Ambrose

Before the door opened, everything in Ambrose Beake’s life was perfect.

His potion shop stood empty and quiet, a reflection of the sleepy street outside. His footsteps echoed alone, delightfully alone, on the polished wood floor as he dusted the bottles. Glowing healing vials, smoky invisibility potions, fizzing strength serums. . . He swept carefully between each one, ensuring that not a speck of dust marred the glass or obscured the alphabetized labels. If adventurers sought out his shop for the best potions in the Scar—and they did—his wares had to look the part.

Once the shelves sparkled, Ambrose wandered to the door and tidied the sleeves of his navy robes. He supposed he could open early today. Flip the sign on the door, cater to the adventurers not sleeping off a hangover or a tavern brawl. . .

He reached for the sign. Perhaps he could close early, too, and settle into a nice evening of quiet brewing and—

“Morning, Ames!” A lanky elven figure burst through the door, knocking Ambrose backward. “You have your bet ready?”

Ambrose caught himself on the counter, inches away from a fragile display of vials. “Banneker! What are you doing here?”

Ambrose’s tone had all the welcoming charm of a cactus, but Banneker shrugged it off as he loped over to the shop’s bay window. His crimson hair and tilted grin gleamed in the morning light.

“Come on, we told you about the bet,” he said. “For the shop across the street.” As he tapped a pale finger on the windowpane, a smudge of grease from his artificer’s work left behind a print. Ambrose’s eye twitched.

“No, I’m afraid you didn’t tell me.” He stood straight, adjusted his robes, and gestured to the door. “Now, if you could come back later, I haven’t quite opened yet—”

“Today’s the day!” The door slammed open again, revealing an elderly human woman in a sooty leather apron. Ambrose reeled back and, this time, knocked the vials across the counter.

“Oh!” The woman clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. “Sorry, dear.”

“Quite all right, Sherry,” Ambrose muttered as he scrambled for the skittering glass. “But if you’re here for this bet, I’d rather it not be held in my shop.”

“I’ve got my bet!” Banneker crowed. Sherry beamed and joined the artificer.

“You finally decided?” She swept a gray curl off her forehead, suntanned after years of working in her open-air forge.

“Consulted my star chart and everything,” Banneker said proudly. “It’s a bakery.”

Sherry snorted and tugged off her blacksmith gloves, letting trails of soot drift onto the immaculate window display. Ambrose sighed loudly, but she took no notice. “It’s not a bakery,” she said. “There’s no room in the shop for an oven.” She turned to Ambrose. “What do you think it is?”

Banneker scoffed. “Ames doesn’t have a bet.”

“Doesn’t have a bet?” Sherry frowned, her wrinkles deepening. “But we wrote everyone about it. Hasn’t he read the messages?”

The door opened one last time for two more intruders, a gray-skinned orc and a short, round elf. Ambrose braced himself against the front counter and sped through his words. “If you’re here for a bet, I must insist you do it elsewhere—”

“Why?” the orcish jeweler grunted and held up a leather notebook. “Not confident in your bet, Beake?”

“He doesn’t have a bet,” Sherry and Banneker chorused from the window.

“Doesn’t have a bet?” The orc gestured to a statue on the counter, the rings on their hand flashing. “Didn’t you read the messages?”

Ambrose glanced over at the message statue, a swirl of wood and glass in the shape of a tall rose. It sat untouched at the far edge of the counter, and the tiny paper scroll at its base remained tightly furled. He pinched the bridge of his nose and waved to the door. “No, I didn’t read them. If you could please just—”

“Bets close in five minutes!” the orc boomed and strode to the window. Sherry immediately tugged on their sleeve and reached for their notebook.

“Grim, what’s your bet?”

The jeweler held their notebook out of reach—not a difficult task, since they towered over everyone else in the shop. “Not telling you.”

As the other shopkeepers bickered, the elf who had accompanied Grim wandered not to the window, but to Ambrose. She offered up a small canvas bag, its bright purple ribbon complementing her pink tunic and flowing purple pants. “Got you some breakfast.”

Finally, his one ally on Rosemond Street had arrived. Ambrose gave her a weary smile and pulled a green-striped fernberry out of the bag. “Thank you, Dawn.”

“Thought you might need a peace offering.” Dawn hopped up and sat on the counter, then tilted her curly mohawk toward the others. “They haven’t stopped talking about the new shop all week, and I made the mistake of saying The Griffin’s Claw had the best view of it.”

“Ah, so this is all your fault?” Ambrose gave her an exaggerated scowl. “In that case, you owe me far more than berries, Miss Kerighin. Tea and a cookie in Little Elwig, I think.”

She set a warm brown hand against her forehead and leaned back dramatically. “You ask for too much,” she sighed, as if they hadn’t been getting tea together since they were young apprentices. “How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” He nodded, and their attention settled on the traffic outside.

Rosemond Street was one of many avenues nestled at the bottom of the Scar, a deep chasm once inhabited by dragons and giant spiders. But over time, such monsters had proved to be no match for stubborn humanoids. Orcs and humans had filled the tunnels with homes, while elves and gnomes had converted the sinkholes into markets. Families soon flocked to the chasm, turning it into the four-level city that towered above Ambrose and Dawn today.

Ambrose’s gaze settled on the empty shop across the street. Over the course of the past week, the former plant shop had turned into something of a mystery. A small fortress of crates now flanked its door, and a canvas cloth fluttered over the shop’s sign. Its haphazard state only served to tantalize the other shopkeepers with its secrets.

“I’m telling you, man, it’s a bakery.” Banneker gave an exaggerated sniff. “I can almost smell the turnovers now. . .”

Grim twirled their pen, fangs glinting. “If you want to lose five talons this morning, that’s your prerogative.”

“Dawn?” Sherry twisted to face the counter. “What’s your bet?”

Dawn toyed with the jewels lining her pointed ear. “I think it’s another gardening shop.”

Everyone else groaned.

“Please, I don’t need to buy more plants,” Sherry said. Next to her, Grim was already scribbling.

“Gardening shop, final bet?”

Ambrose huffed and wiped down the patch of counter next to Dawn. “Can’t they just bet now and leave?” he grumbled to her.

“Come on, Ames.” Dawn smiled. “This is exciting. You have a new neighbor!”

“I don’t need a new neighbor.” It was true—he had been enjoying the relative peace of the empty storefront. No noise, no messy deliveries of soil, no crowds at plant sales. . . “Besides, he who brews alone—”

“Brews fastest,” Dawn finished his phrase with an eyeroll. “I know.”

Ambrose primly folded his cleaning cloth. Simply because Master Pearce had said it all the time didn’t mean it was wrong.

But Dawn had gone to the trouble of bringing him breakfast, so he deftly changed the subject. “How are your commissions going?”

His choice in topic paid off—she turned back to him instantly, brown eyes sparkling. “Finished the lightning staff yesterday.” She tapped the counter. “And I should be able to wrap up the blast wand tonight if the birthday committee doesn’t go too late.”

“Birthday committee?” he repeated. “You still have time for that?”

“Oh, I made time. Already got Mayor Rune obsessed with my fireworks plan.” Dawn waggled her head proudly, black curls bouncing. “I can get you in on it, too, if you want. The recognition can’t hurt, especially before your anniversary.”

Ambrose wrinkled his nose. “No, thank you. I’ve got enough to prepare as it is. I have to order the new shelves, the paint, the sign. . . ”

“The sign?” Dawn leaned forward. “Come on, show me the specs. What’s it gonna say?”

Ambrose bit back a smile and pulled a notebook out from under the counter. Dawn flipped through it, her gold bangles casting bright caustics on the pages.

“Aha.” Her hand stilled when she reached an orderly list. “Workshop upgrades, here we go. . .”

Ambrose nodded, barely masking a surge of pride. The Griffin’s Claw was about to turn two hundred, and what sort of owner would he be if he didn’t give it what it deserved?

“Okay, let’s see.” Dawn squinted at his neat, tiny handwriting. “A new silver cauldron, enchanted ingredient shelves, a larger wand rack. . .” She tapped a word at the bottom of the page, underlined in dark ink. “Ahem. What is this?”

“What?” Ambrose frowned at the paper. His last upgrade—and the one he was looking forward to the most—was to finally add his name to the official placard of Griffin’s Claw owners. “You don’t think I should add it?”

“Of course, you should add it,” Dawn said. “But just A. Beake CPM? Come on, can’t you add more flair to it? More pizzazz?”

Ambrose let slip a small laugh. “I don’t think pizzazz is necessary.”

“Oh, please.” Dawn swept a hand through the air. “I’m thinking something like—Ambrose Beake, Certified Potion Master Extraordinaire. First of His Name, Unmatched Genius—”

“No, thank you.”

“Gods, you’re so boring.”

“Ambrose!” Sherry called from the window. “Last call for a bet!”

Ambrose gave a dismissive wave, but the others latched onto the idea like leeches.

“Bet, bet, bet!” Banneker clapped. Grim tossed a look over their half-moon glasses.

“You’ve got one minute, Beake.”

“Come on.” Dawn pushed on his shoulder. “I’ll get you two cookies tomorrow if you make a bet.”

“Oh, how generous,” Ambrose whipped back, but relented and walked over to the bay window. Banneker leaned in eagerly.

“Say it with me, dude,” he stage-whispered. “Bakery, bakery. . .”

Sherry slapped Banneker’s shoulder with her glove. “Let the boy make his own call.”

Ambrose ignored them both and folded his arms. Dawn was right, as she usually was—The Griffin's Claw did have the best view into the old shop. From what he recalled of the space, it was a mirror reflection of his own in layout. A simple square storefront carved into the chasm wall, with a workroom, a storage room, and a second-level flat for the owner. Though the chasm kept the ground-level store mostly in shadow, the passing sun struck the windows in the afternoon, providing a welcome warmth in the current autumn temperatures.

Overall, an ideal location for any new shop owner.

“Sherry’s right.” Ambrose tugged on his ear—slightly pointed, but nothing like Banneker’s or Dawn’s. “It can’t be a bakery. The workroom is too small for an oven, and given the structural integrity needed for the levels above it, the owner can’t knock down the walls to make room.”

Banneker groaned. “Grim, can I change my bet?”

Grim slapped their notebook shut. “No.”

“Disproving Banneker’s bet doesn’t count as a bet of your own,” Dawn singsonged from the counter. Ambrose stuck out his tongue at her, then turned back to the window and set his shoulders. The shop sign was still covered, but there was plenty to glean from the crates clustered below it.

“Look at the enchantments on the boxes,” he said. The window muffled his soft voice, and the other merchants leaned in to hear him better. “Some temperature-controlled, many anti-fragile. I’m also counting at least”—he recalculated—“fifteen crates, so the owner needs a decent amount of inventory to either craft, sell, or both. And given how Rosemond is known for magical artisans. . .” He gave a nod. “They’re a magical craftsman of some kind. Perhaps a wandmaker.”

“Hey!” Dawn called. “I can’t have competition!”

Sherry snorted. “Like anyone could compete with you, dear.”

“Wandmaker, final answer?” Grim scribbled a line in their notebook. Ambrose stepped away from the window.

“I’m not betting. Now, will you all please vacate my shop?”

“Look!” Sherry grabbed his arm and yanked him back to the window. “There he is!”

Indeed, there he was—the root cause of Ambrose’s unpleasant morning. The new shop owner had ducked out the front door, waving movers inside with a wide grin. He appeared to be a human like Sherry, with round ears and a crop of short black hair. His light golden skin almost blended in with the warm striations of the chasm wall. Though he didn’t wear the typical patterns and bright colors of those living in the Scar, someone at least had the good sense to warn him not to wear white, and he had opted for neutrals instead—loose beige tunic, brown pants and boots. Much easier against the eternally dusty floor of the chasm.

“He came into town last night,” Sherry said. “Oh, he’s handsome. I think he’s about your and Dawn’s age, too.” She squeezed Ambrose’s arm. “Wouldn’t it be nice to make a new friend?”

Ambrose grimaced. “No.”

Her enthusiasm barreled on. “I should invite you all over for tea this week. Give him a few days to settle in, then I’ll make some cookies—”

“Bets closed!” Grim bellowed, making them all jump. “He’s revealing the sign!”

Banneker crossed his fingers. “Come on, man, I am manifesting a bakery in my mind…”

Dawn hopped off the counter to join the group, hemming Ambrose in at the window. He had no choice but to stand there as the man reached up and tugged on the cloth, letting the canvas fall away. The sign’s fresh white paint made the letters stand out brightly against the stone wall:

Eli’s Elixirs.

Ambrose’s blood flashed cold, then very, very hot.

He had been right about the craftsman—extremely wrong about the competitor.

“What is this?” he snapped. “Elixirs? Is he joking?”

Dawn let out a single peal of laughter. Ambrose glowered at her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, sorry, I know it’s not funny—”

“Of course, it’s not funny!” He jabbed a finger at the sign and looked wide-eyed at all of them. “What does he—who told him he could—aren’t there zoning laws against this sort of thing?”

Grim tucked their notebook under their arm. “Guess it was too hopeful to ask for a cheesemonger.”

“Could’ve been next door to some fruit tarts,” Banneker grumbled and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Hm.” Sherry seemed to be the only one reflecting Ambrose’s concern. “I think you’ll be all right. If you go over there and introduce yourself—”

Ambrose recoiled, his anger flaring. “Absolutely not.”

Dawn threw him a look. “Ames, he literally lives across the street from you now.”

“I do not care.”

“You can’t ignore him forever!”

“Watch me.” Ambrose spun away from the window and straightened his robes. “Now, out of my store, all of you.”

This time, they obeyed him, shuffling out onto the street with groans and dashed hopes. Dawn lingered, one foot still in the shop.

“Hey.” She leaned through the doorway. “Can I run some project updates by you tomorrow?”

Ah—now there was something familiar and reassuring.

“Of course.” Ambrose swung into place behind the front counter. “But you owe me three cookies now.”

“As many as you want.” Her hand paused on the doorframe. “And try not to worry about the other shop. You’re the Unmatched Genius, First of Your Name, remember?” She smiled. “You’ll run circles around that guy.”

Ambrose’s gaze dropped to the counter, his cheeks tinged pink. “Thank you, Dawn.”

She dashed into the street, leaving him to stew silently in his potion shop.

His clean, professional, superior potion shop.

He let out a breath, flexed his fingers, and carefully placed his anniversary list back under the counter. Eli’s Elixirs, or whatever it was, wouldn’t last more than a month on Rosemond Street. The Griffin’s Claw had stood strong for almost two hundred years, and Ambrose would eat his own Guild certificate if it failed to remain so under his watch.