Alric was sitting in his office, which would once have been his bedroom, but he had moved his desk closer to Seren’s to take advantage of the boiler. He had chosen a place that caught both a warm draft and a cold one, leaving the air dry enough not to feel clammy. It was, by any reasonable standard, an excellent compromise. Alric, however, was deeply suspicious of the new hire.

  The new hire’s name was Stephan, and Alric found himself watching him. Stephan was aesthetically challenged. Alric felt bad for thinking it, but the man was simply gangly and wiry, as though someone had assembled him quickly and then lost interest near the end. His nose had been broken at some point and sat slightly off-centre, giving the impression it was still deciding where it wanted to be. He was currently lifting casks with Henry and doing cleaning work. It was only his second day, and so far nothing had changed, which only deepened Alric’s concern.

  Henry, by contrast, was very good-looking by Alric’s old-world standards. He was tall, tanned, and muscular from years at the docks, with the kind of build that suggested heavy labour had been kind to him. Stephan was a friend of Henry’s and also a dock worker. Dock work, it seemed, went one of two ways. You either ended up like Henry, where people stared for too long, or like Stephan, where people checked their coin pouch when you passed and could not quite explain why.

  Alric turned back to his drawing before his thoughts wandered into uncomfortable statistical territory.

  He was sketching the new building from above. It ran in a long line with two extended wings, shaped like two F’s placed top to bottom, facing the same direction. The shape pleased him. It suggested order. It suggested forethought. It suggested that the building would obey.

  The section furthest from the river he labelled Section One and marked as the staff wing. He estimated it could fit eight bedrooms, two offices, a kitchen, and a bathing room, as well as a latrine. He added the last with a slight slump of the shoulders, because even in drawings, some necessities carried a moral weight.

  Section Two would be germination. The layout would mirror the current setup, though expanded, with larger wooden trays to manage the grain and a small sewing area for making the bags. He paused briefly over this, already imagining the arguments about thread quality.

  The space between them was the longest section, labelled Section Three, the working area. This was where the wash tubs, steamers, boilers, and press would remain. It would need a roof that could be raised. He planned for a second well at the rear of the building and imagined oxen, or something similar, hauling barrels of water up and lowering them through the roof to feed the boilers. He did not imagine where the oxen would come from, or who would explain the process to them.

  Sections Four and Five were allocated to fermentation. Section Five would include the cellar. He already wanted that expanded, with the stairs replaced by a gentle ramp, because barrels had opinions about stairs and expressed them loudly.

  All of these improvements would be problems. The boiler had taught him that much already, and it had been a thorough instructor. He would need to discuss the plans with the guild later that day. Lifting roofs was not new to them, which was reassuring, even if doing so on a warehouse was. He stretched his shoulders, bracing himself for the daily delivery run, and folded the drawing with care, as though it might remember being treated kindly.

  The deliveries were getting harder.

  Snow had settled in with quiet seriousness. Paths were still walked, but two people struggled to pass one another without negotiation. Alleys and side routes became one-way passages without warning, changing daily according to little more than habit and mood, as if the city itself was rearranging its furniture.

  He stood and stretched again. His legs had been working hard of late and had begun to voice their opinions in the evenings. Moving over to Hal, he watched him place a grain sack before charging the magic stones. That would buy roughly two hours. It was not enough. He would only be back by afternoon to do it again before heading out once more, which meant the day had already decided what shape it would take.

  He left through the smaller door and clicked his tongue in annoyance. The problem was simple. He could not charge the stones and make sales at the same time. Casks were heavy, and his item box was the only way to move them in any quantity. It was an elegant solution, but like many elegant solutions, it assumed cooperation from the rest of the world.

  By his estimate, it took an hour to reach the district now, with snow piling as it was. He could visit some taverns, walk back, charge the stones, and head out again. There was no avoiding it. Some deliveries would simply be late, and the snow showed no sign of apologising.

  He set off toward his first stop, The Three Barrels, sticking to the main avenue as long as he could. Snow gathered against the walls and narrowed the road until it felt more like a corridor than a street, and even that felt generous.

  Eventually he reached the inn. He knocked before entering, brushing snow from his cloak and stamping his boots. No one stood behind the counter, which was rarely a good sign.

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  Looking further in, he spotted the innkeeper seated with a small group, all leaning close together in the manner of people conserving both warmth and optimism.

  “Ah! It’s the beer man!” the innkeeper called with a broad grin. The others gave a small cheer, the sort reserved for necessary miracles.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Alric replied, returning the smile. It cost him very little and paid well.

  “I’ll fetch your cask,” the innkeeper said, standing.

  Alric nodded and used his item box to place a full cask on an empty table. The two men seated nearby murmured quietly but said nothing, watching the cask with the wary respect usually reserved for livestock. Alric leaned against a pillar to wait, feeling the fatigue finally catch up to him and sit down beside him.

  “Here you go. Your cask from last time,” the innkeeper said, handing over two silver coins.

  “Alright. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve a lot of inns to see,” Alric said. The innkeeper nodded. “I may be late next week. The snow’s making this difficult,” he added, gesturing toward the shuttered windows, which did not argue.

  “To be expected,” the innkeeper replied. “I’m just grateful to stay open. A second cask is out of the question? I thought so. No matter. Thank you for your work. I’ll see you next week.”

  Alric nodded and took his leave. He could have spared a second cask, but he worried about setting precedents, which had a habit of breeding. Opening the door, the cold and snow struck his face with renewed enthusiasm. He tightened his cloak and hood before heading for the next stop.

  He finished his morning run as he approached the warehouse again. It was easy to spot. It was the only building not buried under snow, the ground around it churned into mud, as though winter had tried and failed to make its point. As he drew closer, something moved.

  He stepped back, squinting, until he made out the shape. A dog lay sleeping in the mud against the wall, perfectly content. A closer look revealed more, tucked into shallow hollows where the warmth lingered.

  He frowned, then remembered.

  The cats.

  He hurried to the staff entrance and went inside.

  “Everyone, please keep the cats indoors,” he said. “Dogs are sleeping by the walls.”

  They nodded, but all pointed toward the boiler, which had its own opinions about urgency. Alric took the hint. He replaced the water barrel with fresh well water as the others moved into position, then charged the magic stones, feeling the familiar drain settle into his bones.

  With everyone occupied, Alric restocked lager before stepping back into the storm to finish the remaining deliveries, the cold biting at his cheeks with personal interest.

  What had been walked paths in the morning were half-lost now, edges softened until buildings seemed to lean inward. Signs disappeared first. Painted boards vanished beneath white, and carved lettering filled with ice until only familiarity separated an inn from a storehouse. Alric found himself counting doors, checking angles of roofs, trusting memory more than sight, and occasionally hoping memory was in a cooperative mood.

  The wind had picked up, not strong enough to drive the snow sideways, but enough to keep it moving. It slid from ledges and shutters in slow sighs, dusting his shoulders again and again. Each step pressed his boots deeper than the last, the packed surface giving way just enough to make walking a matter of constant correction rather than progress.

  He reached what he believed was his next stop and knocked. No answer. He waited, knocked again, then stepped back and realised he had misjudged the frontage entirely. The door belonged to a closed cloth merchant, its sign lost somewhere above the drift line. He adjusted his course and tried again, this time finding the right place by the smell of old smoke leaking through the shutters, which had outlived its welcome by several winters.

  Inside, the warmth came slowly. The innkeeper squinted at him, then smiled with relief that was not entirely polite.

  “I was beginning to think you’d missed us,” the man said.

  Alric shook snow from his cloak. “Not missed. Delayed.”

  That became the pattern. Each stop carried a moment of doubt, then recognition. He grew slower not from fatigue alone, but from caution. Slipping meant lost time, and lost time meant fewer returns to the warehouse. His legs burned in a way that spoke less of strain and more of steady theft. The snow took a little more from him with every street, and kept excellent records.

  By the fourth delivery, his fingers had gone numb enough that he struggled to judge pressure. Coins slipped once from his grasp and disappeared into the snow at his feet. He found them by kneeling, brushing aside the surface with bare hands until cold bit sharply enough to sting, which at least proved he was still awake.

  He did not linger anywhere. There were no conversations, no leaning against counters. Each exchange was brief, necessary, and followed by the cold again, which waited patiently outside every door.

  When he finally turned back toward the warehouse, the light was already failing. Smoke hung low over the district, trapped beneath the clouded sky, and the snow took on a faint blue cast that made distances uncertain. He walked carefully, measuring each step, already calculating how much time remained before he would need to charge the stones again, and whether he could convince his legs this was a good idea.

  Darkness had fallen when he returned. He could not feel his toes as he entered, stamping and brushing snow away. The building was colder than usual but still held a welcome warmth, like a tired animal that had not quite given up.

  “Mister Alric, before you take off your cloak, we need to run the boiler again,” Seren said.

  “A bit late for that,” Alric replied, glancing at the closed door, which had opinions about remaining closed.

  “That doesn’t matter. We’re not keeping up,” Mara said from behind her. Alric looked over to see Hal nodding in agreement, decisively.

  “I really don’t like…” He trailed off as they shook their heads, calm and unmoved.

  With a sigh, he went to the well barrel and began setting the boiler while the others moved around him. Seren repositioned the lanterns so everyone could see properly, which made the scene look almost organised.

  Alric clicked his tongue again.

  “Please go eat and sleep, Mister Alric,” Seren said once the lanterns were set. “We can manage this, and you have more to do tomorrow.”

  Alric considered protesting. Instead, he went to the kitchen without comment, which seemed to satisfy everyone.