's third time making a trade as a merchant."
When she had lived in the manor, her duties amounted to wearing the clothing presented to her and eating her meals. She had no influence over the prosperity or downfall of the house, no choice in whom to marry—she had but to exist and do as she was told.
She had still not become accustomed to the life of a merchant. It was difficult for her to see through the lies of other traders, and often she wished she didn't have to converse at all.
And yet being able to do work with her own hands was deeply appealing.
Fleur took a quiet breath, then nodded definitively.
"But you've got to listen to my advice. Is that understood?"
He'd boosted his spirits and made her happy only to drive the nail down. But if she turned displeased here, it would mean failure for her.

Output:
"Then God's blessing be upon you," said Olar quietly as he closed the ledger. And then, as though having waited for just the right moment, Bertra returned from the marketplace.
Former nobility. The noble in name only. The true nobility.
Whatever their nature, those who strode grandly about, ready to give their famous names at any moment, were less uncommon than one might think.
Most of them clung to the past or used their name to eke out a living. Of course for those like Fleur, whose failing houses were bought up by wealthy merchants, name and all, only to have those merchants fail in turn—their names wound up being only a burden.
So Fleur hid her face behind a scarf and rarely gave her name. She relied on Olar's old connections for work, and while she was occasionally recognized, most people spared her some measure of sympathy and kept quiet.
This time, however, Fleur had received an introduction to Milton thanks to her own hard work, so the fact of her former nobility had presumably remained a secret.
And yet.
"Haven't we met? At a banquet, I think," said Milton Post, immediately after shaking her hand upon receiving her for their meeting.
The young man's blond hair was neatly combed, with clothes that were none too fine. But it was clear that some effort had gone into their arrangement, and had he not walked two steps forward to take her hand, no one would have had any trouble believing him to be from a good family.
It occurred to Fleur that her hands no longer had the pure white softness of someone who wore only silken gloves. Compared with Bertra, of course, they still obviously belonged to a maiden who only ever picked flowers, so surely her hands alone had not given her away.
Fleur was flustered and at a loss for words, so Milton continued. "Ah, that's right. At Lord Milton's banquet."
"Ah—" she blurted, since that was the name of the nobleman who had hosted one of the few banquets she'd attended.
"We only met the once, though. It seems you don't remember."
Young girls of marriageable age who attended banquets shook hands more often than they reached for bread. Even if the touches were light ones, their hands were red and swollen by the time they returned home in the evening.
"I suppose it's no surprise, though. Your attention was always so hoped for."
This had all happened when her family still held the manor, before their fortunes had declined too far. Back when she was just the sort of girl whose hand in marriage might be sought.
"As I recall, your name is—"
"Fleur Bolan." She hadn't given her name in so long, the sound of it was at once nostalgic and tinged with shame. The shame was less from the name itself as it was having spoken it here, in a tavern facing the docks.
"That's right. The daughter of the Bolan family—the one who that famously nasty Lady Duan slapped."
"Ah!" She gave clear voice to her surprise, but fortunately this was not a formal dining hall. Her voice was immediately swallowed by the bustle around them, and all that remained was Milton's smile.
"I seem to recall many an apprentice knight seeking your favor after that. Perhaps you didn't know?" Milton brought some roast beans to his mouth, perhaps to disguise the smile there that just wouldn't disappear.
This consideration on his part only served to intensify her embarrassment, and even with the scarf around her head, Fleur wanted to slink off into a corner somewhere and hide.
"Still, what happened after that...I can't help but be sympathetic. Though there were some who spoke ill."
Fleur could tell he was not talking about her holing up and crying for a week. Underneath her scarf, she composed herself, took a deep breath, and nodded.
"After all, we can't decide our own fates. The only ones who can do that are the ones sitting in far more fortunate positions than we have."


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

Input:
"Then God's blessing be upon you," said Olar quietly as he closed the ledger. And then, as though having waited for just the right moment, Bertra returned from the marketplace.
Former nobility. The noble in name only. The true nobility.
Whatever their nature, those who strode grandly about, ready to give their famous names at any moment, were less uncommon than one might think.
Most of them clung to the past or used their name to eke out a living. Of course for those like Fleur, whose failing houses were bought up by wealthy merchants, name and all, only to have those merchants fail in turn—their names wound up being only a burden.
So Fleur hid her face behind a scarf and rarely gave her name. She relied on Olar's old connections for work, and while she was occasionally recognized, most people spared her some measure of sympathy and kept quiet.
This time, however, Fleur had received an introduction to Milton thanks to her own hard work, so the fact of her former nobility had presumably remained a secret.
And yet.
"Haven't we met? At a banquet, I think," said Milton Post, immediately after shaking her hand upon receiving her for their meeting.
The young man's blond hair was neatly combed, with clothes that were none too fine. But it was clear that some effort had gone into their arrangement, and had he not walked two steps forward to take her hand, no one would have had any trouble believing him to be from a good family.
It occurred to Fleur that her hands no longer had the pure white softness of someone who wore only silken gloves. Compared with Bertra, of course, they still obviously belonged to a maiden who only ever picked flowers, so surely her hands alone had not given her away.
Fleur was flustered and at a loss for words, so Milton continued. "Ah, that's right. At Lord Milton's banquet."
"Ah—" she blurted, since that was the name of the nobleman who had hosted one of the few banquets she'd attended.
"We only met the once, though. It seems you don't remember."
Young girls of marriageable age who attended banquets shook hands more often than they reached for bread. Even if the touches were light ones, their hands were red and swollen by the time they returned home in the evening.
"I suppose it's no surprise, though. Your attention was always so hoped for."
This had all happened when her family still held the manor, before their fortunes had declined too far. Back when she was just the sort of girl whose hand in marriage might be sought.
"As I recall, your name is—"
"Fleur Bolan." She hadn't given her name in so long, the sound of it was at once nostalgic and tinged with shame. The shame was less from the name itself as it was having spoken it here, in a tavern facing the docks.
"That's right. The daughter of the Bolan family—the one who that famously nasty Lady Duan slapped."
"Ah!" She gave clear voice to her surprise, but fortunately this was not a formal dining hall. Her voice was immediately swallowed by the bustle around them, and all that remained was Milton's smile.
"I seem to recall many an apprentice knight seeking your favor after that. Perhaps you didn't know?" Milton brought some roast beans to his mouth, perhaps to disguise the smile there that just wouldn't disappear.
This consideration on his part only served to intensify her embarrassment, and even with the scarf around her head, Fleur wanted to slink off into a corner somewhere and hide.
"Still, what happened after that...I can't help but be sympathetic. Though there were some who spoke ill."
Fleur could tell he was not talking about her holing up and crying for a week. Underneath her scarf, she composed herself, took a deep breath, and nodded.
"After all, we can't decide our own fates. The only ones who can do that are the ones sitting in far more fortunate positions than we have."

Output:
"My entire house—" Fleur began.
"Hmm?" Milton replied, his cup raised to his lips.
"My entire house fell from such a position. And yet against all odds, it seems there's a place for me in this world, though I would never have imagined it would be working as a merchant."
Milton nodded, looking out toward the port and squinting from the brightness. "I was the third son of the second mistress, so as you might expect, when I left the house I received nothing but a tiny scrap of land, a bit of coin, and the Post name. I don't have the horse and armor I'd need to spend my days jousting and make some noble girl my own, nor the wit to make my way reciting ballads. But I expected as much, so this was not any great shock to me."
"And then you went into trading?" Even if his house hadn't fallen, he could easily have been one of the many who were cast out and not welcome back.
Milton brought another bite to his mouth, perhaps to hide the pained smile. "Fortunately, the Post name opened many doors for me. And I loved good food, good wine, and idle chatter, so I turned up at many a table around the land. As I wandered around, I would hear talk of where a man like me might be needed, so it's true—you can find surprising places for yourself."
When the man who had bought Fleur to be his wife died, her house falling to ruin and the manor sold off, Fleur had earned the servants' respect by remaining calm. But that was not because she was a particularly strong girl. Life had simply washed her away, so she gave herself up to the flood.
She sensed a similarly defeatist strength from Milton, the man in front of her.
"I hear tell your business is going well."
"Ha-ha. It's a bit embarrassing hearing someone say as much to my face, but I do have a certain amount of confidence."
There were many who used their family influence as a shield, claiming the achievements of their underlings as their own. The man before her, Milton, even having left his home to sell goods for a trading company, seemed to be of a very reliable disposition. He could not very well stay away from the common people, especially not when his wings had been clipped this way, sending him tumbling to earth.
Fleur honestly envied how firmly Milton's feet were planted on the ground, which is why the words that came out of her mouth next did so mostly unbidden.
"What's your secret?"
Olar had once said that anyone who gave away their methods was unfit to be called a merchant. Fleur remembered this the moment she asked the question, and regretfully wondered if it had been a stupid one.
Milton actually looked down, a forced-looking smile on his face. But the moment Fleur was about to take the question back, Milton looked back up and spoke. "It's stubbornness."
For a moment she didn't understand and simply stared into his clear blue eyes.
"Stubbornness. There are lots of people in the same business as me, but once they've sold something to someone they know, they stop there and can't sell any more. That's because they are in the same place as the people buying the clothes. The first sale they make is because the buyer feels sympathy for them. But that's not how I work. I remind them that the Post name will open doors for them, that it's nothing more than the first foothold in making the most of a business opportunity. Having done so, they may laugh at me, they may scorn me. I praise their taste and recommend my wares' finer points, and make the sale. And of course, I never move poor clothing. So it sells."
The flood of words from Milton's mouth suddenly stopped, and he smiled pleasantly.
"Enough that my business partners find me useful, anyway," finished Milton, drinking his wine, then ordering another cup.
Fleur had not interrupted him, but not because she was overwhelmed by his monologue. Her chest had simply tightened upon seeing his stubborn resolve, and she had been unable to speak.
"Ha-ha, was that a bit too pretentious?"
"N-not at all..."


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

Input:
"My entire house—" Fleur began.
"Hmm?" Milton replied, his cup raised to his lips.
"My entire house fell from such a position. And yet against all odds, it seems there's a place for me in this world, though I would never have imagined it would be working as a merchant."
Milton nodded, looking out toward the port and squinting from the brightness. "I was the third son of the second mistress, so as you might expect, when I left the house I received nothing but a tiny scrap of land, a bit of coin, and the Post name. I don't have the horse and armor I'd need to spend my days jousting and make some noble girl my own, nor the wit to make my way reciting ballads. But I expected as much, so this was not any great shock to me."
"And then you went into trading?" Even if his house hadn't fallen, he could easily have been one of the many who were cast out and not welcome back.
Milton brought another bite to his mouth, perhaps to hide the pained smile. "Fortunately, the Post name opened many doors for me. And I loved good food, good wine, and idle chatter, so I turned up at many a table around the land. As I wandered around, I would hear talk of where a man like me might be needed, so it's true—you can find surprising places for yourself."
When the man who had bought Fleur to be his wife died, her house falling to ruin and the manor sold off, Fleur had earned the servants' respect by remaining calm. But that was not because she was a particularly strong girl. Life had simply washed her away, so she gave herself up to the flood.
She sensed a similarly defeatist strength from Milton, the man in front of her.
"I hear tell your business is going well."
"Ha-ha. It's a bit embarrassing hearing someone say as much to my face, but I do have a certain amount of confidence."
There were many who used their family influence as a shield, claiming the achievements of their underlings as their own. The man before her, Milton, even having left his home to sell goods for a trading company, seemed to be of a very reliable disposition. He could not very well stay away from the common people, especially not when his wings had been clipped this way, sending him tumbling to earth.
Fleur honestly envied how firmly Milton's feet were planted on the ground, which is why the words that came out of her mouth next did so mostly unbidden.
"What's your secret?"
Olar had once said that anyone who gave away their methods was unfit to be called a merchant. Fleur remembered this the moment she asked the question, and regretfully wondered if it had been a stupid one.
Milton actually looked down, a forced-looking smile on his face. But the moment Fleur was about to take the question back, Milton looked back up and spoke. "It's stubbornness."
For a moment she didn't understand and simply stared into his clear blue eyes.
"Stubbornness. There are lots of people in the same business as me, but once they've sold something to someone they know, they stop there and can't sell any more. That's because they are in the same place as the people buying the clothes. The first sale they make is because the buyer feels sympathy for them. But that's not how I work. I remind them that the Post name will open doors for them, that it's nothing more than the first foothold in making the most of a business opportunity. Having done so, they may laugh at me, they may scorn me. I praise their taste and recommend my wares' finer points, and make the sale. And of course, I never move poor clothing. So it sells."
The flood of words from Milton's mouth suddenly stopped, and he smiled pleasantly.
"Enough that my business partners find me useful, anyway," finished Milton, drinking his wine, then ordering another cup.
Fleur had not interrupted him, but not because she was overwhelmed by his monologue. Her chest had simply tightened upon seeing his stubborn resolve, and she had been unable to speak.
"Ha-ha, was that a bit too pretentious?"
"N-not at all..."

Output:
Hearing this, Fleur could practically see the image of a fetching town girl standing behind Milton. But that was not at all what he was getting at.
"I want to rub my family's face in it." Again he ate the beans to hide his smile.
Fleur watched him do so with a steady gaze.
"It's a bit different from proving I'm not some shame upon the Post name. It's more like showing that even though I've been cast out, I can still succeed. It's about pride. If I can keep that, I don't care how many times my knees hit the floor when I bow my head—I'll be doing it as a merchant."
His determination was unwavering.
Fleur rested her hand upon the plain wooden table, and she found it hard to keep it still. If this had not been a noisy tavern, and if the rough table had been covered by a fine white tablecloth, she might very well have extended her hand out to cover his.
The only thing that stopped her was the fact that this was not a noble ball or dance floor.
The person before her had decided upon his goal and was moving straight toward it, and he had embraced his role as a merchant, which meant that what Fleur needed to do was not to take his hand in hers, but rather speak these words.
"So, you are..."
"Yes?"
The words caught in her throat, and she drew her chin in, bracing herself. "...Looking for capital, I hear."
It was a matter of course for merchants to be able to change their attitude in response to circumstances. Fleur considered Milton as a merchant and chose her words accordingly.
Milton smiled thinly—Fleur was sure it wasn't her imagination. "That's right."
She took a breath. "How much?"
Milton named a figure that for Fleur, at that moment, was not an impossible amount.
The soup had plenty of bread in it, along with beans, onion, and the leftover meat from the previous night—two big bowls of it and one would be able to skip meals for two days. On top of such hearty fare had been laid a generous amount of roasted cheese.
Such a dish would not have been out of place coming from the large kitchen of a fine manor somewhere, but it was very like Bertra to manage the feat shorthanded and with a much smaller kitchen.
And since the house of Bolan operated on such a meager budget, she had become quite adept at making do with cheap ingredients. Even the seasoned merchant Olar had been stunned into silence when told how much they had cost, which was no mean feat.
When it came to cooking, none wielded a ladle the way Bertra did.
"The bread was rejected by the town inspector, so I got them to sell it cheap. It was stale and hard and couldn't have been eaten the way it was, but look what happens when you put it in soup. I got the onions from the lady of the house three doors down—traded her some herbs I grew for them. The meat came from a chicken I found wandering about the garden."
As a child, Fleur had always been forbidden from wandering into the yard behind the manor, and when she had learned that this was because of the traps set to catch ingredients for dinner, she was quite impressed.
Of course, those traps had been set by the elderly gardener, but Bertra had evidently been watching and had imitated him, so both Fleur and Olar were perfectly aware that the chicken had not been simply "wandering about the garden."
But in a town thick with edible animals like pigs, sheep, goats, and rabbits, no one was going to complain about a missing chicken or two.
Olar's constant admiration of Bertra's craft was not unusual.
What was unusual was the way Fleur failed to praise or compliment the dinner's flavor in any way as she ate it.
"Milady?"
Fleur nearly dropped her spoon at the unexpected address. All their silver had long since been sold, so it was a cheap tin utensil. Bertra would occasionally complain that she missed polishing the silver, but for Fleur's part she found the tinware easier to use and much preferred it.


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

Input:
Hearing this, Fleur could practically see the image of a fetching town girl standing behind Milton. But that was not at all what he was getting at.
"I want to rub my family's face in it." Again he ate the beans to hide his smile.
Fleur watched him do so with a steady gaze.
"It's a bit different from proving I'm not some shame upon the Post name. It's more like showing that even though I've been cast out, I can still succeed. It's about pride. If I can keep that, I don't care how many times my knees hit the floor when I bow my head—I'll be doing it as a merchant."
His determination was unwavering.
Fleur rested her hand upon the plain wooden table, and she found it hard to keep it still. If this had not been a noisy tavern, and if the rough table had been covered by a fine white tablecloth, she might very well have extended her hand out to cover his.
The only thing that stopped her was the fact that this was not a noble ball or dance floor.
The person before her had decided upon his goal and was moving straight toward it, and he had embraced his role as a merchant, which meant that what Fleur needed to do was not to take his hand in hers, but rather speak these words.
"So, you are..."
"Yes?"
The words caught in her throat, and she drew her chin in, bracing herself. "...Looking for capital, I hear."
It was a matter of course for merchants to be able to change their attitude in response to circumstances. Fleur considered Milton as a merchant and chose her words accordingly.
Milton smiled thinly—Fleur was sure it wasn't her imagination. "That's right."
She took a breath. "How much?"
Milton named a figure that for Fleur, at that moment, was not an impossible amount.
The soup had plenty of bread in it, along with beans, onion, and the leftover meat from the previous night—two big bowls of it and one would be able to skip meals for two days. On top of such hearty fare had been laid a generous amount of roasted cheese.
Such a dish would not have been out of place coming from the large kitchen of a fine manor somewhere, but it was very like Bertra to manage the feat shorthanded and with a much smaller kitchen.
And since the house of Bolan operated on such a meager budget, she had become quite adept at making do with cheap ingredients. Even the seasoned merchant Olar had been stunned into silence when told how much they had cost, which was no mean feat.
When it came to cooking, none wielded a ladle the way Bertra did.
"The bread was rejected by the town inspector, so I got them to sell it cheap. It was stale and hard and couldn't have been eaten the way it was, but look what happens when you put it in soup. I got the onions from the lady of the house three doors down—traded her some herbs I grew for them. The meat came from a chicken I found wandering about the garden."
As a child, Fleur had always been forbidden from wandering into the yard behind the manor, and when she had learned that this was because of the traps set to catch ingredients for dinner, she was quite impressed.
Of course, those traps had been set by the elderly gardener, but Bertra had evidently been watching and had imitated him, so both Fleur and Olar were perfectly aware that the chicken had not been simply "wandering about the garden."
But in a town thick with edible animals like pigs, sheep, goats, and rabbits, no one was going to complain about a missing chicken or two.
Olar's constant admiration of Bertra's craft was not unusual.
What was unusual was the way Fleur failed to praise or compliment the dinner's flavor in any way as she ate it.
"Milady?"
Fleur nearly dropped her spoon at the unexpected address. All their silver had long since been sold, so it was a cheap tin utensil. Bertra would occasionally complain that she missed polishing the silver, but for Fleur's part she found the tinware easier to use and much preferred it.

Output:
Fleur picked up a piece of bread and put it in her mouth. It was hard to chew, but that meant it would be that much longer before she was expected to speak.
"So what did the Post lad have to say?"
Fleur heard the quiet hammering of her heart. She was sure they could hear it, too, but averted her eyes and took another bite of bread before she had finished chewing the first one.
"Oh, have you started working on another trade?" Bertra was preternaturally sharp when it came to housework but could still be rather insensitive.
Or perhaps she did know and was asking on purpose, Fleur wondered as she took a sip of ale.
"A fundamental principle of trading," Olar said, giving Fleur an appraising look as she stood from her chair, "is to keep your distance from your partners."
Fleur's heart was now very quiet. She shot Olar a cold glance, which he did not flinch at.
"For trading to go smoothly, you must deal with many different partners, as it's impossible to predict when difficulties may arise. You must above all avoid any situation wherein a delivery failing to arrive would mean your ruin."
Their cold staring contest continued. But Fleur could not match Olar's ability in hiding any emotion from his face, eyes, and mouth. She finally looked away, picking up her bowl and thrusting it at Bertra. "Another."
"Chasing profit is a dangerous business. If you dream of great gains, you also expose yourself to great risks. Trading is a long-term enterprise. You must avoid risk," said Olar, but Fleur could tell his words lacked real conviction.
No doubt he'd already concluded what was to blame for Fleur's strange mood.
"He's a trustworthy man."
"Merchants can wear many masks."
"He seems a trustworthy man."
Olar nodded and indicated that Fleur could continue.
"The profit is reliable. I supply the money, and he chooses and sells the clothing. The profit comes to thirty or forty percent, which we split."
"What of the clothing? Where does it come from and via whom?"
"A famous town across the sea, he said. He'll use the trading company for the purchase, so there's nothing to worry about."
She cut a piece of chicken in two with her spoon and brought the smaller piece to her mouth. The bones had been carefully removed, which made it easy to eat.
"And to whom will they be sold?"
"The same customers he's sold to before, so there's no problem there, either."
The canny old merchant stopped asking questions. Fleur's face was downcast, and she stole a glance at him with upturned eyes, like a student seeking her tutor's approval.
Olar put his hand to his forehead, sighing as he rubbed his head, which he often did when he was thinking something over.
Fleur thought back over her conversation with Milton. Her impression was that everything had been planned very carefully, from purchase all the way to sale. After all, they were only continuing with a business that had been conducted successfully all along. The only difference was that the money to buy the clothes would come from Fleur instead of from the company. And doing business at the company's whims meant they kept most of the profit.
By joining up with Fleur, Milton could make more money for himself in exchange for his expertise with clothing and customers.
He had explained his expectations and goals very clearly, and Fleur did not think there would be any problems.
"I see..."
"Is there a problem?" she shot back, stronger than she had intended.
"Well, if you truly wish to know..."
"If there is, spit it out," she said, then realized how high-handed she was being and looked away. "I'm sorry. If you believe there to be a problem, please tell me."
Olar sighed, brushing some ale foam off of his beard before speaking. "Can this individual truly be trusted?"