After three years of silence, she spoke again: "Pass the salt."

  Philus dropped his wine cup. For the last time. His wife had maintained perfect corpse posture since the ships sank. Back flat, hands folded, practicing for eventual use. Now she was at the stove, stabbing bread with a knife.

  He passed the salt. She poured it out on the eggs.

  "Also," she said, watching him fumble, "that girl was right."

  "What girl?" She couldn't mean...

  "The one who smelled like pickled goat. Spoke Greek like a drunk parrot." She stabbed into the bread, egg, and shell sandwich. "But her trade math was solid."

  "You're back."

  "I'm angry. Same thing." She stood. Three years of atrophy, gone. "We're going to the harbor."

  "Why?"

  "To get rich." She was already at the door. "Bring money."

  "We don't have money."

  "You'll find a way. See you there."

  By the time Philus reached the harbor, half the town was already there. The baker had brought a sock.

  Cassandra crouched behind a fish stall. Her ears gave her away.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Hiding?" he asked.

  "Adding camouflage." She had fresh brine in her hair. "Why is everyone here?"

  "You predicted a profitable port." He watched the baker kiss his sock. "That's good alliteration."

  "That's his life savings. In a sock."

  His wife appeared beside him, her pallid face animated. "I've been counting. Half the town's here."

  "Half?" Cassandra looked around nervously.

  "The smart half," Philus said. "Or the desperate half. Same thing, really." He adjusted his merchant robes, which hung loose after three years of wine-based nutrition. "We should have good position when the ships arrive. Ten gold buys considerable cargo space."

  "Ten gold?" His wife raised an eyebrow. "Where did you find ten gold?"

  "Sold the tomb."

  Silence crashed down like said tomb collapsing. Cassandra turned away in shame, right into the stall.

  "The family tomb," his wife said slowly.

  She stared at him for a long moment. Then she sighed... a rusty gate finally closing.

  "Well," she eventually said. "We'll rejoin them one way or another."

  Around them, the crowd was growing. Legolas, one leg less, practiced hobbling past.

  "Prophet! Your wisdom saved my life! I've invested everything!" He patted a small purse. "Well, just my house. And my leg!"

  "Who buys legs?"

  "...Democritus! Says Athena enjoys them."

  Before Cassandra could process that, a priestess shuffled by like a shoplifter.

  "The gods help those who help themselves to help others help themselves." she said, catching their stares.

  Damon materialized from wherever he'd been preventing violence. "Cassandra. You alright?"

  "Yeah. Big day."

  "Everyone's expecting miracles." Philus said. "You said something about ships?"

  "Right..."

  "SAILS!"

  A child on the seawall pointed. There, emerging from morning haze, ships. Multiple ships.

  Economics became religion.

  "You see?" Philus grabbed Cassandra's shoulders amidst the celebration. "You were right! The ships came even sooner than expected!"

  Cassandra was staring at the approaching vessels. Something wasn't quite right.

  "Those rowers are very synchronized," she said.

  "Those aren't merchant guards," Damon added quietly. His hand had found his knife.

  "Those are our grain ships," someone in the crowd said. "But the flags..."

  The approach was wrong. The lead ship's profile suggested appetite rather than commerce.

  "Are those..." Someone squinted. "Are those Blackwater colors?"

  The crowd's joy curdled.

  "Oh," Philus said. "Oh no."

  "Oh yeah!" Cassandra exclaimed in horror.