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

Input:
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?"

Output:
"...Is there something suspicious?"
"'Suspicious' might be going too far, but it is strange."
"What's strange?" she asked, which made Olar look down at his hands, before looking up at her out of the corner of his eye. He made this face whenever he was hesitating over whether to tell her what he was really thinking. He gazed at her like that for a while, mulling something over behind his glassy gray eyes.
He sighed, the signal that he'd come to his conclusion. "Milady, if I may..."
"What?"
"Trade is like that bowl." He indicated the bowl that was still half full with Bertra's soup. "Profit is like its contents. Someone skillful like Bertra can extract greater profit than others. But no matter how hard she might try, the bowl can only be filled so much before it overflows, just as every trade has a limit to the amount of profit that can be made from it."
Opposite Olar, Bertra broke her bread and began to eat. It was very difficult to divert her attention away from anything outside of the house.
"Fundamentally, the amount of profit to be gained in a trade is always balanced between its participants."
"I know that. That's why Milton doesn't want to deal with the trading company anymore and was looking for someone like me."
Olar nodded but continued. "Which means that the company that normally does business with the Post house will see substantially less profit. Do you think they will look kindly upon this? Trading companies are cunning and sly."
"Huh?" Fleur retorted, but soon smiled. "Oh. Don't worry about that. It's the opposite."
Now it was Olar's turn to retort. "The opposite?"
"Yes. The Jones Company that introduced me to Milton did so in order to increase their own profit. Milton was buying clothes from another company and selling them on, but the Jones Company wants his sales expertise for themselves. In exchange for switching sides, Milton had a condition: Find him a different source of funding."
Olar's unwavering eyes were slowly hidden behind his eyelids. A few moments later they opened again, and his gaze moved away from Fleur. "So the procurement comes via the Jones Company."
"That's right. Milton buys from the Jones Company, which helps them break into the clothing business. They establish a relationship with Milton. There's no downside for them at all. Of course"—Fleur paused, briefly proud of herself for speaking so eloquently in front of Olar like this; she got the feeling that he was smiling a bit at her dramatics—"for Milton and me, there's nothing but upsides."
She thought it was perfect.
Milton would be free from the company that had used him and sucked up most of his profits thus far, and in exchange for sharing profit with Milton, the Jones Company would guarantee their own share. And Fleur would receive a tidy fee in exchange for shouldering the risk of the money outlay.
Not only that, but she would gain knowledge of the workings of the clothing trade. Milton could save up, and in the end he might even open his own shop.
In any case, it seemed to Fleur like a magnificent plan, where no one stood to lose.
"Mm." Contrary to Fleur's expectations, Olar did not reply right away. The wrinkles high on his bald head only deepened as he stared down at his soup.
Fleur patiently waited for his reply, but it did not come. Finally, unable to stand the silence, she slowly reached for her soup, bringing it to her mouth. It had mostly cooled, but that made its flavors easier to discern. "It's delicious," Fleur said to Bertra, which finally elicited a smile from her—she had been silent all throughout dinner.
It was only after Fleur asked Bertra for some hot water to cleanse her palate with that Olar finally spoke up.
"Well, if milady concludes as much, then..."
Fleur was at a loss, wondering what he was thinking, which prompted Olar to repeat himself.
"If milady has come to said conclusion, then..."


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

Input:
"...Is there something suspicious?"
"'Suspicious' might be going too far, but it is strange."
"What's strange?" she asked, which made Olar look down at his hands, before looking up at her out of the corner of his eye. He made this face whenever he was hesitating over whether to tell her what he was really thinking. He gazed at her like that for a while, mulling something over behind his glassy gray eyes.
He sighed, the signal that he'd come to his conclusion. "Milady, if I may..."
"What?"
"Trade is like that bowl." He indicated the bowl that was still half full with Bertra's soup. "Profit is like its contents. Someone skillful like Bertra can extract greater profit than others. But no matter how hard she might try, the bowl can only be filled so much before it overflows, just as every trade has a limit to the amount of profit that can be made from it."
Opposite Olar, Bertra broke her bread and began to eat. It was very difficult to divert her attention away from anything outside of the house.
"Fundamentally, the amount of profit to be gained in a trade is always balanced between its participants."
"I know that. That's why Milton doesn't want to deal with the trading company anymore and was looking for someone like me."
Olar nodded but continued. "Which means that the company that normally does business with the Post house will see substantially less profit. Do you think they will look kindly upon this? Trading companies are cunning and sly."
"Huh?" Fleur retorted, but soon smiled. "Oh. Don't worry about that. It's the opposite."
Now it was Olar's turn to retort. "The opposite?"
"Yes. The Jones Company that introduced me to Milton did so in order to increase their own profit. Milton was buying clothes from another company and selling them on, but the Jones Company wants his sales expertise for themselves. In exchange for switching sides, Milton had a condition: Find him a different source of funding."
Olar's unwavering eyes were slowly hidden behind his eyelids. A few moments later they opened again, and his gaze moved away from Fleur. "So the procurement comes via the Jones Company."
"That's right. Milton buys from the Jones Company, which helps them break into the clothing business. They establish a relationship with Milton. There's no downside for them at all. Of course"—Fleur paused, briefly proud of herself for speaking so eloquently in front of Olar like this; she got the feeling that he was smiling a bit at her dramatics—"for Milton and me, there's nothing but upsides."
She thought it was perfect.
Milton would be free from the company that had used him and sucked up most of his profits thus far, and in exchange for sharing profit with Milton, the Jones Company would guarantee their own share. And Fleur would receive a tidy fee in exchange for shouldering the risk of the money outlay.
Not only that, but she would gain knowledge of the workings of the clothing trade. Milton could save up, and in the end he might even open his own shop.
In any case, it seemed to Fleur like a magnificent plan, where no one stood to lose.
"Mm." Contrary to Fleur's expectations, Olar did not reply right away. The wrinkles high on his bald head only deepened as he stared down at his soup.
Fleur patiently waited for his reply, but it did not come. Finally, unable to stand the silence, she slowly reached for her soup, bringing it to her mouth. It had mostly cooled, but that made its flavors easier to discern. "It's delicious," Fleur said to Bertra, which finally elicited a smile from her—she had been silent all throughout dinner.
It was only after Fleur asked Bertra for some hot water to cleanse her palate with that Olar finally spoke up.
"Well, if milady concludes as much, then..."
Fleur was at a loss, wondering what he was thinking, which prompted Olar to repeat himself.
"If milady has come to said conclusion, then..."

Output:
"Not at all. There's little to be accomplished even if I did. I'm probably overthinking all this. After all, I'm not young anymore. It makes it all too easy for me to reflect on the things that went wrong for me in the past. And"—Olar took a drink of soup, cocking his head slightly and glancing at Bertra as though to compliment her on it, and his still-handsome features and what remained of his fine, egg white–treated hair was more than enough to invite a smile from her—"you must be given a chance to grow up in your own way, milady. Or the legs you've worked so hard to acquire will weaken."
It was unclear whether or not he was exactly complimenting her, but at the very least he was telling her to work hard and take steps on her own, which was progress—since up until recently he seemed to trust neighborhood errand boys more than he did Fleur.
"A true merchant is one who can learn from her failures."
Fleur smiled. "You're assuming I'm going to fail."
"I did not say that," said Olar, smiling faintly.
Then, noticing that there was no more ale in the cups held in their outstretched hands, Bertra stood and made ready to pour another round. "I'm not an educated woman so such talk is beyond me, but I know my own work," she said sagely.
Nothing was so heartening as being surrounded by family one could trust.
The next day, Fleur woke up early. Well—early by the standards of the nobility, which she knew differed quite a bit from the habits of the common folk. Lately, when Fleur had been woken by Bertra, the latter had already finished a round of housework. As far as Olar was concerned, it went without saying that this day of all days he'd risen early.
Fleur climbed out of bed and quickly combed her hair with a comb Bertra had made for her in what time she could find between housework. Her hair had been cut above the shoulders and offered hardly any resistance at all, so the combing was quickly accomplished. The day after she had cut the long, beautiful hair that was the surest sign of nobility, she had let out a whistle at how much more quickly her morning dressing went.
Long hair could not be properly washed at the sort of water well that would be shared by a large number of townspeople. On top of that, there was no time to spend on daily grooming when there were so many other things to accomplish during the day.
Moreover, it was hardly in her best interest to reveal the fact of her gender while doing business.
Given all that, she had not hesitated to cut it.
The strange thing was that when she actually went through with it, she herself was not the most disturbed by the change. Olar's face had been deeply pained when he had informed her she would have to cut it, and Bertra had flatly opposed it. Fleur had let her hair down and wrapped herself in a large blanket in preparation for the cutting, and while Olar and Bertra argued endlessly about it, she had finally just done it herself.
She still vividly remembered Bertra's cry and had never seen Olar go wide-eyed in exactly that way either before or since.
Fleur did not dislike the image of herself that was reflected in the polished copper plate she used for a mirror. In fact, the first time she had smiled at herself there was after the haircutting. The person she saw was not some noblewoman whose job was simply to exist.
From then on, she would live by her own hands and feet as Fleur Bolan the merchant.
"Right."
There was always a line in front of the well in the morning, so Fleur washed her face with water she had brought in the previous night, rinsing her mouth and sprinkling the rest on the garden, then finally bracing herself for the day.
Shortly thereafter she heard the sound of someone climbing the steps, which was probably Bertra, having heard the sound of the water splashing down.
"Milady?" came the question after a hesitant knock at the door. And no wonder she was surprised. Normally Fleur would not wake up even when her shoulders were shaken.


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

Input:
"Not at all. There's little to be accomplished even if I did. I'm probably overthinking all this. After all, I'm not young anymore. It makes it all too easy for me to reflect on the things that went wrong for me in the past. And"—Olar took a drink of soup, cocking his head slightly and glancing at Bertra as though to compliment her on it, and his still-handsome features and what remained of his fine, egg white–treated hair was more than enough to invite a smile from her—"you must be given a chance to grow up in your own way, milady. Or the legs you've worked so hard to acquire will weaken."
It was unclear whether or not he was exactly complimenting her, but at the very least he was telling her to work hard and take steps on her own, which was progress—since up until recently he seemed to trust neighborhood errand boys more than he did Fleur.
"A true merchant is one who can learn from her failures."
Fleur smiled. "You're assuming I'm going to fail."
"I did not say that," said Olar, smiling faintly.
Then, noticing that there was no more ale in the cups held in their outstretched hands, Bertra stood and made ready to pour another round. "I'm not an educated woman so such talk is beyond me, but I know my own work," she said sagely.
Nothing was so heartening as being surrounded by family one could trust.
The next day, Fleur woke up early. Well—early by the standards of the nobility, which she knew differed quite a bit from the habits of the common folk. Lately, when Fleur had been woken by Bertra, the latter had already finished a round of housework. As far as Olar was concerned, it went without saying that this day of all days he'd risen early.
Fleur climbed out of bed and quickly combed her hair with a comb Bertra had made for her in what time she could find between housework. Her hair had been cut above the shoulders and offered hardly any resistance at all, so the combing was quickly accomplished. The day after she had cut the long, beautiful hair that was the surest sign of nobility, she had let out a whistle at how much more quickly her morning dressing went.
Long hair could not be properly washed at the sort of water well that would be shared by a large number of townspeople. On top of that, there was no time to spend on daily grooming when there were so many other things to accomplish during the day.
Moreover, it was hardly in her best interest to reveal the fact of her gender while doing business.
Given all that, she had not hesitated to cut it.
The strange thing was that when she actually went through with it, she herself was not the most disturbed by the change. Olar's face had been deeply pained when he had informed her she would have to cut it, and Bertra had flatly opposed it. Fleur had let her hair down and wrapped herself in a large blanket in preparation for the cutting, and while Olar and Bertra argued endlessly about it, she had finally just done it herself.
She still vividly remembered Bertra's cry and had never seen Olar go wide-eyed in exactly that way either before or since.
Fleur did not dislike the image of herself that was reflected in the polished copper plate she used for a mirror. In fact, the first time she had smiled at herself there was after the haircutting. The person she saw was not some noblewoman whose job was simply to exist.
From then on, she would live by her own hands and feet as Fleur Bolan the merchant.
"Right."
There was always a line in front of the well in the morning, so Fleur washed her face with water she had brought in the previous night, rinsing her mouth and sprinkling the rest on the garden, then finally bracing herself for the day.
Shortly thereafter she heard the sound of someone climbing the steps, which was probably Bertra, having heard the sound of the water splashing down.
"Milady?" came the question after a hesitant knock at the door. And no wonder she was surprised. Normally Fleur would not wake up even when her shoulders were shaken.

Output:
"Ah, good morning, milady."
"Where's Olar?"
"Er...I believe he's on his usual walk through the marketplace."
She had woken early enough that Olar the watchdog was not here to bark at her. Fleur knew what she would say.
"Well, then, I'd like some breakfast. Bread with a bit of cheese. And just a bit of wine."
Breakfast was a privilege reserved for the noble and the wealthy. It was proof of prosperity. One of the hardest things about leaving the manor was the immediate loss of breakfast.
Bertra's eyes widened. "Well...," she said, and after thinking a moment with her eyes downcast, she slowly looked around, then smiled a small smile. "If you'll give me just a moment."
No doubt this was her way of rewarding Fleur for waking up so promptly.
In return for this, Fleur embraced Bertra. Bertra giggled and turned to go.
The clucking of the chickens could be heard from the garden, and the morning was very fresh.
After cleaning up evidence of the breakfast—evidence that had to be kept from Olar—Fleur put on her cloak and carefully covered her head in her scarf.
"Goodness, are you leaving so early?" said Bertra, surprised, as she dried her hands on her apron.
"I'm heading to the port. Tell Olar where I've gone."
"Very well, milady," said Bertra, and then continued in a low, indistinct voice. "It's surprising...Somehow I've gotten used to seeing you in those clothes."
It was an honest admission from Bertra, though it did not displease Fleur to hear it. She spun around in her cloak. "I'm off," she said in an affected, dramatic voice.
"Take care," said Bertra with a long-suffering smile that was very like her.
Upon leaving the house, Fleur found that the morning air was very pleasant. The cold, dry winter had ended, and each day was warmer than the last, the air smelling as fresh as the heart of the forest. The shadows cast by the buildings and trees in the morning sunlight felt somehow deeper and sharper than usual.
When spring came, it would bring blossoms that bloomed and scattered, and then the season would turn vivid green.
Fleur stepped lightly to avoid a merchant dragging a line of goats all tied together. Her destination was a loading dock at the port, where she would meet someone.
Many streets led to the docks, the port town's center of trade, where many ships arrived every day. The cargo had to be unloaded quickly—as quickly as possible and moving as much as could be moved.
Most of the dockworkers arose before the sun, and by the time the clergymen in the church were ringing the morning bells, the port was already buzzing with work. The working hours for craftsmen in the town were strictly controlled, but the port was an exception. A damaged ship on the verge of sinking could not be turned away just because it happened to arrive outside of working hours—or so the excuse went, and it was probably only half-true.
But the market would not open just because a mule hauling goods there was about to collapse from exhaustion.
"Right, this is everything! God be with you!" shouted a shirtless dockworker, slapping the side of a wagon as he finished loading it. But the din of the port was such that even this shout was soon lost in the tumult.
Once the sun rose, even the oldest, feeblest merchant would be able to move his goods.
This was also the hour, apparently, when travelers setting out from the port were most numerous. The many companies' docks were crowded with wagons, horses, and people, all making ready to leave. Between them wove errand boys carrying messages between ships and companies, merchants carefully counting boxes to make sure nothing was forgotten during loading, and beggars collecting the salt that spilled from the tightly packed barrels of salt-preserved herring.
It was a mad throng.
In the midst of all the goods, one would want to leave as soon as possible—but the moment one did, they would begin to miss it. It took time to get used to.


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

Input:
"Ah, good morning, milady."
"Where's Olar?"
"Er...I believe he's on his usual walk through the marketplace."
She had woken early enough that Olar the watchdog was not here to bark at her. Fleur knew what she would say.
"Well, then, I'd like some breakfast. Bread with a bit of cheese. And just a bit of wine."
Breakfast was a privilege reserved for the noble and the wealthy. It was proof of prosperity. One of the hardest things about leaving the manor was the immediate loss of breakfast.
Bertra's eyes widened. "Well...," she said, and after thinking a moment with her eyes downcast, she slowly looked around, then smiled a small smile. "If you'll give me just a moment."
No doubt this was her way of rewarding Fleur for waking up so promptly.
In return for this, Fleur embraced Bertra. Bertra giggled and turned to go.
The clucking of the chickens could be heard from the garden, and the morning was very fresh.
After cleaning up evidence of the breakfast—evidence that had to be kept from Olar—Fleur put on her cloak and carefully covered her head in her scarf.
"Goodness, are you leaving so early?" said Bertra, surprised, as she dried her hands on her apron.
"I'm heading to the port. Tell Olar where I've gone."
"Very well, milady," said Bertra, and then continued in a low, indistinct voice. "It's surprising...Somehow I've gotten used to seeing you in those clothes."
It was an honest admission from Bertra, though it did not displease Fleur to hear it. She spun around in her cloak. "I'm off," she said in an affected, dramatic voice.
"Take care," said Bertra with a long-suffering smile that was very like her.
Upon leaving the house, Fleur found that the morning air was very pleasant. The cold, dry winter had ended, and each day was warmer than the last, the air smelling as fresh as the heart of the forest. The shadows cast by the buildings and trees in the morning sunlight felt somehow deeper and sharper than usual.
When spring came, it would bring blossoms that bloomed and scattered, and then the season would turn vivid green.
Fleur stepped lightly to avoid a merchant dragging a line of goats all tied together. Her destination was a loading dock at the port, where she would meet someone.
Many streets led to the docks, the port town's center of trade, where many ships arrived every day. The cargo had to be unloaded quickly—as quickly as possible and moving as much as could be moved.
Most of the dockworkers arose before the sun, and by the time the clergymen in the church were ringing the morning bells, the port was already buzzing with work. The working hours for craftsmen in the town were strictly controlled, but the port was an exception. A damaged ship on the verge of sinking could not be turned away just because it happened to arrive outside of working hours—or so the excuse went, and it was probably only half-true.
But the market would not open just because a mule hauling goods there was about to collapse from exhaustion.
"Right, this is everything! God be with you!" shouted a shirtless dockworker, slapping the side of a wagon as he finished loading it. But the din of the port was such that even this shout was soon lost in the tumult.
Once the sun rose, even the oldest, feeblest merchant would be able to move his goods.
This was also the hour, apparently, when travelers setting out from the port were most numerous. The many companies' docks were crowded with wagons, horses, and people, all making ready to leave. Between them wove errand boys carrying messages between ships and companies, merchants carefully counting boxes to make sure nothing was forgotten during loading, and beggars collecting the salt that spilled from the tightly packed barrels of salt-preserved herring.
It was a mad throng.
In the midst of all the goods, one would want to leave as soon as possible—but the moment one did, they would begin to miss it. It took time to get used to.

Output:
"This is the last? Huh? Twenty?! It's fine! They should be there!"
She soon spotted a young man shouting directions to the horsemen fastening goods to a stout horse. There in the midst of shirtless men with arms as thick and strong as their legs, he stood out like a poet on a battlefield.
"Right, I'll be off! We'll meet atop the hill! God be with you!" He probably didn't have to shout so loudly, but the man couldn't seem to help raising his voice amid the hustle and bustle around him.
Fleur found it a bit amusing, and she approached the man who held the horse's reins.
The man noticed her just as he was finishing his inspection and making ready to take the horse on its way. "Ah—"
"Morning." She had wondered how politely to greet him, but when the time came, it was a casual greeting that escaped her lips.
Milton glanced at his cargo, then looked back to Fleur and returned her greeting. "And good morning to you."
"I'm glad I caught you in time."
"Ha-ha, I didn't dare to hope you'd come today," said Milton with a smile, the breath escaping his mouth in puffs of white in the still-chilly air. He looked past the horse, and after waving his hand broadly, he began to lead the horse. "Mind walking with me?"
"Not at all."
Fleur drew alongside Milton as they began to walk.
There were many sorts of people who all fell under the title of "nobility." Some lived in towns, others in forests, others atop hills with grand views. Some even lived in monasteries built on great plains.
The noblemen Milton was now going to deal with were a well-known family who controlled a forest and its adjacent river.
Fleur had not been sleeping well over the past few days, but her youthful, fine features were just as sharp as always. As they cut through the crowds, she did not embarrass herself with a single yawn. Beneath her scarf she took deep breaths, careful not to have them noticed. As a merchant, she had to appear calm.
"So, about our recent discussion," Fleur began, once they had joined the avenue that led away from the port and the landscape changed from trading houses and companies to inns and taverns. She did not continue, though, and not because she had collided with someone else on the crowded street. It was because Milton smiled as he led the horse.
"It something amusing to you?" If she hadn't been wearing the scarf around her head, she probably would have exposed even more of her own ignorance.
Or Milton would have been even meaner.
"Ah, apologies," Milton said, covering his mouth.
Fleur could not be truly angry, because Milton's expression seemed genuinely pleased. His smile was a kind one. It was too pleasant a morning to rage at someone with such a smile.
"It just seemed mysterious to me, that's all."
"Mysterious?" asked Fleur.
Milton smiled apologetically. Fleur looked away, but not because she was angry. Milton was her trading partner. She reminded herself of that emphatically.
"Yes, mysterious. A year or two ago...or even just a short while ago, if you'd stood beside me and asked about 'our recent discussion,' my heart might well have thudded right out of my chest."
The horse's hooves clop-clopped as it walked along.
Fleur closed her eyes, trying to calm herself with the monotonous sound of the horse's footsteps.
It was indeed just as Milton said. Time had certainly changed them both.
"Of course, I can't say my heart is exactly at ease right now, either," said Milton with a smile.
When Fleur finally realized she was being teased, she grinned as though she was not wearing the scarf at all.
"My apologies for teasing you. Now then, what do you think of my business proposal?"
They were out of the center of town and now starting to see more travelers and visitors from other towns. Craftsmen's shops lined both sides of the street, and young apprentices bustled around here and there as they prepared for work. The bakeries were already buzzing with activity, and the sinfully delicious smell of baking bread wafted about.


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

Input:
"This is the last? Huh? Twenty?! It's fine! They should be there!"
She soon spotted a young man shouting directions to the horsemen fastening goods to a stout horse. There in the midst of shirtless men with arms as thick and strong as their legs, he stood out like a poet on a battlefield.
"Right, I'll be off! We'll meet atop the hill! God be with you!" He probably didn't have to shout so loudly, but the man couldn't seem to help raising his voice amid the hustle and bustle around him.
Fleur found it a bit amusing, and she approached the man who held the horse's reins.
The man noticed her just as he was finishing his inspection and making ready to take the horse on its way. "Ah—"
"Morning." She had wondered how politely to greet him, but when the time came, it was a casual greeting that escaped her lips.
Milton glanced at his cargo, then looked back to Fleur and returned her greeting. "And good morning to you."
"I'm glad I caught you in time."
"Ha-ha, I didn't dare to hope you'd come today," said Milton with a smile, the breath escaping his mouth in puffs of white in the still-chilly air. He looked past the horse, and after waving his hand broadly, he began to lead the horse. "Mind walking with me?"
"Not at all."
Fleur drew alongside Milton as they began to walk.
There were many sorts of people who all fell under the title of "nobility." Some lived in towns, others in forests, others atop hills with grand views. Some even lived in monasteries built on great plains.
The noblemen Milton was now going to deal with were a well-known family who controlled a forest and its adjacent river.
Fleur had not been sleeping well over the past few days, but her youthful, fine features were just as sharp as always. As they cut through the crowds, she did not embarrass herself with a single yawn. Beneath her scarf she took deep breaths, careful not to have them noticed. As a merchant, she had to appear calm.
"So, about our recent discussion," Fleur began, once they had joined the avenue that led away from the port and the landscape changed from trading houses and companies to inns and taverns. She did not continue, though, and not because she had collided with someone else on the crowded street. It was because Milton smiled as he led the horse.
"It something amusing to you?" If she hadn't been wearing the scarf around her head, she probably would have exposed even more of her own ignorance.
Or Milton would have been even meaner.
"Ah, apologies," Milton said, covering his mouth.
Fleur could not be truly angry, because Milton's expression seemed genuinely pleased. His smile was a kind one. It was too pleasant a morning to rage at someone with such a smile.
"It just seemed mysterious to me, that's all."
"Mysterious?" asked Fleur.
Milton smiled apologetically. Fleur looked away, but not because she was angry. Milton was her trading partner. She reminded herself of that emphatically.
"Yes, mysterious. A year or two ago...or even just a short while ago, if you'd stood beside me and asked about 'our recent discussion,' my heart might well have thudded right out of my chest."
The horse's hooves clop-clopped as it walked along.
Fleur closed her eyes, trying to calm herself with the monotonous sound of the horse's footsteps.
It was indeed just as Milton said. Time had certainly changed them both.
"Of course, I can't say my heart is exactly at ease right now, either," said Milton with a smile.
When Fleur finally realized she was being teased, she grinned as though she was not wearing the scarf at all.
"My apologies for teasing you. Now then, what do you think of my business proposal?"
They were out of the center of town and now starting to see more travelers and visitors from other towns. Craftsmen's shops lined both sides of the street, and young apprentices bustled around here and there as they prepared for work. The bakeries were already buzzing with activity, and the sinfully delicious smell of baking bread wafted about.

Output:
"Truly?"
"I do not lie," she countered.
Feeling like a true merchant, she exhaled slowly beneath her scarf. But when she saw Milton's face shift from surprise to happiness, she suddenly felt very small and petty.
Now she truly understood what the term shining eyes referred to.
"Thank you...very much." He spoke slowly, pausing in the middle to take a breath.
"Of...of course," she replied, her voice muffled by the scarf, knowing how foolish she must sound.
Fleur cleared her throat and thought back to what Olar had said. His advice was always good.
"I was up all night thinking about it, and I have decided to accept your proposal."
"I see...truly, my thanks to you."
***
His boyish smile hit her yet again, and she fought to keep her equilibrium. Looking ahead, she feigned composure and took the opportunity to calm herself. "Still, between the buying and the selling of the clothing, is there truly no cause for worry?"
"No, the trading company that introduced you to me, Miss Fleur, is sincerely trying to cooperate with me, I'm sure."
Thinking on Olar's sharp eyes, Fleur continued her questioning. "Can they be trusted? You don't imagine they're doing this merely to obstruct other companies?"
"Well, that's always a possibility, of course. But think of it this way: Clothes are light and can be packed very tightly aboard a ship. And the more you're moving, the lower your shipping expenses are per unit. But that's nothing if you fail to sell it. On the other hand, if you believe you can sell it all, then the more you can buy up the greater your profit margin, and because you're selling a lot, your profits are boosted yet again. The Jones Company is desperately trying to become the largest company at this port. Was your price beaten badly down?"
Milton's smile was a rueful one, perhaps because he was not speaking ill of the company they were using in order to convince her.
But Fleur was strangely ready to accept this. The sense that they each would do anything for their own self-interest was very clear.
Milton continued. "Everyone's trying to get away with something. I can understand why you would be suspicious."
Fleur, a girl who had once been a proper lady and known nothing of the world, drew her chin in at these words.
"Everyone—everyone!—is putting their own self-interest first. I'm no different, of course."
"If that's so—" Fleur began, but shut her mouth.
If that's so, then why should I trust you?
Had she actually said those words out loud, she would have looked like a child who could be counted upon to try to argue with anything. Fortunately, thanks to a mighty effort of self-control, she had managed to avoid embarrassing herself.
And yet Fleur did not know if she was successfully hiding her feelings. Such childish words were trying to come out of her mouth because other feelings swirled about in her chest.
She looked at Milton through the gap in her scarf.
He had youthful, noble, sensible features, and his expression was soft and his voice quiet as he spoke. "It may sound like a poor joke, but this is truly all I can say—"
They had arrived at the edge of town, and Milton stopped.
"—Please, at least trust me."
She realized a moment later that her own smile was narrowing her view.
Here at the inspection station at the edge of town there were farmers from nearby villages bringing goods in, and as the sun climbed higher, the last travelers to set out were paying their taxes and arguing with the inspectors.
There were oxen and horses, and along with the poultry in various wagons, it was a very noisy place.
But none of that noise seemed to penetrate Fleur's attention.
"...That's not a very convincing case."
"I know. I wasn't even able to get you to remember my face."
Fleur very clearly laughed under her scarf, then took a breath. Maybe being driven from the manor had not been such a bad fate.
"Push, pull, push again...
"Catch a butterfly, a cat, a hair, a fox..."


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

Input:
"Truly?"
"I do not lie," she countered.
Feeling like a true merchant, she exhaled slowly beneath her scarf. But when she saw Milton's face shift from surprise to happiness, she suddenly felt very small and petty.
Now she truly understood what the term shining eyes referred to.
"Thank you...very much." He spoke slowly, pausing in the middle to take a breath.
"Of...of course," she replied, her voice muffled by the scarf, knowing how foolish she must sound.
Fleur cleared her throat and thought back to what Olar had said. His advice was always good.
"I was up all night thinking about it, and I have decided to accept your proposal."
"I see...truly, my thanks to you."
***
His boyish smile hit her yet again, and she fought to keep her equilibrium. Looking ahead, she feigned composure and took the opportunity to calm herself. "Still, between the buying and the selling of the clothing, is there truly no cause for worry?"
"No, the trading company that introduced you to me, Miss Fleur, is sincerely trying to cooperate with me, I'm sure."
Thinking on Olar's sharp eyes, Fleur continued her questioning. "Can they be trusted? You don't imagine they're doing this merely to obstruct other companies?"
"Well, that's always a possibility, of course. But think of it this way: Clothes are light and can be packed very tightly aboard a ship. And the more you're moving, the lower your shipping expenses are per unit. But that's nothing if you fail to sell it. On the other hand, if you believe you can sell it all, then the more you can buy up the greater your profit margin, and because you're selling a lot, your profits are boosted yet again. The Jones Company is desperately trying to become the largest company at this port. Was your price beaten badly down?"
Milton's smile was a rueful one, perhaps because he was not speaking ill of the company they were using in order to convince her.
But Fleur was strangely ready to accept this. The sense that they each would do anything for their own self-interest was very clear.
Milton continued. "Everyone's trying to get away with something. I can understand why you would be suspicious."
Fleur, a girl who had once been a proper lady and known nothing of the world, drew her chin in at these words.
"Everyone—everyone!—is putting their own self-interest first. I'm no different, of course."
"If that's so—" Fleur began, but shut her mouth.
If that's so, then why should I trust you?
Had she actually said those words out loud, she would have looked like a child who could be counted upon to try to argue with anything. Fortunately, thanks to a mighty effort of self-control, she had managed to avoid embarrassing herself.
And yet Fleur did not know if she was successfully hiding her feelings. Such childish words were trying to come out of her mouth because other feelings swirled about in her chest.
She looked at Milton through the gap in her scarf.
He had youthful, noble, sensible features, and his expression was soft and his voice quiet as he spoke. "It may sound like a poor joke, but this is truly all I can say—"
They had arrived at the edge of town, and Milton stopped.
"—Please, at least trust me."
She realized a moment later that her own smile was narrowing her view.
Here at the inspection station at the edge of town there were farmers from nearby villages bringing goods in, and as the sun climbed higher, the last travelers to set out were paying their taxes and arguing with the inspectors.
There were oxen and horses, and along with the poultry in various wagons, it was a very noisy place.
But none of that noise seemed to penetrate Fleur's attention.
"...That's not a very convincing case."
"I know. I wasn't even able to get you to remember my face."
Fleur very clearly laughed under her scarf, then took a breath. Maybe being driven from the manor had not been such a bad fate.
"Push, pull, push again...
"Catch a butterfly, a cat, a hair, a fox..."

Output:
Fleur and Milton shared merry laughter, which eventually faded like ripples in water.
Fleur then let quiet words slip from her lips. "I'll trust you, then."
It was not a long statement, but far weightier than the lengthy contracts merchants so frequently drew up.
Milton nodded seriously, then let go of the horse's reins. "I shall rely on it."
Fleur took his offered hand. "As will I," she replied.
Milton then immediately retook the reins, looking at the horse, then back to Fleur. "I'd like to stay here, if possible."
His earnest face was too earnest by half.
"Surprisingly skillful words."
"The moment of falling is decided in the manner of parting."
"To feign interest so that I lie awake all night unable to think of anything but you?" Fleur herself was surprised at how smoothly the words slipped from her mouth. It was surprisingly refreshing to dust off the rusted old mask of nobility that had lain buried at the bottom of her mind for so long.
"If my hand is so easy to read, perhaps I'm unfit to be a merchant."
"Oh? I haven't even yet asked when next we might meet."
It was not such a bad thing to play the part of a nobleman's daughter, pining away for her knight so desperately that a single day felt like an eternity.
"In the evening, three days hence."
"I shall be waiting." Her body moved of its own accord—no doubt her noble blood reasserting itself. Her chin rose, but she still lowered it and averted her eyes deceptively.
Milton pretended not to notice. "If you'll excuse me," he said and began to walk away. The clop, clop of his horse's hooves faded into the distance.
"In the evening, three days hence." She murmured the words to herself as she watched Milton's form recede, and for the first time, she realized her hand was clasped to her breast. She hastily removed it, smoothing the wrinkled material of her clothing.
Milton greeted the guard at the inspection station and passed through unhindered.
He looked back only once.
Fleur turned and walked the opposite direction, as though she did not care about Milton at all. She could not bear to look at him any longer.
"In the evening, three days hence."
As she headed back into the city's tumult as it awakened and began to work, Fleur repeated the words to herself again, as though they were the name of some treasure.
The spring sun shone down.
In the city, buildings were packed so closely to one another that it was sometimes impossible to even slip a single piece of paper between the houses. Where once sunlight could be taken for granted, now it was a luxury commodity. And when even something that fell in unlimited quantities from the heavens was a luxury, life on the earth was hard indeed.
Such idle thoughts ran through Fleur's mind as she leaned on the windowsill and rested her chin in her hands, watching songbirds gather around the midday meal's leftover crusts.
"Milady," came an ill-timed voice, finally.
But Fleur was not angry as she continued to stare out the window, because even she knew that it was Olar, who had the right to anger.
"Milady!" The birds flew off at the suddenly loud voice.
At this, Fleur finally raised her head and turned lazily in the direction of the voice. "Why must you yell so?"
"If yelling is what convinces you to listen, then yell I shall!"
"Yes, yes...it's just, the weather is so fine..." Fleur yawned, then stretched grandly in the chair.
On the desk were several sheets of paper as well as a quill pen and ink. One of the sheets was covered in smooth-handed writing.
It was a list of common words and phrases used in contracts between merchants. It included terms like purchase and disposal, loan and borrow, and all their usages, as well as all the ways one might pray to God.
Merchants had a whole vocabulary unique to them, as they often had cause to trade with people from far-flung lands. Small trades were one thing, but misreading a single line or clause in a contract involving fortunes could utterly ruin a merchant in a single instant.


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

Input:
Fleur and Milton shared merry laughter, which eventually faded like ripples in water.
Fleur then let quiet words slip from her lips. "I'll trust you, then."
It was not a long statement, but far weightier than the lengthy contracts merchants so frequently drew up.
Milton nodded seriously, then let go of the horse's reins. "I shall rely on it."
Fleur took his offered hand. "As will I," she replied.
Milton then immediately retook the reins, looking at the horse, then back to Fleur. "I'd like to stay here, if possible."
His earnest face was too earnest by half.
"Surprisingly skillful words."
"The moment of falling is decided in the manner of parting."
"To feign interest so that I lie awake all night unable to think of anything but you?" Fleur herself was surprised at how smoothly the words slipped from her mouth. It was surprisingly refreshing to dust off the rusted old mask of nobility that had lain buried at the bottom of her mind for so long.
"If my hand is so easy to read, perhaps I'm unfit to be a merchant."
"Oh? I haven't even yet asked when next we might meet."
It was not such a bad thing to play the part of a nobleman's daughter, pining away for her knight so desperately that a single day felt like an eternity.
"In the evening, three days hence."
"I shall be waiting." Her body moved of its own accord—no doubt her noble blood reasserting itself. Her chin rose, but she still lowered it and averted her eyes deceptively.
Milton pretended not to notice. "If you'll excuse me," he said and began to walk away. The clop, clop of his horse's hooves faded into the distance.
"In the evening, three days hence." She murmured the words to herself as she watched Milton's form recede, and for the first time, she realized her hand was clasped to her breast. She hastily removed it, smoothing the wrinkled material of her clothing.
Milton greeted the guard at the inspection station and passed through unhindered.
He looked back only once.
Fleur turned and walked the opposite direction, as though she did not care about Milton at all. She could not bear to look at him any longer.
"In the evening, three days hence."
As she headed back into the city's tumult as it awakened and began to work, Fleur repeated the words to herself again, as though they were the name of some treasure.
The spring sun shone down.
In the city, buildings were packed so closely to one another that it was sometimes impossible to even slip a single piece of paper between the houses. Where once sunlight could be taken for granted, now it was a luxury commodity. And when even something that fell in unlimited quantities from the heavens was a luxury, life on the earth was hard indeed.
Such idle thoughts ran through Fleur's mind as she leaned on the windowsill and rested her chin in her hands, watching songbirds gather around the midday meal's leftover crusts.
"Milady," came an ill-timed voice, finally.
But Fleur was not angry as she continued to stare out the window, because even she knew that it was Olar, who had the right to anger.
"Milady!" The birds flew off at the suddenly loud voice.
At this, Fleur finally raised her head and turned lazily in the direction of the voice. "Why must you yell so?"
"If yelling is what convinces you to listen, then yell I shall!"
"Yes, yes...it's just, the weather is so fine..." Fleur yawned, then stretched grandly in the chair.
On the desk were several sheets of paper as well as a quill pen and ink. One of the sheets was covered in smooth-handed writing.
It was a list of common words and phrases used in contracts between merchants. It included terms like purchase and disposal, loan and borrow, and all their usages, as well as all the ways one might pray to God.
Merchants had a whole vocabulary unique to them, as they often had cause to trade with people from far-flung lands. Small trades were one thing, but misreading a single line or clause in a contract involving fortunes could utterly ruin a merchant in a single instant.

Output:
Fleur thought on Olar's exaggerated warnings and turned over another sheet of paper. On it was a large table of currencies and their names. Beside the names were the exchanges rates with other coins, all of which seemed like so much esoteric spell craft to Fleur.
But to become a proper merchant, she had to have a general grasp of such knowledge. She didn't have to be told as much to know it was true.
"Milady," came the flat voice, the one that came out when he was truly angry.
Fleur looked back at Olar, then furrowed her brow. "Don't be so angry at me. I hate being like this myself, you know."
Olar was clever enough to know she wasn't talking about her restlessness in the face of the nice weather.
The wrinkles in his forehead reached all the way to the top of his head, and he regarded her with a single open eye—which meant his next words had been very carefully considered. Olar was both extremely clever and possessed of a deep sense of duty.
Even in the face of such foolishness on Fleur's part, his treatment of her was meticulously courteous.
"Milady, as your ledger keeper and your tutor, I must speak my mind."
"Mm," replied Fleur, whereupon she was met by the following words.
"Be careful not to misunderstand the truth."
It was an irritating insinuation to hear. Merchants excelled at constructing such maddeningly vague statements, and if she tried to turn it back upon him, there was no telling how many different ways he could twist the meaning.
Hearing those words, her smile clouded over as she hit upon the realization.
Olar rubbed his head and continued. "I don't particularly wish to say this, but the master of the Post family came to prosperity by wooing the widow of the former lord. Rumors swirl that the disposition of all the family lands and wealth is decided within ladies' bedchambers. What I mean is—"
"What you mean is that Milton, being of that blood, is an unparalleled rake." Fleur stared at the wall behind the desk as the words were drawn out of her.
Perhaps the songbirds outside the window had returned; their chirped songs could be heard coming through it. Perhaps the high voice that joined them was a child, scampering around on the streets.
Then the low sigh of the house's wise man joined them.
"After all, he is Milton, a man who trades with the nobility. Surely it's so, is it not? And I'm a mere girl."
"...I would not go that far, but..."
"It's fine. I know it myself. My feet aren't on the ground. It feels like if I were to jump from the windowsill there, I could just fly away," Fleur said, narrowing her eyes at the bright sunlight that shone down onto the courtyard garden.
Olar opened his mouth to speak, but in the end, he swallowed his words. His old master had been Fleur's former husband. And he'd seen every detail of how she had been wedded to the man. Fleur knew that Olar felt more agony over the union than she had.
There was probably a degree of atonement in the way he had come to her aid when the Bolan house had fallen, leaving her on the verge of wandering the road alone. And so even when this poor daughter of fallen nobility found herself stricken with something that couldn't really be called love, he still felt it would be cruel to make her just throw it away.
That was probably it.
It was just a guess, of course, but she doubted it was far from the mark—and might well have been exactly right.
Fleur returned her gaze to the room and smiled self-consciously. "But business is business. People change when profit is involved. Isn't that right?" It was one of the things Olar had taught her.
The grizzled old merchant nodded regretfully but nonetheless firmly.
"Anyway, you can't put any trust in what someone says with their mouth. That's—"
"The mark of a true merchant, milady."
He skillfully completed her thought, and she managed to give him a natural-looking smile.
The kindly old merchant was obviously relieved to see this, which meant that her own course of action was clear.


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

Input:
Fleur thought on Olar's exaggerated warnings and turned over another sheet of paper. On it was a large table of currencies and their names. Beside the names were the exchanges rates with other coins, all of which seemed like so much esoteric spell craft to Fleur.
But to become a proper merchant, she had to have a general grasp of such knowledge. She didn't have to be told as much to know it was true.
"Milady," came the flat voice, the one that came out when he was truly angry.
Fleur looked back at Olar, then furrowed her brow. "Don't be so angry at me. I hate being like this myself, you know."
Olar was clever enough to know she wasn't talking about her restlessness in the face of the nice weather.
The wrinkles in his forehead reached all the way to the top of his head, and he regarded her with a single open eye—which meant his next words had been very carefully considered. Olar was both extremely clever and possessed of a deep sense of duty.
Even in the face of such foolishness on Fleur's part, his treatment of her was meticulously courteous.
"Milady, as your ledger keeper and your tutor, I must speak my mind."
"Mm," replied Fleur, whereupon she was met by the following words.
"Be careful not to misunderstand the truth."
It was an irritating insinuation to hear. Merchants excelled at constructing such maddeningly vague statements, and if she tried to turn it back upon him, there was no telling how many different ways he could twist the meaning.
Hearing those words, her smile clouded over as she hit upon the realization.
Olar rubbed his head and continued. "I don't particularly wish to say this, but the master of the Post family came to prosperity by wooing the widow of the former lord. Rumors swirl that the disposition of all the family lands and wealth is decided within ladies' bedchambers. What I mean is—"
"What you mean is that Milton, being of that blood, is an unparalleled rake." Fleur stared at the wall behind the desk as the words were drawn out of her.
Perhaps the songbirds outside the window had returned; their chirped songs could be heard coming through it. Perhaps the high voice that joined them was a child, scampering around on the streets.
Then the low sigh of the house's wise man joined them.
"After all, he is Milton, a man who trades with the nobility. Surely it's so, is it not? And I'm a mere girl."
"...I would not go that far, but..."
"It's fine. I know it myself. My feet aren't on the ground. It feels like if I were to jump from the windowsill there, I could just fly away," Fleur said, narrowing her eyes at the bright sunlight that shone down onto the courtyard garden.
Olar opened his mouth to speak, but in the end, he swallowed his words. His old master had been Fleur's former husband. And he'd seen every detail of how she had been wedded to the man. Fleur knew that Olar felt more agony over the union than she had.
There was probably a degree of atonement in the way he had come to her aid when the Bolan house had fallen, leaving her on the verge of wandering the road alone. And so even when this poor daughter of fallen nobility found herself stricken with something that couldn't really be called love, he still felt it would be cruel to make her just throw it away.
That was probably it.
It was just a guess, of course, but she doubted it was far from the mark—and might well have been exactly right.
Fleur returned her gaze to the room and smiled self-consciously. "But business is business. People change when profit is involved. Isn't that right?" It was one of the things Olar had taught her.
The grizzled old merchant nodded regretfully but nonetheless firmly.
"Anyway, you can't put any trust in what someone says with their mouth. That's—"
"The mark of a true merchant, milady."
He skillfully completed her thought, and she managed to give him a natural-looking smile.
The kindly old merchant was obviously relieved to see this, which meant that her own course of action was clear.

Output:
"I'll do it. I'll do it, all right? So would you kindly leave me to it?"
Olar took a moment to think this over, then took his leave of her with exaggerated politeness.
Fleur continued to face the door after it was closed, smiling in spite of herself.
They were both so kind to her. She knew she had to make sure their trust wasn't misplaced and to protect them.
Fleur scratched her nose lightly, shrugging her shoulders in amusement at her own ambition. She then picked the quill pen up and turned to the material on the desk with renewed seriousness.
Trusting a man's word that upon their parting he would return in three days was the stuff of silly poetry and had no place in the real world, and Fleur was well aware that trading did not always proceed according to plan.
On the evening of the fourth day, when a message arrived from Milton saying that there had been a delay and he would be unable to return for a time, Fleur was not particularly disappointed. If anything, the news seemed to affect Olar more.
And it was not as though she was sitting in her room basking in sunbeams as she waited for him. The days were very busy.
The Jones Company, which had introduced her to Milton, contacted her to inquire about the purchase of hay, and for a week she was a frequent visitor to the portside trading company.
In the morning and evenings she received impromptu lessons from Olar about clothing, on subjects like knitted woolen fabrics and woven linens. However, be the components animal or vegetable in origin, or even something she had never heard of originating in some far-off land, it was doubtful whether what she learned of them then and there would last two days.
After all, in the case of something like wool, the places where they were born differed from where they were raised, as did the locations of shearing and dyeing. And there was the matter of the towns where spinning and weaving guilds did their work, to say nothing of fulling or milling. There was no room for her to remember which goods then sold most easily at which towns.
Even if she could memorize everything Olar knew off the top of his head, Fleur herself doubted it was really sinking in.
She even talked about her struggles with one of the traders she saw on her trips to the trading company—surprisingly, the same man who'd tried to underpay her before.
The man—whose name was Hans—smiled as he sympathized with her. "It was the same for me."
"Really?" Fleur couldn't help saying out of pure surprise.
"Of course. There's so much to remember, and trying to pack it all into my head, it felt like I was going to forget my own name," said Hans, the same man who'd tried to renege on his promised price after Fleur had hauled stinking herring up and musty, dusty hay down.
Fleur felt shocked out of her own skin.
"But you've got nothing to complain about given that fine tutor of yours. Us apprentices get nothing but the strap or the rolling pin if we're unlucky enough to work for a baker."
"Olar...er, I mean, that 'fine tutor' said the same thing. I was so sure he was making it up!" Fleur laughed, which made Hans roll up his shirtsleeves and bare his arms.
"This is from when I was whipped. I was learning to write, using shells on slate, and I'd gotten white all the way up to my elbow. The dust was beat clean off me." Next he pointed to a spot on his left arm where hair no longer naturally grew. "And here's where I burned myself with a candle trying to keep awake late one night."
He spoke of the memories as though they were pleasant ones, but even those who seemed like they were born knowing everything about the world had suffered and toiled to gain that wisdom. Fleur could understand, then, why he might have looked down on her or regarded her with a certain amount of derision. It must have been irritating to anyone who had worked so hard when someone like Fleur demanded to be treated as a peer, despite not having earned the right.


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

Input:
"I'll do it. I'll do it, all right? So would you kindly leave me to it?"
Olar took a moment to think this over, then took his leave of her with exaggerated politeness.
Fleur continued to face the door after it was closed, smiling in spite of herself.
They were both so kind to her. She knew she had to make sure their trust wasn't misplaced and to protect them.
Fleur scratched her nose lightly, shrugging her shoulders in amusement at her own ambition. She then picked the quill pen up and turned to the material on the desk with renewed seriousness.
Trusting a man's word that upon their parting he would return in three days was the stuff of silly poetry and had no place in the real world, and Fleur was well aware that trading did not always proceed according to plan.
On the evening of the fourth day, when a message arrived from Milton saying that there had been a delay and he would be unable to return for a time, Fleur was not particularly disappointed. If anything, the news seemed to affect Olar more.
And it was not as though she was sitting in her room basking in sunbeams as she waited for him. The days were very busy.
The Jones Company, which had introduced her to Milton, contacted her to inquire about the purchase of hay, and for a week she was a frequent visitor to the portside trading company.
In the morning and evenings she received impromptu lessons from Olar about clothing, on subjects like knitted woolen fabrics and woven linens. However, be the components animal or vegetable in origin, or even something she had never heard of originating in some far-off land, it was doubtful whether what she learned of them then and there would last two days.
After all, in the case of something like wool, the places where they were born differed from where they were raised, as did the locations of shearing and dyeing. And there was the matter of the towns where spinning and weaving guilds did their work, to say nothing of fulling or milling. There was no room for her to remember which goods then sold most easily at which towns.
Even if she could memorize everything Olar knew off the top of his head, Fleur herself doubted it was really sinking in.
She even talked about her struggles with one of the traders she saw on her trips to the trading company—surprisingly, the same man who'd tried to underpay her before.
The man—whose name was Hans—smiled as he sympathized with her. "It was the same for me."
"Really?" Fleur couldn't help saying out of pure surprise.
"Of course. There's so much to remember, and trying to pack it all into my head, it felt like I was going to forget my own name," said Hans, the same man who'd tried to renege on his promised price after Fleur had hauled stinking herring up and musty, dusty hay down.
Fleur felt shocked out of her own skin.
"But you've got nothing to complain about given that fine tutor of yours. Us apprentices get nothing but the strap or the rolling pin if we're unlucky enough to work for a baker."
"Olar...er, I mean, that 'fine tutor' said the same thing. I was so sure he was making it up!" Fleur laughed, which made Hans roll up his shirtsleeves and bare his arms.
"This is from when I was whipped. I was learning to write, using shells on slate, and I'd gotten white all the way up to my elbow. The dust was beat clean off me." Next he pointed to a spot on his left arm where hair no longer naturally grew. "And here's where I burned myself with a candle trying to keep awake late one night."
He spoke of the memories as though they were pleasant ones, but even those who seemed like they were born knowing everything about the world had suffered and toiled to gain that wisdom. Fleur could understand, then, why he might have looked down on her or regarded her with a certain amount of derision. It must have been irritating to anyone who had worked so hard when someone like Fleur demanded to be treated as a peer, despite not having earned the right.

Output:
He hardly needed to finish his statement.
If you work hard, you can succeed—but on the other hand, even a naturally clever child won't get anywhere without hard work.
That confidence was what led merchants to make fun of nobles and kings and led directly to their peculiar strength.
They feared nothing. Fleur found herself asking if that meant they had nothing to lose, nothing they wanted to protect.
"We can't hold a candle to monks," said Hans after a moment of thought, letting a not-unimpressed expression flicker across his face. "Unlike them, we merchants are filled with worldly desires."
"Even monks have the desire for their own salvation, or if not that, for the salvation of others, I should think." The words that came from Fleur's mouth as she looked at Hans were ones Olar often spoke, but now they were her words, spoken as someone who'd seen the monks receive tithes from the Bolan family with her very eyes.
Hans regarded her appraisingly, stroking his chin as he did so.
Until very recently, Fleur might well have found the gesture a rude, cold-blooded one. But now it just seemed to her like a charmingly merchant-like habit.
"You might be right. If so, perhaps we're similar to those monks. Instead of a land without sickness or death, we work for a land without loss or bankruptcy," he said, amused. "'Twould be paradise," he added quietly to himself.
Merchants pursued profit above all else, relentlessly, tirelessly, seeing only that—they regarded all others with suspicion and would betray even a faithful comrade in service to their avarice.
Everything was for profit. Always profit.
Titles like lord or king held no meaning for them. After all, to become a good merchant, one endured lashings and burnt one's own flesh just to stay awake, while a king or lord was such merely by fortunate accident of birth.
"Might I ask you something?" Fleur said. They faced each other, and after all their conversation over the past several days, it seemed silly to hide her face. There just hadn't been an obvious opportunity for her to remove her scarf, but she now did so.
She did not know if he would understand her gesture as the compromise that it was, but his expression as he said, "Please do," was a gentle one.
"What is it that makes you work so hard?" Fleur felt she had an inkling, but she wanted to know for certain.
There might be any number of practical reasons, ones even a girl raised in a forest-rimmed manor could imagine. And yet Fleur asked because she thought he might give another sort of answer—a secret one, one that might validate her own secret hopes.
"Ha, that's what you want to know?"
"I-is it such a strange thing?" She smiled an embarrassed smile, a gesture well practiced from so many banquets with gossipy aristocrats.
"Not at all...I understand the sentiment. I've wanted to ask my own master the same thing, truthfully. But at the moment I'm just one merchant in a vast ocean. Asking me why I work so hard to accomplish so little makes me feel rather embarrassed."
So he had yet to gain anything to show for his effort.
Fleur mused that she would probably have remembered Hans's face forever if this conversation had not come so soon after he'd so brazenly tried to beat down her selling price when she had dealt with his company. For all his avarice, he was awfully humble.
Merchants were a strange bunch.
"I was the fourth son of a poor farmer's family, so I'm fortunate to even be alive. I left home with nowhere to go and nowhere to return to, and when this trading company brought me in, I had no choice but to cling to them. Although in honesty many apprentices did not make it." Hans spoke with a measure of bashfulness, lightly scratching his nose in an effort to hide it. It was a boyish and charming gesture. Eyes used to scorning or mocking others were now tinged with a melancholy nostalgia.


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

Input:
He hardly needed to finish his statement.
If you work hard, you can succeed—but on the other hand, even a naturally clever child won't get anywhere without hard work.
That confidence was what led merchants to make fun of nobles and kings and led directly to their peculiar strength.
They feared nothing. Fleur found herself asking if that meant they had nothing to lose, nothing they wanted to protect.
"We can't hold a candle to monks," said Hans after a moment of thought, letting a not-unimpressed expression flicker across his face. "Unlike them, we merchants are filled with worldly desires."
"Even monks have the desire for their own salvation, or if not that, for the salvation of others, I should think." The words that came from Fleur's mouth as she looked at Hans were ones Olar often spoke, but now they were her words, spoken as someone who'd seen the monks receive tithes from the Bolan family with her very eyes.
Hans regarded her appraisingly, stroking his chin as he did so.
Until very recently, Fleur might well have found the gesture a rude, cold-blooded one. But now it just seemed to her like a charmingly merchant-like habit.
"You might be right. If so, perhaps we're similar to those monks. Instead of a land without sickness or death, we work for a land without loss or bankruptcy," he said, amused. "'Twould be paradise," he added quietly to himself.
Merchants pursued profit above all else, relentlessly, tirelessly, seeing only that—they regarded all others with suspicion and would betray even a faithful comrade in service to their avarice.
Everything was for profit. Always profit.
Titles like lord or king held no meaning for them. After all, to become a good merchant, one endured lashings and burnt one's own flesh just to stay awake, while a king or lord was such merely by fortunate accident of birth.
"Might I ask you something?" Fleur said. They faced each other, and after all their conversation over the past several days, it seemed silly to hide her face. There just hadn't been an obvious opportunity for her to remove her scarf, but she now did so.
She did not know if he would understand her gesture as the compromise that it was, but his expression as he said, "Please do," was a gentle one.
"What is it that makes you work so hard?" Fleur felt she had an inkling, but she wanted to know for certain.
There might be any number of practical reasons, ones even a girl raised in a forest-rimmed manor could imagine. And yet Fleur asked because she thought he might give another sort of answer—a secret one, one that might validate her own secret hopes.
"Ha, that's what you want to know?"
"I-is it such a strange thing?" She smiled an embarrassed smile, a gesture well practiced from so many banquets with gossipy aristocrats.
"Not at all...I understand the sentiment. I've wanted to ask my own master the same thing, truthfully. But at the moment I'm just one merchant in a vast ocean. Asking me why I work so hard to accomplish so little makes me feel rather embarrassed."
So he had yet to gain anything to show for his effort.
Fleur mused that she would probably have remembered Hans's face forever if this conversation had not come so soon after he'd so brazenly tried to beat down her selling price when she had dealt with his company. For all his avarice, he was awfully humble.
Merchants were a strange bunch.
"I was the fourth son of a poor farmer's family, so I'm fortunate to even be alive. I left home with nowhere to go and nowhere to return to, and when this trading company brought me in, I had no choice but to cling to them. Although in honesty many apprentices did not make it." Hans spoke with a measure of bashfulness, lightly scratching his nose in an effort to hide it. It was a boyish and charming gesture. Eyes used to scorning or mocking others were now tinged with a melancholy nostalgia.

Output:
Despite being stymied by the bothersome question, Hans nonetheless seemed to be enjoying the conversation. He fell silent, looking off into the distance.
Fleur turned her gaze from his profile down to her own hands. She wore a smile on her face. Hans's expression was a very familiar one to her. And his silent profile was all the confirmation that she needed of her supposition.
Fleur had had no special love for her husband, but there was one thing about him that she envied—the fact that he had a goal, which he would sacrifice absolutely anything for: pride, faith, friendship, even love. He was not a good man, but he had something that drove him to incredible achievements.
She wanted to see what it was that waited at the end of his vision, just once, and she desperately envied whatever it was that inspired such ecstasy in his eyes. Lately she had come to resent her terrible miser of a husband less and less.
When their ruin had become inevitable, he'd lost forever whatever it was he was looking at. When the house had finally and completely fallen, he hadn't appeared terribly disturbed. Perhaps in his heart, the object of his desire had already been taken from him—whatever it was that was of such value it made enduring any misfortune or suffering worthwhile.
Hans, who spoke of the trials he had suffered a child, was another person chasing that thing.
"I can't really explain it," he said, returning to the present from his reverie. "But it's a feeling of anticipation."
"Anticipation," Fleur repeated, which Hans smiled and shook his head at.
"Forget I said anything. I'm far too young to answer your question."
If he'd refused to answer, treating her like a beggar he was turning away at his doorstep, she probably would have given him a malicious retort here. But he was honestly acknowledging the difficulty of answering the question.
Even knights these days could hardly brag of such honesty.
"It was a strange question. My apologies."
Hans regarded her playfully out of the corner of his eye. "Not at all."
It seemed they had become a little closer. And Fleur had received an answer worth more than mere words.
"Thank you," she said.
They were honestly, modestly, and above all greedily running down that road.
After this short exchange, they turned to talk of bringing in another load of hay, but Fleur's feelings toward doing so had completely changed.
Completely unaware that the hay had come from the former lands of the house of Bolan, Hans was very interested in learning which hay was best and who to talk to at which villages in order to ensure smooth trading. He was showing real courtesy, which Fleur had long since realized was because she was now in a position to help him profit.
But where once she would have found this courtesy for profit to be somehow ignoble and shabby, she realized the truth was a bit different. Merchants did not advance on the virtue that came easily to born philosophers and wise men. They endured whippings and beatings and still struggled onward.
And if someone happened to help them in their struggle—well, of course such a person should be treated with courtesy.
Fleur returned to the matter at hand. That day, as usual, she had hung around the trading company collecting gossip, exchanging information and jokes by turns, and returning home, making sure to cross the road that led from the edge of town to the port.
She met up with Milton, whose face was somehow cheerful despite his being unable to hide his exhaustion—but there was only one thing on her mind. She wanted to put forth every effort to maximize their profit, then split it, and not because she was simply thinking about how to buy tomorrow's bread.
Milton had said he wanted to earn money to get back at the family that cast him out. But was that motivation enough to drive him to work himself to the bone and somehow force the pleasant smile he wore?
Milton, Fleur was certain, was the same as Hans. He was anticipating something.


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

Input:
Despite being stymied by the bothersome question, Hans nonetheless seemed to be enjoying the conversation. He fell silent, looking off into the distance.
Fleur turned her gaze from his profile down to her own hands. She wore a smile on her face. Hans's expression was a very familiar one to her. And his silent profile was all the confirmation that she needed of her supposition.
Fleur had had no special love for her husband, but there was one thing about him that she envied—the fact that he had a goal, which he would sacrifice absolutely anything for: pride, faith, friendship, even love. He was not a good man, but he had something that drove him to incredible achievements.
She wanted to see what it was that waited at the end of his vision, just once, and she desperately envied whatever it was that inspired such ecstasy in his eyes. Lately she had come to resent her terrible miser of a husband less and less.
When their ruin had become inevitable, he'd lost forever whatever it was he was looking at. When the house had finally and completely fallen, he hadn't appeared terribly disturbed. Perhaps in his heart, the object of his desire had already been taken from him—whatever it was that was of such value it made enduring any misfortune or suffering worthwhile.
Hans, who spoke of the trials he had suffered a child, was another person chasing that thing.
"I can't really explain it," he said, returning to the present from his reverie. "But it's a feeling of anticipation."
"Anticipation," Fleur repeated, which Hans smiled and shook his head at.
"Forget I said anything. I'm far too young to answer your question."
If he'd refused to answer, treating her like a beggar he was turning away at his doorstep, she probably would have given him a malicious retort here. But he was honestly acknowledging the difficulty of answering the question.
Even knights these days could hardly brag of such honesty.
"It was a strange question. My apologies."
Hans regarded her playfully out of the corner of his eye. "Not at all."
It seemed they had become a little closer. And Fleur had received an answer worth more than mere words.
"Thank you," she said.
They were honestly, modestly, and above all greedily running down that road.
After this short exchange, they turned to talk of bringing in another load of hay, but Fleur's feelings toward doing so had completely changed.
Completely unaware that the hay had come from the former lands of the house of Bolan, Hans was very interested in learning which hay was best and who to talk to at which villages in order to ensure smooth trading. He was showing real courtesy, which Fleur had long since realized was because she was now in a position to help him profit.
But where once she would have found this courtesy for profit to be somehow ignoble and shabby, she realized the truth was a bit different. Merchants did not advance on the virtue that came easily to born philosophers and wise men. They endured whippings and beatings and still struggled onward.
And if someone happened to help them in their struggle—well, of course such a person should be treated with courtesy.
Fleur returned to the matter at hand. That day, as usual, she had hung around the trading company collecting gossip, exchanging information and jokes by turns, and returning home, making sure to cross the road that led from the edge of town to the port.
She met up with Milton, whose face was somehow cheerful despite his being unable to hide his exhaustion—but there was only one thing on her mind. She wanted to put forth every effort to maximize their profit, then split it, and not because she was simply thinking about how to buy tomorrow's bread.
Milton had said he wanted to earn money to get back at the family that cast him out. But was that motivation enough to drive him to work himself to the bone and somehow force the pleasant smile he wore?
Milton, Fleur was certain, was the same as Hans. He was anticipating something.

Output:
If so—
Fleur stood before Milton, who looked so tired he seemed ready to fall into bed in that instant, and offered neither greeting nor encouragement.
Instead, she said, "About the clothing purchase."
Surprised, Milton's face slowly but steadily shifted to display a fearless smile.
They decided to hold a meeting at Fleur's house.
Bertra was there, and she knew the house top to bottom, from the roof's ridgepole to the mouse holes in the floorboards, so there was no worry their conversation would be eavesdropped upon. And on the other side of the wall, there was Olar.
Even without her scarf, Fleur was well protected.
"Talk has progressed to the request of a purchase representative for the company."
"Have you talked to any of the companies you're connected with about starting new business?"
"Yes. That's why I had to show a big profit."
"And that's why you're so late?"
Milton smiled tiredly at the question. "Yes. So I won't be able to visit that house for a while. I'm not saying I forced the goods off on anyone, but I sold all the way down to the gardener's apprentice, so unless someone suddenly gets fat, they won't need more clothing for a while."
Milton had been carrying twenty pieces on his horse when he had set out. Even if they had been aprons, it was more than he could sell to every member of the household. There was no question he had worked hard.
But that only proved the depth of his sales ability. They would not be taking a loss on this deal.
"In that case, what you're saying is that when next we go to sell clothes we've bought up, even in the worst case, even if you feel like you're utterly desperate, we won't lose money?"
Milton stroked his chin—more scratched than it had been a week ago—with his finger. It had some stubble on it now, which made him look dignified. "That's right. Of course..."
There was a high squeaking cry, and a mouse ran along the rafters in the ceiling.
"Of course, I truly did feel desperate. If possible, I'd like to avoid that," said Milton, looking not at Fleur but at the mouse.
With effort, Fleur avoided openly wondering what he meant by "that" and instead tried to deduce it. He probably had been just as desperate as he was suggesting and did not want to wind up running around like the mouse in the rafters.
"You're quite worried over, aren't you, Miss Fleur?"
"Huh?" she replied in spite of herself.
Olar had warned her ahead of time to keep her mouth shut when she failed to understand something and wait for whatever would be said next. When she betrayed her own lack of comprehension, he said, she opened herself up to be exploited.
So when Milton chuckled, she immediately decided he was chuckling at her. When Milton spoke the next moment, though, it was clear that was not the case.
"I had debt, you know."
"Debt." There was no question mark at the end of her reply.
The word had sunk into her ears even before she voiced her response.
"Yes. It was another company that first took notice of my talents, you see. But they took advantage of my position and used me terribly. But it's the current company that lent me money for room and board. I suppose it's good luck, but I can't really thank them."
Fleur soon hit upon the solution to the riddle.
Milton's mouth curled up into the sort of smirk an uncouth mercenary might wear, and slowly the words spilled from his mouth. "Work is precious. But if a man works during the day, he must rest at night. That's the way of the world that God established. And yet there are those who work day and night, on holy days, on days of celebration, on days of mourning. Even though to do so means borrowing the power of the devil."
It was a famous scripture. And Fleur knew the next line well. "And that devil's name is usury."
No doubt the size of the loan for his immediate needs had been tiny compared to what he owed now. A greedy merchant would have had the interest rate rise 100 percent or more over a short term.


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

Input:
If so—
Fleur stood before Milton, who looked so tired he seemed ready to fall into bed in that instant, and offered neither greeting nor encouragement.
Instead, she said, "About the clothing purchase."
Surprised, Milton's face slowly but steadily shifted to display a fearless smile.
They decided to hold a meeting at Fleur's house.
Bertra was there, and she knew the house top to bottom, from the roof's ridgepole to the mouse holes in the floorboards, so there was no worry their conversation would be eavesdropped upon. And on the other side of the wall, there was Olar.
Even without her scarf, Fleur was well protected.
"Talk has progressed to the request of a purchase representative for the company."
"Have you talked to any of the companies you're connected with about starting new business?"
"Yes. That's why I had to show a big profit."
"And that's why you're so late?"
Milton smiled tiredly at the question. "Yes. So I won't be able to visit that house for a while. I'm not saying I forced the goods off on anyone, but I sold all the way down to the gardener's apprentice, so unless someone suddenly gets fat, they won't need more clothing for a while."
Milton had been carrying twenty pieces on his horse when he had set out. Even if they had been aprons, it was more than he could sell to every member of the household. There was no question he had worked hard.
But that only proved the depth of his sales ability. They would not be taking a loss on this deal.
"In that case, what you're saying is that when next we go to sell clothes we've bought up, even in the worst case, even if you feel like you're utterly desperate, we won't lose money?"
Milton stroked his chin—more scratched than it had been a week ago—with his finger. It had some stubble on it now, which made him look dignified. "That's right. Of course..."
There was a high squeaking cry, and a mouse ran along the rafters in the ceiling.
"Of course, I truly did feel desperate. If possible, I'd like to avoid that," said Milton, looking not at Fleur but at the mouse.
With effort, Fleur avoided openly wondering what he meant by "that" and instead tried to deduce it. He probably had been just as desperate as he was suggesting and did not want to wind up running around like the mouse in the rafters.
"You're quite worried over, aren't you, Miss Fleur?"
"Huh?" she replied in spite of herself.
Olar had warned her ahead of time to keep her mouth shut when she failed to understand something and wait for whatever would be said next. When she betrayed her own lack of comprehension, he said, she opened herself up to be exploited.
So when Milton chuckled, she immediately decided he was chuckling at her. When Milton spoke the next moment, though, it was clear that was not the case.
"I had debt, you know."
"Debt." There was no question mark at the end of her reply.
The word had sunk into her ears even before she voiced her response.
"Yes. It was another company that first took notice of my talents, you see. But they took advantage of my position and used me terribly. But it's the current company that lent me money for room and board. I suppose it's good luck, but I can't really thank them."
Fleur soon hit upon the solution to the riddle.
Milton's mouth curled up into the sort of smirk an uncouth mercenary might wear, and slowly the words spilled from his mouth. "Work is precious. But if a man works during the day, he must rest at night. That's the way of the world that God established. And yet there are those who work day and night, on holy days, on days of celebration, on days of mourning. Even though to do so means borrowing the power of the devil."
It was a famous scripture. And Fleur knew the next line well. "And that devil's name is usury."
No doubt the size of the loan for his immediate needs had been tiny compared to what he owed now. A greedy merchant would have had the interest rate rise 100 percent or more over a short term.

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