The fine rain washed over Plane Tree Avenue, and a thin mist shrouded the towering hotel at its end. The buds on the plane trees were sprouting, and early spring flowers braved the chill. While the rain dropped the temperature in Royal City by several degrees, the citizens knew it signaled the end of winter. It was cold now, but warmth was coming.
"Flowers for sale! Flowers for sale! Sir, Miss, would you like a bouquet?"
A girl with a basket of fresh blossoms wandered the avenue. The rain had soaked her clothes, making her hair stick to her skin in clumps. She had a red waterproof cloak, but she didn't wear it; instead, she used it to cover her basket so the blooms wouldn't wilt.
"Winter Roses! Frost Jasmine! Rainbow Mume! Buy a bouquet for your beloved!"
Her primary clients were patrons of the Plane Tree Hotel, the city's premier luxury stay, where guests were generous with tips. But today, she hadn't sold a single stem. If evening came and the flowers remained, she'd have to toss them. No one buys day-old flowers.
Maybe next time I should sell umbrellas, she thought, wiping rain from her face.
Just then, a four-horse carriage pulled up. A portly middle-aged man stepped out, accompanying a slender, elegant woman. The man's suit was clearly bespoke, with pearl cufflinks worth three months' wages for an average family. The woman wore an off-the-shoulder dress with a luxurious snow-fox fur stole.
The girl hurried forward, thrusting a bouquet under the man's nose. "Sir, buy some flowers! Pink Winter Roses—the flower language is 'passionate love.' Your wife will be thrilled!"
The young woman giggled, leaning into the man. "Did you hear that? She thinks I'm your wife!"
The man's face wrinkled with pleasure. "Sweetheart, you're much gentler and prettier than the tigress I have at home!" To please her, he stuffed several fresh bills into the girl's hand.
The woman smiled brilliantly, though she feigned worry. "I shouldn't. Your wife would be furious if she knew."
"Then don't let her know," he said, kissing her loudly. "She thinks I'm handling that case!"
"What case?"
"The dead worker. His widow brought a bunch of kids to the factory, claiming his lung disease was from the dust. She just wants to extort money!"
The woman gasped. "And then?"
"I have friends in the police. The Inspector sent men to chase them off!" The man beamed. "Ungrateful wretches. I provide them with work so they don't starve, and they have the nerve to demand things!"
As they walked up the steps, the hotel doorman rushed out to hold an umbrella, getting soaked himself.
"Wait, sir!" the girl called out.
The man stopped. The girl climbed the steps, holding a brass key in her palm with a tag marked "623."
"Sir, this fell out of your pocket."
The man looked embarrassed as he snatched the key. "Must have happened when I reached for my wallet..." He gave her a few more coins as a reward, mostly to avoid appearing stingy.
The girl watched them go, then looked up at the 6th floor. A cold smile flickered across her face. She covered her basket again and continued her cry: "Flowers for sale! Winter Roses! Frost Jasmine!"
Two more men approached—one silver-haired, one black-haired. The silver-haired man wore a thick black coat in a Northern style. The girl had seen him around; the doorman said he was a merchant from Norelia. The black-haired man looked like an old-money aristocrat, refined and scholarly.
She approached them with a bouquet of Blue Frost Jasmine. They were deep in conversation.
"Are you hiring locally? I thought you'd bring staff from Norelia," the black-haired man asked.
"I'll bring management," the silver-haired man replied, "but I'll hire customer service and 'screen-mounters' right here in Royal City."
"Customer service? What is that?"
"Simply put, people who help customers. If a product has a quality issue, they handle the exchange or return."
The black-haired man was surprised. "Such thorough service? Won't allowing returns lower your profits?"
The silver-haired man smiled. "Think long-term, Mr. Robinson. Between a shop that allows returns and one that doesn't, which would you choose? If you don't protect consumer rights, eventually no one will dare to spend."
The black-haired man pondered this. "I see. It's about brand reputation and the value of added service. So, what is 'screen-mounting'?"
"Putting protective film on Magic Slates. It requires patience and care. I want to find some meticulous people in the capital..."
"Sir, would you like some flowers?" the girl interrupted, her deer-like eyes looking up at them. "Blue Frost Jasmine—the language is 'pure and noble love.' One for your wife?"
"I'm not married," the silver-haired man said.
"Your girlfriend, then?"
"Don't have one."
"Boyfriend?"
The silver-haired man: "..."
"Young lady, we don't need flowers," his companion said coldly.
The girl's face fell. "Please, sir? Even just one, half price. My family will go hungry..."
"That isn't our fault," the black-haired man said. "If you don't want them to starve, work harder and save money for a rainy day."
"I don't understand those big words," the girl shivered. "I work hard every day, but I still can't eat..."
"Then improve yourself and find a better job." He pushed past her, causing her to stumble into a puddle. Her flowers scattered into the mud.
"My flowers!" she cried.
Other guests glared at the black-haired man. Feeling self-conscious, he muttered a curse and tossed a bill at her. "There! That's more than enough for all of them!"
He pulled his companion away. The girl watched them go. For a moment, she had wanted to pick his pocket, but she hesitated because of what the silver-haired man had said. He seemed like a merchant who wasn't entirely heartless.
Late that night, the girl—now in a black stealth suit—climbed the hotel's exterior. She was a shadow against the bricks, scaling the walls with the agility of a cat. Her target: Room 623.
As she reached the 6th floor, she saw someone on a nearby balcony.
Who watches the rain at this hour?! she cursed, shrinking into the shadows.
It was the silver-haired man. He was in full evening dress, holding a glass of wine and a crystal. "Yes, Serina, the 'Alexander's Quest' event can go live... the 'War of the Successors' cards? I'm satisfied. Don't worry about player complaints; fans love tragedy. They'll cry while they spend..."
He suddenly stopped. The girl held her breath. Did he see me?
"I'll call you back, Serina." He went inside and closed the door.
The girl waited, then picked the lock to 623. Inside, the room reeked of alcohol. The middle-aged man and his mistress were snoring loudly. Minutes later, the girl slipped out. Her pockets were heavier: a fat wallet, pearl cufflinks, a ruby tie clip, a gold wedding ring, and a single pink Winter Rose.
In the slums of Royal City, a widow sat by a dim candle, sewing. Her husband had died of illness, leaving the family in debt. Her eldest children stayed up pasting matchboxes to earn a few coppers.
Suddenly, a heavy knocking came at the door. Fearing it was the police or the factory owner's thugs, the children grabbed a broom and a frying pan. They yanked the door open to find no one there—only a tattered bundle on the doorstep.
Inside was a stack of coins—enough to clear their debts and feed them for a year. At the bottom of the pile lay a small, dried flower.
Across town, a noblewoman was awoken by a rhythmic tapping at her window. Expecting a romantic suitor, she opened it to find a paper-wrapped package. Inside was a letter and a gold wedding ring.
A minute later, her screams shook the mansion. "You ungrateful pig! Using my family's money to see that harlot?! Get the car! Call my father! We're going to the Plane Tree Hotel!"
The next morning, the girl was back on the street. "Flowers for sale!"
A steam carriage stopped in front of her. A burly man with a thick beard stepped out—the Inspector of the 5th District.
"Little girl, did you sell flowers to a couple yesterday?" he asked, grabbing her arm. "That man was robbed. You found his keys, didn't you? Where were you last night?"
The girl broke into a cold sweat. "I was home sleeping, sir."
"Then you'll come to the station and explain it there."
The girl was thrown into a damp cell. She couldn't afford a lawyer, and her accuser was a powerful factory owner. She lay on the straw, thinking of her father's favorite story: The Little Match-Arms Dealer.
In the story, a girl doesn't sell matches but military-grade shotguns. When a lecherous man approaches her, she threatens to blow his head off. On a cold winter night, she fires a gun into the air to see her grandmother in the gunpowder smoke.
As she drifted off, she entered a dream. She was on a snowy street. A man in a black coat approached her, opening his coat to reveal revolvers, rifles, and bayonets.
"Wait! I'm fourteen, this is ridiculous!" she shouted.
The man was the silver-haired merchant. "It's your dream," he said. "Why did you steal from them?"
"To help the widow and the wife," she said.
"Don't you think the man worked for that money?"
The girl sat on the curb. "If everyone works, why does the poor man work ten hours for a copper while the rich man does nothing for a fortune? The rich take the value of the poor's labor. I call it 'wealth redistribution.'"
"Who told you that?" the man asked, impressed.
"My father. He was an archaeologist. He found a book in a ruin about ancient philosophy. He's dead now; I ended up in the workhouse—the 'prison for the poor'—until I escaped."
The silver-haired man sighed. "That life won't last. I can offer you a job. A real one. I'll provide for you and teach you to read."
"You sound like a saint," she scoffed. "Who are you?"
"I was once oppressed like you. Now? The dragon-slaying youth has become the dragon," he said wistfully. "If you decide, come find me."
"Wait! Where? I don't even know your name!"
"I know yours, and that's enough."
The girl bolted upright in her cell. The door creaked open, and a harsh light flooded in.
"Tira Anderson. Someone paid your bail. You're free to go."