Drizella dragged the last wooden crate across the stone floor, its scraping echoing off the warehouse walls. Her shoulders ached from an hour of rearranging the makeshift classroom, but satisfaction bloomed as she surveyed her work. Three neat rows of crates-turned-desks faced a salvaged slate board she'd mounted on the wall. Chalk dust lingered in the air, mixing with the lingering scent of cinnamon and cardamom from the spice shipments usually stored here.
Mother would have a fit seeing me play schoolmistress to merchant daughters, she thought, smoothing her dark velvet skirts. But Mother wasn't here, and these girls deserved better than embroidery lessons and dance cards.
She lit the brass wall sconces one by one, their warm light softening the room's utilitarian edges. The flame's heat prickled against her fingers as she adjusted each wick. Her carefully penned lesson plans lay spread across a rickety table she'd claimed as her desk, numbers and formulas arranged in precise columns. The paper still bore smudges where she'd revised the calculations three times over.
A tentative knock broke the silence. Drizella's heart quickened as she opened the heavy wooden door. Two girls stood there, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, wearing practical wool dresses in muted browns. Their eyes darted between Drizella and the floor.
"Welcome," Drizella said, gesturing them inside. "Please, choose any seat you like."
They scurried to the back row, whispering to each other. More knocks followed in quick succession. Girls filtered in by twos and threes, some clutching leather-bound notebooks, others empty-handed but bright-eyed. The wooden crates creaked under their weight as they settled in.
Twelve exactly, Drizella counted, daughters of spice merchants and cloth traders, silk importers and grain factors. Each one represented a careful calculation, a web of influence and mutual benefit she'd spent weeks weaving. The air grew thick with nervous energy and the subtle perfume of young ladies trying very hard to make good impressions.
A final set of footsteps approached. The door creaked open one last time, admitting a tall girl in a green wool dress, her red-gold hair escaping its practical braid. She closed the door with a decisive click that seemed to echo in the charged silence.
Twelve pairs of eyes fixed on Drizella, a mixture of curiosity, skepticism, and barely concealed hope reflecting in their faces. The weight of their expectations pressed against her chest like a physical force. These girls were risking their reputations—and their fathers' disapproval—to be here. She couldn't fail them.
Drizella's chalk squeaked against the slate as twelve pairs of eyes glazed over. The careful columns of numbers and theoretical scenarios might as well have been written in ancient runes, judging by their vacant expressions. Even Anastasia's usual enthusiasm had dampened to polite attention.
Numbers alone won't reach them. Mother always said theory without practice is just air dressed in fancy clothes.
She set down the chalk, dust coating her fingers. The warehouse's familiar scent of cardamom and dried tea leaves mingled with the nervous energy of her impromptu classroom. "Ladies, perhaps we're approaching this from the wrong angle." She strode to the back corner where she'd stored her latest shipment, her boots clicking against the wooden floorboards.
The silk bolt felt cool and alive in her hands as she returned, its silver threads catching the late afternoon light filtering through the high windows. Several girls straightened, their attention captured by the shimmer. Drizella spread the fabric across the nearest crate-desk, letting them feel its quality.
"This arrived yesterday from the Eastern Territories." She pulled her leather-bound ledger from her satchel, letting it fall open to yesterday's entries. "Master Wei charged me forty-seven silver pieces for the bolt, including transport fees." Her finger traced the line item. "Now, who can tell me how many dress lengths we might cut from this?"
A freckled girl in the second row—the chandler's daughter—raised her hand tentatively. "Four... maybe five if you're careful with the cutting?"
"Excellent observation, Miss Sarah." Drizella marked the number on the slate. "And what might a fashionable lady pay for a dress length of imported silk?"
The room stirred with whispers. A blonde girl in back called out, "My mother paid fifteen silver for hers last spring!"
"Perfect." More chalk numbers appeared. "So, five lengths at fifteen silver each gives us..."
"Seventy-five silver!" The answer came from three voices at once.
Drizella smiled, watching understanding spark in their eyes. "Now subtract our initial cost of forty-seven..."
Sarah's quill scratched frantically on her parchment. "Twenty-eight silver profit!"
"Almost." Drizella circled the number. "But we're forgetting something crucial. What else do we pay for besides the silk itself?"
The room fell quiet. She waited, letting them puzzle it through. Finally, a dark-haired girl in merchant's daughter's clothes spoke up. "The shop space? And whoever does the cutting and sewing?"
"Precisely." More numbers appeared on the slate. "Shop rent is two silver per day. We pay our seamstress four silver per dress. And don't forget the cost of thread, which comes to about half a silver per piece."
The scratching of quills intensified as the girls bent over their calculations. Drizella moved between the crates, watching their work, occasionally steadying a wobbling inkwell or pointing to a missed step. The warehouse's usual evening shadows deepened around them, but none of the girls seemed to notice, too absorbed in their task.
"Miss Tremaine?" The voice came from Elena, the quietest of the group, who hadn't spoken until now. "I think... I think I have it. If we subtract all the costs, the real profit is..." She double-checked her figures, then looked up with wide eyes. "Only eleven silver pieces?"
"Show me your work?" Drizella leaned over Elena's shoulder, examining the neat columns of numbers. A genuine smile spread across her face as she saw each cost accounted for, each step precisely calculated. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
Elena's face lit up with pride, her earlier hesitation forgotten in the glow of achievement. The other girls clustered around, comparing their own calculations, their earlier skepticism transformed into eager discussion.