The events of the following day swirled in a mad, rapid vortex, leaving the Rosenthals without time for even a brief breath.
The badge with the two ravens in Magnus Trent’s hand had overwritten everything.
The pale, stammering perfumer was led away under escort like a hardened criminal.
Immediately following this, a harsh search burst into the house.
Iron-shod boots rumbled across the parquet, furniture was shifted with muffled thuds, and the Imperial bloodhounds turned chests and wardrobes inside out.
Amidst this chaos, appearing like a vulture, came Teresa Bothmer, who introduced herself as Hubert’s sister.
She loudly asserted her rights to the family business, argued with the mage, and bossed the servants around, finally turning the night into an endless nightmare.
Only toward morning did the bustle begin to subside.
When the first cold rays of the spring sun broke through the living room windows, the Rosenthals were left to themselves.
But it did not get any easier.
Elena sat on the sofa, her head limply resting against the cushions.
The nightly upheavals and the endless questioning by the interrogators had taken the heaviest toll on her.
She was as pale as chalk and could barely hold the cup of cooling herbal infusion that a grim, haggard Marcus was carefully handing to her.
Azalea stood by the window, wrapping her arms around her shoulders.
Her outward composure required a colossal effort, for a storm was raging inside her.
The situation was rapidly sliding into an abyss.
During the night, immediately after the flames died down, the city guard, on Trent’s orders, had inventoried and seized all three of her surviving crates as “material evidence”.
And this frightened Azalea most of all.
True, the chemical solution had saved the wood from the fire.
But what of the inside?
The colossal, inhuman heat of the blazing warehouse had acted upon the boxes for several hours.
The essential oils, the delicate lavender soap, the unique essences she had labored over – all of it had surely ruined irrevocably, separated, or turned into a useless, pungent mush under the effect of the extreme temperature.
The labor that was supposed to become the foundation for her future salon was most likely destroyed.
Azalea convulsively clenched her fingers, racking her brains over how to retrieve the confiscated items and whether even a drop of her perfume preparations could be saved.
A thought flashed through her mind that she could restore the merchandise’s appearance with magic.
However, to do that, she needed to get the crates back.
The world around them seemed to freeze.
The mad tempo of the night gave way to a viscous, ringing morning stillness.
The only sounds were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and a maid on the first floor quietly rustling a broom, sweeping away the soot brought in by the wind.
Suddenly, this sleepy tranquility was broken by a quiet, delicate knock at the living room door.
Marcus instinctively braced himself, expecting to see the guards again, but the door slowly opened, and an unfamiliar older man appeared on the threshold.
He was dressed in a austere, impeccably tailored travel coat of a deep gray color, devoid of unnecessary luxury but made of very expensive fabric.
Gray hair gracefully touched his neatly trimmed temples, and his face, covered in a network of wise wrinkles, expressed calmness and polite restraint.
His posture carried the bearing of a man accustomed to being in high society, yet his gaze, intelligent, shrewd, and sharp, instantly swept the room, assessing Elena’s condition and Marcus’s tension.
Finally, his eyes stopped on Azalea.
The man politely, but without sycophancy, inclined his head in a slight bow.
“Good morning, esteemed estate,” his voice proved surprisingly soft, deep, and enveloping, ultimately slowing down the already frozen time. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
“Please forgive my so early and unexpected visit after such a… tumultuous night. Miss Azalea Rosenthal, if I am not mistaken?”
The girl turned slowly from the window, peering intently into the stranger’s face.
“Yes, that is me,” she replied, maintaining an even tone.
“How can I help you?”
The man smiled barely perceptibly with the corners of his lips and took a short step forward, tucking his hands behind his back.
“Walter Aldridge,” he bowed slightly, pressing his hat to his chest.
“I have a confidential proposal for you. I would like to request a private conversation… alone, Miss Rosenthal. We have much to discuss regarding your surviving property.”
Marcus tensed even further, his perceptive gaze literally boring into the uninvited guest.
However, Walter Aldridge merely waited politely and patiently, maintaining his flawless half-smile.
Azalea shifted her gaze to her uncle, then to the exhausted Elena, and spoke calmly, with dignity:
“Mr. Aldridge, we handle our business as a whole family, and I have no secrets from my relatives. You may speak right here.”
The elderly man nodded understandingly.
At that moment, servants who had entered soundlessly served tea, setting out fine porcelain cups on the table, and departed just as quietly.
Time seemed to finally slow its course, dissolving into the soft aroma of jasmine.
Walter took a neat sip, set down his cup, and began to speak calmly, yet with striking confidence.
“Very well, in that case, I will not waste your time. My business is closely tied to the supply of a rare and incredibly valuable timber – iron rosewood, which is brought from the southern colonies. This material is used for the interior decoration and lining of the cabins of Imperial flagships and warships. Captains and admirals adore its noble appearance, but this wood has one fatal flaw. Due to the abundance of natural oils in its core, it catches fire at the slightest spark. In battle, if struck by an incendiary shell, such lining burns with wild fury, and the ship turns into a floating torch in a matter of minutes. The Admiralty suffers colossal losses, and I face enormous fines.”
Walter fell silent, looking pointedly at the girl and allowing her to grasp the scale of his problem.
Azalea remained calm, but a cold glint flashed in her eyes.
She tilted her head slightly to her shoulder.
“What are you driving at, Mr. Aldridge?” she asked directly, having no desire to waste time on conventional courtly subtleties.
The man inclined his head favorably, appreciating her directness, and continued:
“To the fact, my child, that something truly intriguing occurred last night at Bothmer’s burnt warehouse. While Hubert’s expensive merchandise was turning to ash, three of your wooden crates, located in the very epicenter of the fire, were not even charred. My people reported that the wood literally vitrified, protecting what was inside.”
Beside her, Marcus scowled barely perceptibly, while Azalea narrowed her eyes slightly, catching a single inconsistency in his words.
“The fire subsided closer to dawn,” she remarked in an even, cool voice.
“The guard cordoned off the ash heaps almost immediately, and my crates were promptly taken as material evidence. Barely a couple of hours have passed since the evidence was seized. Where did you get so many details, Mr. Aldridge?”
Walter laughed softly, nobly.
He shook his head and looked at Azalea with the same standard half-smile.
“In this city, rumors spread far faster than fire through dry wood, dear lady. For a man whose reputation and contracts with the military department are a vital part of life, such news is worth its weight in gold.”
“What exactly is it that you want, Mr. Aldridge?” Azalea asked straight out, neatly placing her cup back onto the saucer.
The noise of the waning morning outside the window receded entirely, yielding to this businesslike, tense silence.
Walter Aldridge’s face turned serious.
His piercing eyes narrowed, and his soft smile was replaced by the expression of a man accustomed to closing major deals.
“I have two proposals for you, Miss Rosenthal,” he spoke calmly, but with weight, leaning forward slightly.
“First: you transfer the exact formula of your solution to me, and I will organize production at the shipyards myself, while you receive a one-time remuneration. Second: you and your family come under my full patronage and work exclusively for me, ensuring the protection of the Imperial fleet.”
Beside her, Marcus held his breath barely perceptibly, awaiting his niece’s decision.
Both options were unexpected.
Yet, such a position would grant them stability and reliability.
“The second option I reject immediately,” Azalea cut him off harshly, without the slightest hesitation.
“My family came here to develop our own craft, not to become someone’s personal manufactory. We value our independence.”
Walter nodded understandingly, not in the least surprised by such a rebuff from this girl.
When he was driving here, he thought he would likely close the deal easily.
However, seeing Azalea Rosenthal, about whom he had learned very little from Mage Trent, he realized he had made a mistake by coming unprepared.
“And what about the first?” he asked softly.
“The first option is just as unacceptable right now, Mr. Aldridge,” Azalea shook her head barely perceptibly.
“Firstly, we have only just arrived in the trading capital. The official business operation papers have not yet been drawn up, and I have not secured the legal right to trade this compound. Handing over the formula now means completely forfeiting the rights to this product. And secondly…”
She paused, looking intently at the older man.
In her mind, a rapid analysis was already underway at full speed.
In that other world, her father had been involved in fire protection.
The girl remembered his stories and how enthusiastically he used to show his daughter the results.
Azalea knew that this solution was ideally suited for the porous, dry wood of shipping crates.
But the iron rosewood Walter spoke of?
A southern timber, literally saturated with dense, heavy natural oils from within.
A silicate impregnation simply would not be able to penetrate deeply into such oily fibers; it would remain on the surface as a thin husk, which at the very first storm or cannon volley would crack and flake away, leaving the ship defenseless against fire.
For rosewood, a completely different method was required.
A method based not on surface vitrification, but on deep displacement, for instance, treating the timber with concentrated borates or ammonium salts under high pressure, which would react with the oils themselves and render them non-flammable.
But she had no intention of telling Walter Aldridge about this, of course.
Most likely, this man wouldn’t even understand what she was talking about.
“…Regardless of the price, this method is simply ill-suited to the specifics of your timber,” Azalea finished in an even tone, hiding her true thoughts behind a mask of polite regret.
“Iron rosewood requires a completely different approach, Mr. Aldridge.”
A look of genuine surprise, mixed with deep respect, flashed in Walter’s eyes.
He had not expected a girl from Aden to grasp the technical intricacies of working with a rare southern timber on the spot.
Not all recognized masters of the Empire risked taking on this temperamental breed, and few even knew its characteristics.
And to hear such an analysis from a young woman…
“Please accept my sincere apologies,” Walter inclined his head slightly, and his tone became markedly respectful.
“I will be honest. I thought Trent was mistaken when he mentioned in passing that a woman runs your affairs. Admittedly, I am surprised that in harsh Aden there are those capable of properly appreciating such skills.”
Azalea offered a light, barely perceptible smile with the corners of her lips.
“Apologies are unnecessary, Mr. Aldridge. Let us not waste precious time on them,” she smoothly folded her hands in her lap, looking straight into her companion’s eyes.
“Let us rather speak of an advance payment.”
Walter Aldridge instinctively straightened up in his seat, instantly pulling himself together.
The standard half-smile finally vanished from his face, yielding to the excitement of a major player who realized he had found a true treasure.
Azalea, meanwhile, smiled to herself.
What had seemed like a catastrophe and an unresolvable problem just a few minutes ago had suddenly turned into an ideal opportunity for her.