Sitting on her bed, she checked her eyes in her pocket mirror, making sure they weren't red from the night prior.

  She lowered her hands, resting them on her knees.

  Stupid. He's always said he'd leave eventually. Get that into your thick head.

  She didn't want to, but it's not like she had a choice. It would stick, eventually.

  For now, take a deep breath, don't think about the future, live today and enjoy what you have, not what you're going to lose.

  She got up, slapped her dress' wrinkles flat, and walked out and downstairs to prepare breakfast. For two. For now.

  David padded into the kitchen not long after. Niala was frying some sort of little egg-cakes and ham cubes, smelling amazing as always. She wasn't paying him much attention.

  “Good morning. Are you alright?” He asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine.”

  “Yesterday you seemed... upset.” He said, with a touch of worry.

  “I just... realized how empty the house would be once you left, that's all. It hit a bit harder than I thought.” She slowly said, turning her head to look at him.

  “I'll be fine, don't worry.” A small smile took form on her face.

  He stared at her, trying to pierce her facade for a few moments. She did seem fine after all...

  “I never got to ask, but Karline, she came for your posting about Jasmund's family?”

  Niala's eyes widened, ears rose, eyes snapped to him. “The letter!” She blurted, dashing upstairs and retrieving Karline's letter from yesterday.

  He heard her shout “My egg fluffs!” from upstairs, followed by an accelerated descent and dash back to her pan, rapidly flipping the egg fluffs over, inspecting them for any signs of overcooking, before blowing a breath of relief.

  He couldn't help but smile at her usual antics.

  “So you didn't read it?” He eventually asked.

  She shook her head. “I forgot about it with Karline and the... huh, conversation we had afterwards.”

  After flipping the egg fluffs a few more time, and nodding, she split them and the ham cubes on two plates, offering one to David before plopping down at the table with her own.

  She let her meal cool while she opened the letter and scanned its content. Her face went blank as she re-read the letter.

  “Bad news?” David inquired.

  She jerked, looking up at him. “Ah, no not at all. Jasmund has at least one nephew alive and relatively close, over by Graveway.” She explained, her stare distant.

  “And you're going to contact him about the distiller?” He asked.

  “I... yes. I must, it's the right thing to do.” She affirmed.

  He sighed.

  “Graveway is only a few days away by autocar. Do you want to ask Karline to extend him an invitation?” He suggested.

  “You think he'd come right away?”

  “If you tell him it's about the distiller, and you pay for his trip, I think he'll jump on whatever can carry him over here.” He said.

  “Then let's... let's do that! After breakfast, I'll go put up a private posting for Karline. Oh! How much do you think I should offer?” She turned his way.

  “For a simple posting like that? Five regents should be plenty. She can negotiate with you since it's a private posting anyway.” He explained.

  She thanked him, and the rest of breakfast was spent chatting about the coming days and what else Niala's home still needed.

  Karline readily accepted the posting. Just like David had said, she called it a “Nap job”, explaining that's how couriers referred to postings where they could simply sleep and let transports carry them.

  While in town, she also decided to check at the town hall's post office since she was still waiting on packages from Yrlemagne and Luke Wayman. To her great joy, the two burners Luke had promised to find her had arrived, along with Yrlemagne's crate with a letter attached.

  Niala was pretty certain she hadn't ordered a crate-worth of clothes.

  She enlisted the Donkey's help in carrying everything back home. The burners were unpacked first, and Niala's eyes shot out of her orbits.

  “David!” She shouted, holding one of the burnished disc in her hand as if it were made of gold.

  “I'm guessing Luke went an extra mile or two?”

  “These are stamped by the Royal office of measures and processes!” She exclaimed, staring at the burner in awe.

  “That sounds important and officious.”

  “You don't understand! Getting that stamp is a very rigorous process! It certifies these as being good enough to be used by the royal family!” She said, jubilant.

  “So they're good?” He asked.

  She squinted at him. “They're amazing. Your brother is amazing.” Her smile returned as she continued observing her new treasure.

  “Now I just need the carpenter and bricklayer to finish up work in my brewing room, and the storeroom to be fitted with the temperature regulator, and I can start brewing for real!”

  He shared in the moment, before the crate caught his attention.

  “What about Mistress Yrlemagne's stuff?”

  Niala looked at the crate. “Oh!”

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  She deposited the burner with utmost care before skipping over to the crate, picking Yrlemagne's letter and opening it.

  She cleared her throat. “My dear friend Niala. I hope this letter finds you well and hale. You might notice that the amount of frippery I have sent your way slightly exceeds the amount you had commissioned. It is entirely my fault, as I found myself quite enthralled with the prospect of designing accoutrements for such an adorable and exciting model.”

  Niala swallowed before continuing to read.

  “Fear not, the models we agreed upon have not been modified. I did, however, take a few liberties with the extra pieces. I hope that, in time, you will come to appreciate your figure enough to feel comfortable displaying these creations of mine. I am quite certain that Da-” She stopped.

  “Da what?” David asked.

  “THEY, that they will be to your taste. The end.” She said, folding the letter and stuffing it in her pocket.

  He eyed her with suspicion.

  “That's what the letter said! Anyway, bring this up in my room, please.”

  “We're not looking at it now?”

  “NO! I mean, no, it's a lady's clothes, you know? It's unbecoming for a man to rummage through. Right?” She asks, ears flopped down.

  “Sure, but these are your clothes. It should be fine.”

  “Wha! What does that mean? I am a lady too!” She berated at him.

  “You're a woman. A lady is different.” He explained.

  “And you're a donkey! Get this upstairs and shut up!” She flung the words at him and stomped off upstairs.

  He dutifully picked up the crate, smiling.

  The days marched on. Work continued on Niala's home. All of the crooked boards were replaced, the caved-in gazebo, was cleared and the ground levelled for the future greenhouse. The well was fitted with a filtering hand pump and covered, the shed patched up and its innards ordered.

  The bricklayer finished forming a new door in Niala's brewing room and shored up the stone wall around the inner garden, but didn't replace most of the missing stones at the top at Niala's behest, as she enjoyed the ancestral aesthetic the uneven wall imparted.

  The carpenter completed the repairs on the furniture she was keeping, fitted the new doors needed inside, re-framed all of the windows, and delivered the last of her new furniture, including the work tables and remaining storage shelves, crates and, barrels.

  The glassmaker set up shop with his apprentices and installed new windows throughout the house over a few days, including a stained glass display window at the front of the shop with a stylized depiction of herbs and plants around its perimeter, the centre kept clear.

  With everything cleaned and put away, Niala began stocking ingredients, sending David out on gathering expeditions as he'd said he would for the more expensive or elusive ones.

  With these, she slowly began building her stocks, especially the agreed-upon high-quality hangover cures and energizers for her monthly shipments to David's brother Luke.

  Niala also wrote a few letters. To Yrlemagne, thanking her for the extra clothes and apprising her of the state of her venture. To Luke and Martha, lauding him for his selection of manaburners and extending them an invitation to visit if ever they so wished. To Batty, letting her know that the bats had seemed to relocate well and that she was welcome to come spend a few days to assess by herself.

  It was while writing one of these letters that a visitor she had been dreading knocked at the front door on a late afternoon.

  David and Niala sat on the newly reupholstered couches, facing their visitor, cups warm with herbal teas between them.

  He was a middle-aged man, slightly balding, stocky of build and with the well-worn hands of an artisan, wearing earthy-toned, well-made but unassuming clothes.

  Niala closed and opened her eyes, taking one large breath, before talking.

  “Mr. Horace of Graveway, I will begin by offering my sympathies about your uncle. I am under the impression you didn't know him well, but he was still family. I also wanted to thank you for coming all the way out here.”

  Horace lightly dipped his head. “Thank you, miss, though you might say I didn't know Jasmund at all, only through mention of him by my late father. I do appreciate the sentiment, and I am also humbled that you would go out of your way to seek me out in regards to the distiller.” He softly smiled.

  “I won't lie. It is a great pain to let go of a treasure such as it, but even if the law says otherwise, I consider it to be your family's treasure.” Niala offered, betraying only the smallest amount of sadness at the thought.

  Horace slowly shook his head. “I'm afraid we've misunderstood each other, Ms. Niala. I did not come to visit you to retrieve the distiller. It is yours by law, as you said, and I have no intention of claiming it.”

  It took her a few seconds to process that revelation.

  “I... I am overjoyed but... why?”

  Horace's features dropped as if weighted down, his smile turning sad.

  “It's a story of two brothers. One, an herbalist, the other a brewer. Both of great skills, ambition, and a small amount of competitiveness. They pushed each other to ever greater height, one preparing the greatest blend of spices to add the deepest flavours, the other carefully curating and controlling the fermenting and distilling of his alcohols.” He began retelling, pausing for a sip of tea.

  Niala, the glutton that she was for tales and stories, was hunched forward, ears erect, the tip of her tail flicking.

  Even David was rather intrigued by the retelling. Whatever the man's profession was, he could easily double as a storyteller.

  “After many competitions won, their fame grew wider, eventually catching the attention of a local noble. A great order of drinks came their way; the noble was having a grand ball for the coming of age of his heir and wanted something memorable for all to bring back home. He asked the brothers for their finest spirits and enough bottles to offer as gifts.”

  “Should they succeed, the noble said, he would gift them something priceless to help in their endeavour. Should they fail, he would let it be known they were persona non grata.”

  “Of course the brothers accepted! This was their chance. And they succeeded. Their spirits and fine drinks were coveted gifts, the ball was the talk of the town, at least until the next great ball. The noble, more than pleased, arrived with their gift: a Landretti distiller that he had purchased several years prior when he had taken a fancy to distilling but had grown bored of quickly.”

  “The brothers eagerly accepted the recompense and celebrated. They saw a great future, their brewery becoming a household name, a bottle of their finest a gift sought after. For a time, it was true.”

  “That was around the time I was born. My father, Laurence, had married a few years prior. My uncle only ever had one love, his plants, and never founded a family. Both were rather rich men by now. The times were good. But it did not last.”

  He reseated himself, taking a long breath before continuing.

  “I was too young to remember anything. All I know is from my father's retelling. He told me that their business began to ail. The quality of their brews declined. Their spending habits did not abate, however. Debts began piling up.”

  “They began blaming each other. The herbs and spices were lacking. The distilling process was poorly controlled. They stopped even talking to each other, using their employees to pass along messages. One day, my father walked into the shop and found the distiller missing, a letter in its place written by his brother Jasmund.”

  He remained silent for a few seconds.

  “Laurence, my father, he became... ornery after that day. He couldn't fulfill his orders anymore; his business contracts evaporated. He was forced to close the shop before a year had passed. He sold everything he could and used the leftovers to buy just enough equipment to be able to distill some middling quality drinks for the local taverns and inns.”

  He sighed. “It wasn't a bad life at all. He made enough money to provide for me and my mother, but his rage wouldn't abate. I think, more than anything, it was the feeling of betrayal that got to him. He kept blaming his situation on his brother; it burned him from the inside and left very little behind.”

  “One day, he received a letter with no sender's name. He read it and wept for the rest of the day. After that, he was... calmer. He still resented his current life, wishing for what could have been, but he at least began being able to smile and even laugh sometimes.”

  “He became gravely ill a few years after. On his deathbed, he confessed to me that his biggest regret had been accepting the distiller. He felt it had twisted their drive and ambition. That they both began to rely on it more than their own abilities and flair. The last thing he said was that he wished he could tell his brother he was sorry, that he wanted to hold his hand one last time.”

  He took a trembling breath, dabbing his eyes with his sleeve, before fishing a small envelope from his pouch, slowly flipping it over in his hands.

  “These are the two letters. The one that was found in the distiller's place and the one he received later. My father told me I shouldn't read them. I kept them as a memento, but I never did read them.”

  He placed the envelope on the low table.

  “So no, I don't want the distiller that destroyed part of my father's life. I never knew Jasmund, but I saw the pain that wracked my father everyday, and I thought, if someone is kindhearted enough to spend all that money to gift away a treasure, then the least I could do is tell them his, their story, as a warning maybe.”

  He looked back up, a weight had seemed to lift from his shoulder. Then he saw Niala's crunched-up blurry-eyed tearful face.

  “Miss, are you... ok?”

  “I'M SO SOWWY I DIDN'T, I DON'T, THIS IS SO SAAADDD!” She bawled, grabbing a cushion and crying into it, her sobs muffled.

  Horace looked wide-eyed at David. “She, huh, wears her heart openly, doesn't she?”

  David nodded as he slowly extended a hand to gently pat Niala's back.

  “I'm very sorry, I didn't mean to upset anyone.” Horace apologized.

  “Don't worry, my good man. I think half of it is genuine sympathy for your father's story, the other half is her feeling ashamed of herself at being happy that she's keeping the distiller.”

  She punched him in the flank.