At six in the morning, Arna woke up in bed right on time.
She opened her eyes, changed her clothes with practiced ease, and gathered her gear—an Advanced Fishing Rod and a plain-looking bucket she had picked up the day before. After locking her door, she slipped down the creaky old wooden stairs without a sound and dashed cheerfully out of the house.
Morning! Fishing time! New fishing spot, here I come!
The early sky was a hazy gray, with only the gas lamps still flickering a dull yellow, struggling to cast their light onto the cobblestone streets.
Shouldering her fishing rod and carrying her bucket, Arna scaled a wall and dropped down on the other side as if no one were watching. She took a shortcut toward the riverbank she had passed yesterday, taking in the surrounding scenery with great interest as she walked.
A milk delivery cart rattled slowly past her, its frame creaking. The driver was huddled on the seat, half-asleep, nearly splashing sewage onto her trouser legs.
Arna dodged back onto the main path with a speed far beyond that of an ordinary person, narrowly escaping the mess.
That was close. I almost had to spend money on new clothes.
“How uncivilized!” she grumbled.
The driver looked up, somewhere between sleeping and waking. “Eh?”
He stared in a daze at the youngster in front of him, who was currently perched on someone’s wall. Carrying some suspicious, unidentified object in the early hours of the morning and acting so shifty—she definitely didn’t look like a respectable person.
…Who exactly is the uncivilized one here?
“I’m talking to you!” Arna repeated loudly. “Uncivilized!”
Was he dreaming, or were thieves nowadays really this bold? Had this fellow just escaped from Bethlem Royal Hospital?
Abused for a second time, the driver was stunned. His thoughts were still mired in his recent dream, and the exhausted horse ahead didn’t stop, dragging the carriage further down the street.
It took a moment for the driver to fully wake up.
Wait, who steals a long, conspicuous fishing rod when they’re out thieving? Not to mention that person was carrying a bucket in the other hand.
Recalling the stranger’s attire, the driver suddenly realized. “A bumpkin! She’s come to our London to go fishing!”
***
The arrogant “bumpkin” was currently marching down the path with her head held high, proud of herself for scolding the man into silence.
Soon, she reached the riverbank. She looked left and right before selecting a prime fishing spot for herself.
As she adjusted her perspective, the fishing rod struck the iron railing along the bank with a loud *clang*, the sound ringing out clearly.
The noise startled the birds pecking at the ground nearby, and they took flight with a flutter of wings. The rats in the street also scurried forward in a fright, splashing into the damp sewers.
Ignoring the startled small animals, Arna set up her rod and happily began fishing.
Two hours later, since the bucket could no longer hold any more, she stuffed two fish into her Inventory. With the rod over her left shoulder and a bucket full of fresh river fish in her right hand, she walked over to the stalls at Covent Garden.
The crowds were bustling, shoulder to shoulder. The salty, fishy scent of the day’s catch drifted out from open wooden crates along the street.
Arna squeezed between two housewives. After a moment of hesitation, she chose a fishmonger who looked somewhat fierce.
“I want to sell these fish,” Arna said, lifting her bucket. “How much will you give me?”
The burly fishmonger gave a skeptical grunt. “Where’d you get these?”
He peered into the bucket, seeing several eels and perch. They were of average length, only considered medium-sized.
“By the River Thames,” Arna replied, not forgetting to stand a bit further forward to keep an eye out for any red dots labeled “Thief” approaching. “Less than two hours ago.”
The fishmonger gave her a scrutinizing look. Though he didn’t think she looked like an experienced angler, he didn’t care where the fish came from. He casually quoted a price.
“Sixteen shillings and eight pence,” he said, reaching out to poke at the fish in the bucket. He smacked his lips. “They’re fresh enough, but they’re pitifully small. Besides, there are better ones all over the market.”
Arna froze for a moment.
A trading panel popped up, but there was no price prompt. It seemed this was the haggling phase, where she could manipulate the price up or down.
The problem was: how do you haggle?
Why didn’t this game have a bargaining mini-game? You know, the kind where you select a few icons to start rambling so the other person gives you more money. Last time, that Ticket Inspector NPC had automatically quoted a price.
She glanced at her bucket. The fish inside were jumping and kicking, looking to be in excellent condition.
…One of them had just slapped her in the face while on the bank.
If nothing else, they were clearly high-intelligence! She had to get more money!
“Too little. Not enough,” Arna said dryly. “Add some more?”
“Take it or leave it,” the fishmonger said. Seeing that she didn’t know how to haggle, the flesh on his face quivered as he gave her a savage look. “If you’re not selling, then get lost. Don’t block my stall.”
Arna: …Negotiation failed!
She scratched her head and tried to say something else to ease the tension. “The weather’s nice today, isn’t it?”
Hearing their conversation, a sturdy woman at the neighboring stall burst out laughing.
She wiped her hands on her stained apron and joined the conversation. “You’re not a local, are you?”
She winked and gave a toothy grin. “You’ll get a better price at the little pubs near the docks, lad. They’ll take anything for their fish chowder, as long as the fish don’t wriggle when they’re tossed into the pot. Remember to tell them Molly sent you.”
The fishmonger frowned at her sudden interruption and her not-at-all-funny joke, but he didn’t say much, merely crossing his arms and waiting for the young country lad to make a choice.
Caught between NPC Fishmonger No. 1 and NPC Fishmonger No. 2, Arna felt herself shrinking smaller and smaller.
Do I have to choose? Me?
She needed to make time to go to the Factory later and was in a hurry to sell the fish so she could get back to her place on Baker Street. If she went to a pub now, it would cost her at least another half hour.
But if she didn’t earn the extra money, she would be sitting up in bed in the middle of the night thinking about it!
So conflicted.
Just then, a well-dressed woman stopped by the stall. She sniffed the faint fishy scent in the air and wrinkled her nose.
“Are these from the Thames?” she asked, looking down at the fish in the bucket.
—A big spender! She looks even richer!
Arna’s eyes lit up, and she nodded. “That’s right.”
She eagerly shook the bucket. The fish scales shimmered slightly in the sunlight. The few fish squeezed into the bucket were tossed about, and one of them managed to flick its tail, splashing a few drops of water, looking fresh and lively.
The wealthy lady observed for a moment, then nodded decisively.
“I’ll take them,” she said. “I happen to be hosting guests tonight.”
The price she quoted was nearly double that of the fishmonger. The fishmonger’s mouth twitched, and his eyebrows nearly jumped off his face.
Arna nodded quickly, then watched expectantly as the wealthy lady opened her purse and counted out several coins into her palm. Arna then handed the bucket to the silent maid standing behind the lady.
Seeing how simple and honest the youth before her was—not even trying to chat about exotic sentiments or “God Save the Queen” to stall and blackmail her like those crooked merchants, but simply waiting quietly for her to pay—the lady buying the fish shook her head with a slight smile.
She added one more thing: “If you have fish of the same quality next week, bring them directly to the kitchen door of 26 Bruton Street. Before seven o’clock.”
With that, she turned and left.
The fishmonger, having been intercepted, muttered curses and let out some crude words that Arna didn’t understand at all. Meanwhile, Molly, the sturdy woman at the next stall, giggled.
“Looks like you found a good buyer, you lucky thing,” she said cheerfully. “But be careful, the cats on Bruton Street are fatter than the servants!”
***
Back at the residence on Baker Street, Arna first put the fish from her backpack into a bucket in the kitchen and poured in half a basin of water.
Once everything was settled, she headed upstairs, her feet making the old stairs creak.
Sherlock Holmes was in a gray-blue dressing gown, leaning against the sofa, eyes closed as he focused on drawing the bow across the strings of his violin.
When the door opened, he abruptly stopped his bizarre performance, bringing the melody—which had shifted between melancholy and cheer—to a complete halt.
His keen gaze swept over Arna’s muddy boots and the fishing rod she was carrying, and then he offered a knowing smile.
“Look! Our industrious angler returns in triumph,” he announced, cheerfully setting his beloved instrument aside. “Your aunt left your oatmeal porridge by the hearth. It should still be warm—though I must warn you, Watson insisted on adding some so-called ‘medicinal’ honey to the bowl before it was served.”
Arna: “…Wait, what is medicinal honey?”
Does such a thing even exist? It felt like if Dr. Watson really believed that nonsense, he’d probably get scammed in his old age.
Watson was at the dining table eating; he had evidently woken up later and was still spreading butter on his toast.
He looked quite helpless at Holmes’s teasing.
“Good heavens, it’s not medicinal honey, just regular honey,” he said resignedly. “It’s for digestion, Holmes. If you ate breakfast like a civilized person, you’d know that…”
Holmes waved a hand dismissively. “No, no. Even a morsel of food in my stomach stops me from thinking. Not today, Watson, we have to go out.”
He sat down in a chair and turned to Arna. “Let me guess—a grand victory?”
“Oh, really?” Watson said supportively, waving his toast. “It seems our lunch is settled! I’m guessing a large perch?”
“Close enough,” Arna said, changing her shoes before collapsing into her seat and starting on her porridge. “Eels and perch.”
The warm porridge slid down her throat, and she let out a comfortable sigh, watching her depleted Stamina Bar rise segment by segment.
“Two? You must have been a fishing champion back in Yorkshire,” Watson said solemnly. “As a fellow who fails nine times out of ten, it seems I’ll have to ask you for some pointers…”
“Two,” Holmes said lazily. “No, no, Watson, you’ve been misled by Isaacs’s modest phrasing.”
He gestured and poured himself a glass of water. “At least nine, I’d wager. Some were sold, I presume.”
Watson, who was mid-swallow, suddenly choked and started coughing uncontrollably.
Once he recovered, he said in disbelief, “Good heavens, really? You’ve already started turning a profit?”
“Ah, yeah,” Arna replied. Having quickly recovered her stamina, she let out a sigh of relief and put the bowl back on the tray. “I have urgent business, I’m heading out now.”
She ran downstairs as if her feet were winged, but halfway down, she remembered something and doubled back.
“If my aunt is going to cook those two fish,” she seriously instructed her two roommates, fearing that if her fish appeared on the dining table, they would look like a pair of eyes staring up at the stars in a Stargazy Pie, “make sure she waits until I get back.”