“Oh, I’ll be sure to. Salary, sick days, vacation pay, and whether it’s acceptable to sleep sprawled across the gnomish ovens are all things that should be covered during a job interview, right?”
“I believe so, yes.” Sylin saluted her, then headed off down the street.
Rylana stepped into the storeroom, hoping she hadn’t irritated Jildarin further by keeping him waiting. But he hadn’t remained in the crate-, keg-, sack-, and oven-filled space.
In the hallway at the other end, she spotted a goblin peering through a side door—that was the kitchen, wasn’t it?—and speaking with someone. Jildarin?
Rylana left her belongings beside the carriage doors, trusting thieves didn’t venture into a dragon’s lair often, and walked slowly past the crates and sacks, reading labels and starting a mental inventory of items. The goblin watched her curiously before scurrying toward the dining room where a couple of new customers had arrived. Before reaching the kitchen, Rylana passed a tiny office with a desk and filing cabinets, but there weren’t any papers or logbooks in sight. Unlike the packed storeroom, it was tidy with the trash bin empty.
The kitchen door opened easily on hinges that let it swing in both directions. Though the spacious room undoubtedly saw a lotmore use than the office—with pots, knife blocks, utensils, and stacks of plates out on and above counters—it was also tidy. Surprisingly so, given the number of jars and pouches of spices and other ingredients scattered about with meal preparations in various stages of progress.
Jildarin stood at a butcher block, slicing potatoes. Scintillating scents wafted from a stockpot with the flames burning low. Alas, Rylana didn’t see any bacon being fried or left over from the morning meal. She might have to wait until breakfast rolled around for a sample.
Without pausing cutting, Jildarin looked over at her. His expression wasn’t any more inviting than before, and Sylin’s question came to mind. WhywasRylana doing this?
Yes, she needed a job, but she didn’t know if this one would pay. And Rylana had never been the type to do foolish things for the sake of a man, even an appealingly handsome one. Given what Jildarin was, his handsomeness was irrelevant. Humans and dragons didn’t have relationships, even when theyweren’tformer enemies. Besides, she was still getting over Mav. She wasn’t looking for a relationship with anyone.
“What are you doing, my enemy?” Jildarin asked.
Why had she thoughtformerenemy? He clearly believed she was still one.
“You said I could come in and look over your numbers, but I didn’t see any ledgers in your office. Where are you keeping track of inventory and profit and losses?”
Jildarin stopped chopping for long enough to touch his index finger to his temple.
“I’m beginning to see why there’s a problem,” Rylana said.
“There’snota problem.”
“You’re behind on your rent.”
“Are there any conversations I’ve had today that youhaven’tspied upon?”
“You had the rent one in the open with your landlord. And the other… Well, you had it by an open door.”
“I am a fool for allowing you into my diner.” Jildarin growled and returned to slicing his potatoes. Vigorously. The knife wentthunk, thunk, thunkon the cutting board.
“It’s a good idea to keep written records of everything for your business,” Rylana said. “I trust someone is tallying sales at the end of the day, right? Do you have any papers at all? Or at least an empty ledger I can get started with? It would be a good idea to record all your existing inventory and figure out what orders you need to make on a regular basis and how much your typical ingredients and expenses are. That’ll help you figure out how much to charge for meals.”
Jildarin eyed her. “What is aledger?”
“An empty book for recording debits and credits.”
He looked blankly at her.
“I could start with some paper, I suppose,” she said. “You do have that, don’t you? And pencils?”
Jildarin looked around the kitchen thoughtfully, then walked to a locker door in the back, a magical button beside it glowing a soft orange. He tapped it, and the door swung open, a cool draft wafting out. He grabbed a frozen slab of meat that had been wrapped by a butcher and clunked it down on a metal counter. Rylana watched with bemusement as he unwrapped the meat and handed her the slightly bloodstained brown paper. Then he fished in a drawer of thermometers, shears, and other kitchen utensils and plucked out a half-used charcoal stick.
“You can write with this,” he said.
“I may need something a little more sophisticated. Even as a mercenary living in a tent, I had ledgers and pencils. One Winterfest, Mav got me an abacus, though the kinds of calculations we did for ordering weren’t that sophisticated, and I could do them in my head.”
Jildarin, having provided what he apparently deemed suitable materials, returned to cutting potatoes.
“I know where a stationery store is,” Rylana said. “Why don’t I buy what I need and put it down as an expense for the business? Maybe you can pay me back once we sell your extra ovens.”
Jildarin grunted without looking at her.
