The Bellmane Bounty

Giant’s Mane. The city of quarrymen, of miners, of raw materials and hard work. The city of steep roads and canted gaits, whose citizens were known in nearby towns by their drunken walk. The city of the Bellmane Bounty. The world of Rosewill Bellmane, who currently stoops at a shelf where she adjusts glass bottles and figurines. She glances at these wares, and at the more utilitarian goods around them. A shadow passes before the broad shop window. Rosewill ducks behind the shelf, her layers of skirts and her braids clinking, and then sneaks toward the counter. She flinches at the bell over the door. The dwarfling tucks and rolls to cross open space.
               “Hello?” the potential customer calls.
               “Hi!” Rosewill pops up from behind the counter. She grins too widely at the human, who has already stepped back a few paces. Rose pushes her braids from her face. “I, I mean, hello! And welcome to my Bounty. I mean, the Bellmane Bounty! Is there anything you’re interested in? In which you’re interested?” The human wears sturdy canvas clothing like most of the populace here, but his skin and his hands are clean. There’s no rock dust in his hair; his face is less smudged than Rosewill’s own. He turns away to look at the clothing, shoes, and tools that are most of the shop stock. The human’s attention turns to the bottles and figurines; Rose clenches her hands together beneath the counter.
               “Huh,” he says. “These ones aren’t marked. How much?” Her fingers creak.
               “The, bottler smalls—the smaller bottles, sorry—they. Those ones are… fifteen coppers. Larger ones are… a silver, I thi—are a silver. And the figurines di—” Rosewill stops with a jerk as her voice cracks. They stare at each other. She clears her throat. “Differ. Uhm. The smaller ones are a silver or less. The bigger or, or more delicate, mayb—I mean, they’re two. Silvers.” The man considers this for a moment.
              “What about this?” He brings a trinket to the counter. He cups it in his clean hands like some fragile bird. It is, in fact, a phoenix. At the tip of its crest, the bird is a translucent yellow; the glass darkens until it’s reddish-black at the bottom of its broad tail. It’s all soft, curving curlicues, and its flattened tail serves as a base. Rosewill lifts her eyes to the man’s face. He stares down with teary focus.
              “My daughter… she almost died when she was born. Took the healers and clerics three hours to bring her back, but they did. I want to get this, and when she’s older—I can give it to her. She’s my phoenix.”
              “Oh, sir. Of—of course. That’s—thank you. Thank you so much.” Rose tugs at one of her glass-tipped braids. “That. This would be, maybe, twenty-five coppers?” She cringes a little until a smile blooms across the customer’s face.
             “That sounds fine,” he says. “Just fine.” Coin trades hands; he leaves with the phoenix carefully wrapped in canvas and cotton. Rosewill regards the register after he leaves. After some thought, she stuffs the coppers into a pouch on her belt.
             “Rosewill Hermatia Alnori Bellmane!” Rosewill jumps forward against the register, which chimes. She drops coins, which clatter. She whirls to face the speaker. Another Rosewill stands there, though fully Halfling instead of half dwarf: Rosewill as she will be with twenty more years of age, with roses and freesia and coins woven into her hair instead of glass. Rosewill with her arms crossed and anger in every line of her face.
            “Oh, no no no, m’am,” Rose says. She drops down from the step behind the register. “It’s not like that—I didn’t. I never. This isn’t from the till—” Rose’s mother takes her fingers in a grip that hurts. She pulls up her daughter’s sleeve to frown at the fresh burn there.
            “I can’t believe there’s still a forge in Giant’s Mane that will let you in,” her mother said.
            “Actually, it’s falled a curnace.” They stare at each other. Rosewill breaks first; she drops her eyes to their joined hands. “S-sorry. I’m sorry.”
            “I am, too,” her mother says. Rosewill looks up through her braids. “You fell for a sob story. But more than that—it’s these trinkets, Rose. Do you need more to do? I can give you more.” Rosewill watches her mother cross the store to the door. The matriarch turns the sign to “closed.” When M’am Bellmane turns back, her face has softened.
            “I know how it is,” she says. She begins pulling the glassworks from the shelves; Rosewill lowers her eyes to her stained hands, though she jumps at each soft rasp of glass on wood. “Selling things other people make. A hundred miles away from headquarters, so not even the name feels like yours. Not even you feel like yours. But we can’t do this. We can’t make, not here.” A heavier thud: a storage box. “Not here, with craftsmen of other races. When halflings step on toes, they get kicked.”
          “And dwarves? S-sorry!” Rosewill cringes. The sounds pause.
          “Dwarves… are sensible. Practical. I’ve never heard of a dwarven glassblower,” her mother says. A last click spurs another jump from Rosewill, and then her mother’s touch startles her again. “I know,” the matriarch says again, “What it is to have nothing to yourself. But you’re going to get hurt.” M’am Bellmane’s fingers brush the burns on Rose’s arm again. “You don’t have to play with fire to make your mark.”
          The older woman claps her hands, which makes her daughter jump yet again. “You can take on the clothes. Maybe even the perishables. Displaying, stocking, inventory… if you don’t do it right, all the shops up the line suffer. But if you’re good, then they know whose planning it is.” Rose forces the fingers of her free hand to loosen. She looks down into her mother’s amber-brown eyes.
         “Sure,” Rose says. “I’d like that.” She contemplates the mix of salts and heat necessary to make amber-brown glass.

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