Despite the novelty of owning a store, actually running it was surprisingly boring. One man could only explain the same product so many times before he got tired. Yes, Madam, you dab the product on your wrist and the back of your neck. Yes, sir, the dye will not wash out, no matter how many times you wash the garment. No, my ladies, I can assure you that the candles will not stain your newly painted walls with soot; beeswax candles do not stain, yes, I am sure it has been tested.
After two days, Norman’s social battery ran out, and he left the sales floor to Shimri in exchange for a sizable raise in allowance. He felt much more comfortable doing the administrative work on the second floor. The store was set up in such a way that the first floor was the actual store, the second floor was an office and sitting area for potential contract negotiations, and the third floor was Wiseman’s new perfume workshop.
Norman was worried about having to hire a bunch of new employees, but the store ran fine with just the family for the time being. Norman did the administrative work, Shimri did the sales, Rowboat took care of deliveries, and Wiseman was in charge of product development. The children helped when they felt like it, doing small tasks around the shop like counting inventory or greeting patrons. They were made to help in the workshop at home as part of their chores, but the store was actual work, and Norman’s modern view of ethics didn’t allow him to use child labor.
Despite being a newly opened shop, The Fox and Phoenix Atelier quickly gained a reputation for its affordable luxury products and the adorable helpers it was named after.
“Father, stop drooling over numbers for a second and let me make a delivery,” Wiseman popped his head out from the staircase for the first time in three days. His hair was a mess, and his clothes were stained from god knows what. It seemed he had inherited Norman’s bad trait of getting so absorbed in work that he forgot to eat and sleep. Thankfully, he also inherited Savant’s need to do those things.
“Alright, alright. What do you need this time?” Norman held his hand out without looking up from his paperwork. If any of his other children were making a request from him, he would give them his full attention, but Wiseman was so much like himself that he didn’t have to make as much of an effort with parenting. Well, he was a much weirder, more expressive, version of himself.
Wiseman placed the wax tablet in his father’s hand without saying a word. Everything he needed was written down, so why should he waste time explaining it verbally when he could spend that time working on more perfumes? When he was halfway up the stairs, he realized that there was actually something he needed to say verbally. “Ah, right. Could you tell Rosie to stop trying to help me in the workshop? I gave her a few vials of water to keep herself busy, but I can’t concentrate when she runs around in there.”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“I’ll talk to her. Just carry her downstairs if she’s too distracting. I’ll take care of her.” Norman was glad that his daughter was such a caring and thoughtful person, but he wished that she would get over the helpful big sister phase soon. It was cute when she helped with harmless things like hair brushing or spelling words, but the tantrums she threw when she couldn’t help Wiseman with boiling water or sharp knives were less cute.
“Noooo!! Big sister helps!!! I don’t wanna go!!” As if on cue, Primrose was carried downstairs in the midst of a help-based tantrum. Wiseman held her by the hips with outstretched arms as she screamed and kicked, handing her over to Norman as if she were a bag of rice. As soon as she was dropped off, he practically ran upstairs to get away from the crying. “I wanna help the babyyy!!!”
“Wiseman doesn’t need help right now. He has to learn how to do things by himself.” Norman didn’t have the social skills needed to calm a crying toddler down. All he could offer was awkward back pats and monotone words of comfort. “Paien is your big brother, but he doesn’t help you with everything, does he?”
“But the baby won’t love me if I don’t help!” She wailed, burying her face in her father’s chest, getting snot and tears all over his shirt. Wiseman was distant by nature, holing himself up in his workshop for hours on end. Primrose was too young to understand that he just liked being alone. Instead, she drew the conclusion that her baby brother must hate them all for not playing with them.
“He loves you very much.” Norman had no idea how she came to the conclusion that he would hate her if she didn’t help him with everything, but children worked in mysterious ways. “The workshop upstairs is dangerous, and he just doesn’t want to get his favorite big sister hurt.” He was an awful soother, but he had learned that the word favorite always seemed to work like a charm on his daughter.
“He said I’m his favorite? Favorite ever forever?” She sniffled, rubbing her face with her arm. She still wanted to help, but if she was his favorite big sister, even if she didn’t help, then maybe it was okay. Only sometimes, though. The baby still needed help with tucking himself into bed and eating his vegetables.
“Mhm. You’re his favorite sister in the world.” That was only technically true, considering that she was his only sister, but he didn’t have to mention that. “And you’ll always be my favorite daughter in the whole wide world.” She would always hold the title of his favorite girl, no matter what she did or how many tantrums she threw. She would maybe have to share that spot with someone else if the author felt like it, but that was a topic for another day.
Final child amount?
