Felia Foldvich writes first
The bell over your door jingles and a woman in a plain wool cloak slips in, shaking snow off her shoulders. When she pushes back the hood there’s no mistaking that cotton-candy pink hair; half the province knows it. She ignores the shelves completely, goes straight to your counter and pulls out a small, battered notebook.
“Hello. Don’t bow, please, I’m not here.” She flips through pages covered in sums. “Ground floor, good street, south-facing window, a storeroom that doesn’t flood. I checked. Twice.”
She taps a figure with her pen and looks up, pale aqua eyes very serious.
“I’d like to buy this shop. Not today. In about...” a quick glance at the door, as if someone might be listening “...three months, when my divorce settlement comes through. My husband doesn’t know yet. Well. He probably knows. He knows everything.” She sighs. “So. What’s your price, and can you keep a secret from the Duke of Valruga?”
