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Apr. 21st, 2006 11:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cpolk003. Ends
The completion of an action; the accomplishment of a purpose.
This is not fanfic.
in fact, this is Angelus, for those who know what that means.
and it's considerably longer than a drabble.
Crispin blinked when he saw the post arm up at the lace-maker's shop, but he collected the letters from the bin and stashed them against his belly and under his shirt, after looking to make sure that none of the Gull Street gang had seen him. He'd slipped fingers in between each folded package of paper, and found four. Four! What was the lacemaker's new girl up to, forgetting four letters from yesterday?
Four uncounted letters for Crispin, though, and he kept on, stopping at the boot-cob and the end yardgoods shop for more envelopes, and still no one lurking along Gull street to count his letters and demand half. He could hardly believe his luck, but looked carefully about the baker's anyway, hoping to catch Jessenia's eye.
She didn't look up from her plate of oat flats, but she nodded, blowing strands of flax hair out of her face. Crispin ducked away to hide in the flour shed, dancing on his toes.
First, he counted. Fifteen envelopes! and the shops hadn't yet opened! He looked at each of the letters, and found the symbol he needed to know which way to post them. Seven bore the tail of a dolphin, meaning the garden lands, two had the double-coins that characterized the exchange houses at the eastern gates, one was bound for the scale-symboled southwestern neighborhood of the big exporters, and the other five bore sacks, meaning they would stay right here.
As Crispin set his mark on the back of all the envelopes and stuffed them back behind the drwstring of his pants, he realized that he didn't remember which envolopes were posted from where. It didn't matter. He'd get a penny and a half for this bit of work, and if he picked the right time, he could sell the lacemaker on buying stamps from him, which would make his next few weeks see the profit whether he delivered the letters or not.
Crispin ducked out the the flour shed. an oat flat lay on the bakery floor, broken by the fall but in three good sized chunks, and he scooped them up as he ducked toward the post boxes. It was still warm, and Crispin sucked his fingers when he was done. It would be a good day.
Murdag had to drive this wagon to the garden estates anyway, and taking a load of mail was no trouble for a comfortable bit of gain - ten letters taken to the neighborhood meant five pennies, and the first post already bore thirty letters. She counted herself a jug of beer ahead for the day already, and it hadn't even grown warm. But Murdag was usually ahead enough for a good second-shop blouse or a modest joint of meat just from the post on a work-day, and sometimes she even bought those things instead.
Today would be for beer: a deep ale, near syrupy with malt. She smacked her lips together, and her wagon pony swiveled an ear back.
"On with you, fatty!" she scowled, and the pony kept on, all offended dignity. Ale. And a bit of a smoke, if her luck kept up.
Murdag stopped at a tiny booth long enough to drop off her letters, and the coins wrapped in a bit of kerchief stuck in her sash. She had manure to take from carriage stables, back outside the walls.
Boleslava arranged the letters in her satchel by the way she felt like walking her route today: since it was going to be warm later, she chose to take the more open streets and come back in the shade cast by the tree-lined streets of the higher houses. She took a cautious sniff of the letters Murdag has just brought, in case they whiffed of shit-wagon. But they did not, and she filed them all carefully and set off, nodding importantly to footmen and house seravents on errands.
Occasionally she was stopped by a footman she recognized, offering to take her letters and save her the walk. And the tips, much to her dismay. She was paid one and a half cents for every letter delivered by her hands, and many housekeepers would round it up if they were hurried. Every helpful footman cheated her out of a portion of her dinner at a dining room, after a footsore day of walking.
But she'd been on the route long enough. she knew that many of the footmen, though they looked interestedly at the addressed envelopes, couldn't read the looping hands and scrawling pen well enough to see which ones belonged to his master's house. She could easily tell them there was nothing yet, if it was worth the profit.
The old governor had been talking about making all children go to school, regardless of class. Boleslava wondered if that would mean trouble for her job, if the new governor kept on that course.
But that was a worry for another day. She'd walked the loop of her first post, and would be able to sit down in the booth with some lemonade before another post came.
Fifteen people understood what the carefully indirect language in their morning letters meant. Eight of them sat down to write immediate replies. Six of them mentally counted liquid assets, and wondered what they could sell, if anything. Five of those sighed and cursed their misfortune at having their money tied up in empire-frozen banks.
One of them read the letter once more, and sent a reply - and immediately after, wrote a second letter.
They all paid their local carriers five cents per post, and ten letters headed back to a storefront six streets away from where the original letters were posted.
(The eleventh stayed in the same neighborhood, which pleased Boleslava. She got three cents on that letter--one and a half for the stamp sale, and one and a half for delivery, and put three and a half in the cash box at her booth. The stamp man would pick them up later. Boleslava could only wonder how much a stamp man made in a day, but she wished it were hers.)
Crispin went back to those businesses on Gull Street to try to sell them stamps, but they all said they'd had enough, thanks. Dejected, he ran post for the rest of the day, paying the Gull street Gang half his earnings - the half that they caught him earning, at any rate. he was still up two pennies on the day, since he bought a pair of tarts from the bakery to eat.
But as he went home, he passed by a lady in a good second sale skirt and shopgirl's shirtwaist, sorting through a handful of letters.
"Lots of admirers, Miss," Crispin piped up. "You'll need more stamps to answer 'em all."
The lady halted as he spoke, looked right at him as he made his offer, and reached for her reticule.
"You are correct, young man," she said. "I'll have ten, shall I?"
Crispin thought that Fortune and his mam smiled on him, that day.
Camilla slipped back inside the shop and set ten envelopes down. I had to touch them to make sure they were real.
"Ten?" my voice was a little strained, and perhaps overly loud. "Ten? Camilla! Are these all offers?"
"You move too fast, boss. These are inquiries. But it's a good day's work, no?"
The completion of an action; the accomplishment of a purpose.
This is not fanfic.
in fact, this is Angelus, for those who know what that means.
and it's considerably longer than a drabble.
Crispin blinked when he saw the post arm up at the lace-maker's shop, but he collected the letters from the bin and stashed them against his belly and under his shirt, after looking to make sure that none of the Gull Street gang had seen him. He'd slipped fingers in between each folded package of paper, and found four. Four! What was the lacemaker's new girl up to, forgetting four letters from yesterday?
Four uncounted letters for Crispin, though, and he kept on, stopping at the boot-cob and the end yardgoods shop for more envelopes, and still no one lurking along Gull street to count his letters and demand half. He could hardly believe his luck, but looked carefully about the baker's anyway, hoping to catch Jessenia's eye.
She didn't look up from her plate of oat flats, but she nodded, blowing strands of flax hair out of her face. Crispin ducked away to hide in the flour shed, dancing on his toes.
First, he counted. Fifteen envelopes! and the shops hadn't yet opened! He looked at each of the letters, and found the symbol he needed to know which way to post them. Seven bore the tail of a dolphin, meaning the garden lands, two had the double-coins that characterized the exchange houses at the eastern gates, one was bound for the scale-symboled southwestern neighborhood of the big exporters, and the other five bore sacks, meaning they would stay right here.
As Crispin set his mark on the back of all the envelopes and stuffed them back behind the drwstring of his pants, he realized that he didn't remember which envolopes were posted from where. It didn't matter. He'd get a penny and a half for this bit of work, and if he picked the right time, he could sell the lacemaker on buying stamps from him, which would make his next few weeks see the profit whether he delivered the letters or not.
Crispin ducked out the the flour shed. an oat flat lay on the bakery floor, broken by the fall but in three good sized chunks, and he scooped them up as he ducked toward the post boxes. It was still warm, and Crispin sucked his fingers when he was done. It would be a good day.
Murdag had to drive this wagon to the garden estates anyway, and taking a load of mail was no trouble for a comfortable bit of gain - ten letters taken to the neighborhood meant five pennies, and the first post already bore thirty letters. She counted herself a jug of beer ahead for the day already, and it hadn't even grown warm. But Murdag was usually ahead enough for a good second-shop blouse or a modest joint of meat just from the post on a work-day, and sometimes she even bought those things instead.
Today would be for beer: a deep ale, near syrupy with malt. She smacked her lips together, and her wagon pony swiveled an ear back.
"On with you, fatty!" she scowled, and the pony kept on, all offended dignity. Ale. And a bit of a smoke, if her luck kept up.
Murdag stopped at a tiny booth long enough to drop off her letters, and the coins wrapped in a bit of kerchief stuck in her sash. She had manure to take from carriage stables, back outside the walls.
Boleslava arranged the letters in her satchel by the way she felt like walking her route today: since it was going to be warm later, she chose to take the more open streets and come back in the shade cast by the tree-lined streets of the higher houses. She took a cautious sniff of the letters Murdag has just brought, in case they whiffed of shit-wagon. But they did not, and she filed them all carefully and set off, nodding importantly to footmen and house seravents on errands.
Occasionally she was stopped by a footman she recognized, offering to take her letters and save her the walk. And the tips, much to her dismay. She was paid one and a half cents for every letter delivered by her hands, and many housekeepers would round it up if they were hurried. Every helpful footman cheated her out of a portion of her dinner at a dining room, after a footsore day of walking.
But she'd been on the route long enough. she knew that many of the footmen, though they looked interestedly at the addressed envelopes, couldn't read the looping hands and scrawling pen well enough to see which ones belonged to his master's house. She could easily tell them there was nothing yet, if it was worth the profit.
The old governor had been talking about making all children go to school, regardless of class. Boleslava wondered if that would mean trouble for her job, if the new governor kept on that course.
But that was a worry for another day. She'd walked the loop of her first post, and would be able to sit down in the booth with some lemonade before another post came.
Fifteen people understood what the carefully indirect language in their morning letters meant. Eight of them sat down to write immediate replies. Six of them mentally counted liquid assets, and wondered what they could sell, if anything. Five of those sighed and cursed their misfortune at having their money tied up in empire-frozen banks.
One of them read the letter once more, and sent a reply - and immediately after, wrote a second letter.
They all paid their local carriers five cents per post, and ten letters headed back to a storefront six streets away from where the original letters were posted.
(The eleventh stayed in the same neighborhood, which pleased Boleslava. She got three cents on that letter--one and a half for the stamp sale, and one and a half for delivery, and put three and a half in the cash box at her booth. The stamp man would pick them up later. Boleslava could only wonder how much a stamp man made in a day, but she wished it were hers.)
Crispin went back to those businesses on Gull Street to try to sell them stamps, but they all said they'd had enough, thanks. Dejected, he ran post for the rest of the day, paying the Gull street Gang half his earnings - the half that they caught him earning, at any rate. he was still up two pennies on the day, since he bought a pair of tarts from the bakery to eat.
But as he went home, he passed by a lady in a good second sale skirt and shopgirl's shirtwaist, sorting through a handful of letters.
"Lots of admirers, Miss," Crispin piped up. "You'll need more stamps to answer 'em all."
The lady halted as he spoke, looked right at him as he made his offer, and reached for her reticule.
"You are correct, young man," she said. "I'll have ten, shall I?"
Crispin thought that Fortune and his mam smiled on him, that day.
Camilla slipped back inside the shop and set ten envelopes down. I had to touch them to make sure they were real.
"Ten?" my voice was a little strained, and perhaps overly loud. "Ten? Camilla! Are these all offers?"
"You move too fast, boss. These are inquiries. But it's a good day's work, no?"
