Chapter 8
By late the following morning, Dara had reached a state she considered highly respectable under the circumstances.
She was dressed. She was seated upright.
She had consumed tea, breakfast, and one small sweet pastry without spontaneously combusting from remembered embarrassment.
And she had, through extraordinary force of character, managed not to think in detail about lantern light, garden benches, or the exact softness of a certain kiss for nearly eleven consecutive minutes.
This, in her opinion, was heroism.
She sat now in her study with Grace at the side table and Bernard near the window, the room bright with late morning light and the kind of ordered quiet that made paperwork feel briefly possible.
The estate beyond the glass remained offensively over-guarded, but Dara had decided that since she could not immediately dismantle the Crown Prince’s deeply personal interpretation of security, she would instead direct her energy toward more useful things.
Like profits.
Or, ideally, controlled profits.
A knock sounded at the door.
Grace crossed to open it, and Gareth Hallowell entered with his usual weathered practicality, leather folio tucked under one arm and expression set in the careful neutrality of a man who had learned, through experience, that Lady Lynara’s reactions to commercial success could not safely be predicted in advance.
He bowed. “My lady.”
“Master Hallowell.”
Bernard inclined his head in greeting, and Gareth returned it before taking the chair Dara indicated opposite her desk.
Grace poured tea. Civilization endured.
Dara folded her hands over the blotter and looked at Gareth expectantly. “Well,” she said. “How badly have my drinks misbehaved?”
Gareth blinked once.
Then, perhaps wisely, decided not to question the wording.
“The first month’s figures have settled,” he said, opening the folio. “And I thought it best to bring the report to you directly.”
Good. That was exactly as it should be.
Because however absurd the project might appear from the outside, Dara had not started it out of pure sabotage or confusion.
She had started it because she liked the drinks, liked the food, liked the novelty of building something fun, and wanted her roadside stops and—eventually—her destination garden to have proper treats available instead of the usual disappointing medieval beverage options.
If she was going to live here for a few years, then this world was going to have better snacks.
That was only reasonable.
Gareth laid out several sheets in front of her. “The tea line has performed very well.”
Dara brightened immediately.
It did not even occur to her to hide it.
“Oh?”
Gareth glanced up, perhaps mildly surprised by her open reaction. “Yes, my lady. Better than initial expectations.”
Now that was interesting.
She leaned forward at once and looked down at the top sheet.
The numbers were clear enough. Volumes moved. Prices held. Early launch demand was stronger than projected.
Good.
Very good, actually.
The first real surge of delight came before caution managed to catch up.
Of course she was pleased. She had put thought into the rollout, the flavors, the staging, the novelty, the visual experience of it.
It had been a pet project, yes—but a well-designed one.
There was no reason it should not do well.
“It’s actually working,” she murmured.
Bernard, who had absolutely expected this outcome and would never say so in a way polite society could punish, remained tastefully silent.
Gareth continued. “The novelty drove the first week. Repeat purchases sustained the rest. The milk tea varieties have been quite well received.”
That also made sense.
She had started with the four tea flavors deliberately. A smaller, more controlled test. Safe enough to launch, varied enough to gauge response, and easy to build from later once people stopped behaving like iced milk tea was a divine miracle.
She tapped one finger lightly against the report. “Any requests yet?”
“Several,” Gareth said. “Some customers are already asking whether more flavors will be introduced.”
There.
A thrill of interest moved through her.
More flavors.
That was the fun part.
Because yes, of course there would eventually be more flavors. That had always been part of the pleasure of the project. More tea variations and fruit options. Maybe specialty seasonal nonsense if she felt indulgent enough.
Grace, at the side table, looked suspiciously pleased by the phrase more flavors. Traitor.
“And the popcorn chicken?” Dara asked.
Gareth’s expression shifted slightly. “The popcorn chicken has spread faster.”
Dara blinked.
Then she grinned.
Of course it had.
Of course.
Cheap to buy, fast to eat, easy to crave again, and fried properly enough to improve anyone’s outlook on life for at least twenty minutes. There was no world in which that did not catch.
“That,” she said, satisfied, “is because people have taste.”
Gareth made the smallest possible sound that might, in a less disciplined man, have become laughter.
“It is cheaper to produce than the drinks,” he said, “easier to portion, and more accessible to a wider range of customers. Repeat customers are strong. The seasoning is being discussed.”
Dara narrowed her eyes. “In a good way?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Good.
Very good.
The drinks being successful was one thing. They were luxuries by necessity—imported ingredients, limited ice, careful preparation, a sense of occasion. But the popcorn chicken slipping into everyday life? That was a different sort of success entirely.
And honestly, one she respected.
Gareth slid a second sheet toward her.
“The tea remains positioned as a high-end novelty product,” he said. “The expense of imported components and the use of ice keep it in that range. But the chicken has broader movement. Stronger volume, quicker turnover, more spillover purchases nearby.”
Dara’s pleased look faltered slightly.
There it was.
The money part.
She looked down at the numbers again.
Read once. Then twice.
Her expression changed.
Grace noticed immediately. “My lady?”
Dara held up one finger.
Silence.
The room obliged.
She recalculated quickly.
Yes, this was good. Yes, the launch had outperformed expectations. Yes, people were apparently willing to spend aggressively on iced drinks and fried chicken.
Which was exciting. And mildly alarming.
Because if this continued at scale—
No.
Wait.
She sat back slightly, re-running the broader picture: destination garden development at the district edge, premium road projects, the desolate mountain purchase, sanitation improvements, expanded labor crews, increased wages in the district, increased wages inside the household itself.
Maintenance. Beautification. Supply chains.
Infrastructure. One expense after another, all supposedly wasteful, all somehow connected.
Millions were still leaving her hands in every direction.
A successful drink launch was not going to erase all that.
Her shoulders eased.
Oh.
Good.
The route was still net-chaotic.
She looked back down at the profit sheet with much calmer eyes.
This was not ruinous to her plans.
This was just… annoyingly competent.
Manageable.
And, frankly, a little delightful.
Dara set the paper down. “It’s fine.”
Grace visibly relaxed. Bernard did not move, though Dara was certain he had also been waiting for that verdict. Gareth, across from her, merely inclined his head as if this had always been the likely outcome.
Dara tapped the report once.
“I’m pleased,” she clarified. “The products are doing well. That is good.” She paused. “I was briefly concerned the income might be unreasonably high.”
Bernard said, in the mild tone of a man who would never mock her openly because he enjoyed continued employment, “And is it?”
“No,” Dara said. “Not compared to everything else I’m still spending.”
That was the truth of it.
And once she accepted that, the numbers became much easier to enjoy.
She looked back at Gareth, interest returning in earnest.
“So,” she said, “if we are doing well and not yet undermining my broader financial ruin, let us discuss the actually interesting part.”
Gareth’s attention sharpened at once. “Expansion, my lady?”
Dara narrowed her eyes. “You sound far too pleased.”
“Only because the subject has become difficult to ignore.”
Grace looked delighted. Bernard, alarming man that he was, looked thoughtful.
“Additional tea varieties,” Dara said. “And the fruit line addition.”
Gareth nodded at once, with the restrained satisfaction of a man watching a door open exactly where he had expected one.
Which was annoying.
Also useful.
“And the chicken,” Dara continued. “If they are discussing the seasoning, they will soon start asking for variations.”
“They already have.”
Of course they had.
Dara looked almost pleased enough to be dangerous. “Good.”
Gareth opened the folio again and withdrew a smaller note sheet.
“There have been inquiries about heat levels, sweeter glaze coatings, and whether spiced dusting might be applied in multiple forms.”
Now that was excellent.
Not because it made money. Not only that.
Because it was fun.
This was the part she had enjoyed from the beginning: building something that people wanted, then expanding it with deliberate control like a tiny food empire growing under her personal supervision.
A ridiculous empire. A completely unserious empire. But still.
“I want a structured test,” Dara said. “Small. Controlled. No broad release until quality is consistent.”
Bernard’s eyes, traitorously, gained that quiet light they did whenever she said something competent in a room with witnesses.
Gareth nodded. “That can be arranged.”
“Good.”
The room settled into a more pleasant rhythm after that.
Tea was poured. Notes were taken. Grace began quietly sorting the relevant sheets into piles. Bernard asked two precise questions about supply reliability and spoilage rates. Gareth answered them with the ease of a man who had come prepared for very nearly everything.
For a few precious minutes, the chapter of Dara’s life involving Crown Princes, kisses, abductions, and political catastrophe receded behind the far more emotionally stable subject of flavored products.
This, she thought, was healthier.
Then Gareth said, “There is one other matter.”
The room shifted.
Not sharply. But enough.
Dara looked up.
His tone had changed.
Still practical. Still composed. But it no longer felt like a merchant’s practical assessment.
Something else.
Gareth folded his hands over the folio.
“It is not directly tied to the product lines,” he said, “but I thought it might still be worth bringing to your attention.”
Bernard’s focus sharpened by half a degree.
Dara set down her cup. “Go on.”
“One of the route masters mentioned an unusual inquiry made about two weeks ago. Discreet travel. Light escort. No formal declaration at checkpoints if it could be avoided. The sort of request that draws notice not because it is impossible, but because it is phrased too carefully.”
Dara went still.
That had shape.
Gareth continued. “The route master did not take the arrangement himself. Too vague, too cautious, and not properly brought through the guild. But he remembered it because advance payment was offered and because the messenger asking the questions was clearly not some panicked debtor or runaway laborer.”
Bernard said quietly, “A gentleman’s messenger.”
“Or trained to sound like one,” Gareth replied.
Dara’s fingers rested lightly against the arm of her chair.
Two weeks ago.
Not yesterday. Not in obvious response to immediate failure.
Planning, then. Or contingency.
She did not say the thought aloud.
Gareth looked between them. “I do not know what it means,” he said. “Only that, given the current climate, it seemed unwise to leave unmentioned.”
There.
That was exactly the right line.
Not overreaching. Not pretending certainty. Just giving her something useful before it vanished.
Dara nodded once. “You were right to bring it to me.”
Gareth inclined his head.
Bernard said nothing, but his silence was the attentive kind now, not the household kind.
Dara looked down at the sales reports once more, then at the note Gareth had just slid forward.
Profits, flavors, expansion, odd travel inquiries.
Her life really did refuse to remain in one genre for longer than half an hour.
She sat back.
This needed to go higher.
Because if Gareth had trade-route intelligence and the Crown Prince had reports, guards, and half her estate under armed administrative suffocation, then continuing to let information trickle into separate rooms was idiotic.
And the faster this was solved, the faster she got her home back.
Dara looked at Bernard. “Have His Highness informed.”
Grace was already halfway to the door before Bernard answered.
“As you wish, my lady,” Bernard said.
Gareth’s expression did not quite change, but some subtle awareness passed through it.
He had come prepared to give a business report. Now, it seemed, he had something far more complicated to report to the Crown Prince.
Dara gathered the sales sheets into a neat stack and exhaled through her nose.
At least the drinks were doing well.
That, if nothing else, felt civilized.