I had thirty-four days to prepare for a lunar prison built around something Marduk had failed to understand.
Naturally, Xavier took me to lunch.
"I'm serious," I said.
"So am I."
"We spent last night calculating how quickly a magical seal might deteriorate."
"Yes."
"I sold three personal holdings this morning."
"I heard."
"Two receivables went for less than seventy percent of their recorded value."
"That sounds painful."
"It was vulgar."
Xavier kept walking.
Catington's western merchant quarter was already crowded despite the hour. Delivery carts clogged one street while porters carried baskets of bread, smoked river fish and vegetables toward the richer neighborhoods uphill.
I followed because Xavier had developed a disturbing talent for refusing to explain things until I was already involved.
Rex followed because Rex considered every unexplained journey a reasonable opportunity to find meat.
"This had better be important."
"It is."
"You said that about helping Arkad choose boots."
"Those boots saved his ankle during the Ashcourse."
"That was luck."
"That was leather."
We turned into a quieter street.
The buildings changed first.
Narrow merchant houses became wider stone fronts with carved signs, polished windows and small covered entrances designed to keep expensive people dry.
One establishment did not belong.
Not anymore.
The lettering over its door had once been gold.
Most of it had peeled.
MAISON VAUDRIN.
One window had been repaired with mismatched glass.
A chalkboard beside the entrance listed twenty-six dishes.
I stopped reading halfway.
"That is alarming."
Xavier opened the door.
"You haven't eaten yet."
"I don't need to."
"You do."
"I meant the menu."
A restaurant attempting twenty-six dishes at noon generally had one of three advantages.
A huge kitchen.
A huge staff.
Or delusion.
Maison Vaudrin possessed none of the first two.
The dining room contained fourteen tables.
Three occupied.
That was the second alarming thing.
This street should have been busy.
The room itself still carried evidence of an older life.
Dark wood.
Heavy linen.
Proper stemware.
Small brass lamps over each table.
Not luxurious enough for the great houses.
Too refined for ordinary tavern traffic.
A place built for academy professors, successful merchants, minor nobles and people who wanted to pretend they belonged to all three categories.
The bones were good.
The room was dying anyway.
A girl carrying three plates saw Xavier.
She nearly dropped one.
"You came."
"Hello, Céliane."
She deposited the plates at a nearby table, apologized to the diners for the delay, then hurried toward us.
She was about our age.
Nexus pin on the collar of an apron.
Hair tied back badly enough to indicate it had been done while moving.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you would have cleaned."
"I would have killed you."
"That too."
Her eyes moved to me.
Recognition.
Wonderful.
"Raymond."
"Yes."
"You're shorter than people say."
I looked at Xavier.
He shrugged.
"Everyone does that."
Céliane Vaudrin wiped one hand against the apron and offered it.
"Céliane."
We shook.
"You worked with Xavier?"
She laughed.
"He worked for us."
I slowly turned toward him.
Xavier became interested in the ceiling.
"You carried plates?"
"For a while."
"You neglected to mention this."
"It was a side job."
"You are a prince."
Céliane's expression froze.
Xavier looked at me.
I remembered.
Royal identity.
Concealed.
Mostly.
"Figuratively," I added.
A miserable rescue.
Céliane stared between us.
Then decided she had too many problems to investigate this one.
"Table?"
"Please," Xavier said.
I remained standing.
"Why am I here?"
Céliane answered before he could.
"Because we're going bankrupt."
There are many elegant ways to request help.
I appreciated hers.
---
We sat.
Nobody brought menus.
I pointed toward the board outside.
"I've seen enough."
Céliane winced.
"That bad?"
"Twenty-six lunch dishes."
"Forty-one total."
I looked at Xavier.
He nodded.
Forty-one.
Beautiful.
"How many cooks?"
"Four."
"How many today?"
"Two and my father."
"Servers?"
"Me. Hella. Tomas when he comes back from delivery."
"So two and a theoretical third."
"Yes."
Xavier leaned forward.
"You see why I brought you."
"I see a crime scene."
A voice came from the kitchen.
"If the boy doesn't like the menu, the boy can leave."
Céliane closed her eyes.
There he was.
A man emerged carrying a plate.
Lucien Vaudrin looked perhaps fifty.
Maybe younger.
Grief and kitchens both age people unevenly.
Broad hands.
Forearms marked by old burns.
White chef's coat with one loose button.
His hair had gone gray at the temples.
The plate in his hands smelled extraordinary.
He placed it in front of a customer at the next table.
River char.
Skin crisp enough to shine.
Sauce reduced dark around roasted roots.
A few green leaves.
Nothing excessive.
The customer looked at the plate.
Then at Lucien.
"I ordered the duck."
Lucien stared.
"You ordered the char."
"I did not."
"You did."
Céliane was already moving.
"Papa—"
"I wrote it."
"You didn't write table numbers."
"I know my room."
The customer pushed the plate slightly away.
"I've waited almost an hour."
Lucien's jaw tightened.
"The fish took twelve minutes."
The diner looked toward the nearly empty room.
"I have been here fifty-three."
That did it.
Lucien picked up the plate.
"Then perhaps the extra time taught you patience."
The customer stood.
Coins hit the table.
Not enough to cover what had already been served.
He left.
His companion followed.
Céliane stared at the door.
Then at her father.
"That was the fourth this week."
"He was lying."
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"That is the problem."
Silence.
Xavier looked at the table.
I looked at Lucien.
He looked back.
"Are you the clever boy?"
"I've been called worse."
"I don't need a child telling me how to cook."
"Excellent."
He frowned.
"I have no intention of doing that."
That stopped him.
"Bring me whatever you cook best."
"I don't cook for inspections."
"Then bring me whatever you cook when you've stopped trying to impress people."
Lucien stared at me for several seconds.
Then walked back into the kitchen.
Xavier exhaled.
Céliane sat.
"You made that worse."
"I've barely begun."
---
Lucien sent five dishes.
He was trying to kill me financially.
Soup first.
Deep onion broth, almost brown, with toasted bread and a soft mountain cheese melted over the surface.
Excellent.
Then a small pastry filled with mushrooms and herbs.
Also excellent.
The river char returned, presumably after the previous customer's misfortune had found a new purpose.
Exceptional.
Then braised lamb.
Too much salt.
Not badly cooked.
Badly finished.
Dessert arrived twenty minutes later.
A pear poached in spiced syrup with burnt cream.
One edge of the cream had gone bitter.
I ate everything.
Céliane watched like someone waiting for a diagnosis.
Xavier simply enjoyed himself.
Traitor.
"Well?" she asked.
"Your father is very good."
She blinked.
"That's it?"
"No. The restaurant is terrible."
From the kitchen:
"I can hear you."
"Convenient."
Lucien reappeared.
"Explain."
I looked around.
Three occupied tables had become two.
One server had disappeared into the kitchen.
A delivery box sat unopened beside the bar.
The lamps above four tables were unlit despite the room being dim.
The front desk contained three reservation books.
Different years.
One open.
Two covered in dust.
"How much food did you throw away yesterday?"
Lucien's face changed.
Céliane answered.
"Too much."
"How much?"
She gave an estimate.
I looked at Xavier.
He stopped eating.
That much.
"How many of your forty-one dishes share primary ingredients?"
Lucien folded his arms.
"I don't design food by accountant."
"That explains the accounting."
His eyes sharpened.
"Raymond."
Céliane sounded warning.
I softened the tone.
Slightly.
"Your char was excellent. The lamb technique was excellent. The broth was better than anything I've eaten since arriving in Catington."
Lucien said nothing.
"The restaurant is still failing."
His hands tightened against his arms.
"You think I don't know that?"
"No. I think you know and have decided the customers are responsible."
That landed.
Harder than I intended.
Céliane looked down.
Lucien walked toward me until Xavier began to rise.
I lifted one hand.
No need.
Lucien stopped at the table.
"My wife built this place with me."
There it was.
"She knew every guest who came through that door. Every supplier. Every table. She could remember who hated garlic and whose son was allergic to river nuts."
His voice had become quieter.
"When she died, half those people stopped coming."
Céliane looked up sharply.
"They stopped because you started insulting them."
Lucien turned.
"I was cooking for them before you could hold a spoon."
"And Mama was keeping them here."
The room went very still.
Hella, the other server, pretended to polish a glass.
Poorly.
Lucien looked at his daughter.
Something in his face seemed to collapse and immediately rebuild itself harder.
He went back toward the kitchen.
I stood.
"May I see it?"
He stopped.
"What?"
"The kitchen."
"No."
"Then I can't help."
"I did not ask you to."
Céliane did.
"Papa."
He did not move.
She continued.
"We have eleven days before the landlord can begin formal recovery proceedings."
Xavier stopped eating entirely.
That was new information.
"Céliane—"
"I didn't tell you because you would try to pay it."
She looked at Raymond.
"I don't want money to delay the same problem."
Good girl.
Lucien stared at her.
Then opened the kitchen door.
"Five minutes."
I followed.
---
The kitchen was cleaner than I expected.
That surprised me.
Copper pans hung polished above the main station.
Knives maintained properly.
The ember-stone stove burned evenly.
No rot.
No filthy floors.
No horror hiding under counters.
Instead I found something more expensive.
Waste.
Three varieties of mushrooms for dishes ordered twice a week.
Two separate fish deliveries because Lucien refused to change a recipe when one supplier increased price.
Imported spice sealed in small ceramic jars.
A cooling rune working at the edge of its service life.
Five sauces held warm simultaneously.
Eleven partially prepared proteins.
"Dinner mise en place?" I asked.
Lucien nodded.
"At noon?"
"I prepare properly."
"You prepare everything."
"Yes."
"Whether anyone orders it."
"Yes."
There.
I inspected the order slips.
No numbering system.
No timed sequence.
Handwriting from three people.
Céliane entered behind us.
"She used to call the tickets."
Lucien didn't need to ask who *she* meant.
Sabine.
"Who calls now?" I asked.
"I do."
"And when you're cooking?"
"I still do."
Of course.
"How many jobs did your wife perform?"
Lucien glared.
Céliane counted.
"Reservations. Supplier books. Floor. Staff scheduling. Complaints. Private events."
"And your father?"
"Kitchen."
Lucien interrupted.
"I helped."
"I know."
Céliane's voice softened.
"But you cooked."
I looked around again.
The problem clarified itself.
It was almost disappointingly simple.
The restaurant was operating as though Sabine Vaudrin had merely stepped into another room.
Her work had never been replaced.
Lucien had absorbed pieces of it.
Céliane the rest.
Neither had built a system.
So the establishment relied on memory, anger and emergency.
"What?" Lucien asked.
I realized I had been quiet too long.
"You don't have a food problem."
"I know."
"You have a dead position."
His face hardened.
Céliane flinched.
I regretted the wording.
Not the conclusion.
"Your wife's job still exists," I said. "Nobody occupies it. Instead the work has been scattered across everyone else."
Lucien looked away.
That was enough.
I continued.
"Your cooks prepare too many dishes because the menu was built for a busier restaurant. Your daughter is acting as hostess, cashier, bookkeeper and supplier contact while studying at Nexus. You are cooking, expediting, handling complaints and making purchasing decisions."
"I own the restaurant."
"You currently own a collection of jobs."
Xavier entered the kitchen.
"Raymond."
"I'm almost polite."
Lucien almost laughed.
Almost.
That mattered.
I pointed toward the cold storage.
"How much do you owe suppliers?"
Céliane answered.
Then rent.
Then staff arrears.
Then repairs.
By the time she finished, the number was unpleasant.
Not fatal.
Interesting.
"How much cash did you make last month?"
She gave it.
"How much after food, wages and debt payments?"
Silence.
Negative.
I looked at Xavier.
He understood immediately.
"We need money for Pandemonium."
"Yes."
Céliane looked between us.
"Pandemonium?"
"Long story."
Xavier stepped closer.
"You're thinking about investing."
"Yes."
"Raymond."
"I know."
"Thirty-four days."
"I know."
"This makes us poorer."
"For several days."
Lucien barked a laugh.
"There it is. The clever boy thinks he can save a failing restaurant in several days."
"No."
I looked at him.
"I think I can discover in several days whether it deserves to be saved."
That silenced him.
Better.
---
Marcus arrived forty minutes later.
He brought no muscle.
Only ledgers.
Far more threatening.
Céliane gave him everything.
That impressed me.
No hidden second book.
No missing supplier notes.
No convenient lies.
The restaurant's debts were ugly but comprehensible.
Marcus read in silence for ten minutes.
Then:
"Inventory records are useless."
Lucien bristled.
Céliane said:
"I know."
"Payroll?"
She produced it.
"Supplier contracts?"
Another folder.
Marcus looked at me.
"You want a stake?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
Lucien answered before I could.
"None."
I smiled.
Negotiation had begun.
An hour later, he still owned most of the restaurant.
Which was correct.
The structure was less pleasant.
Raymond's existing commercial holding would inject enough capital to clear the most dangerous arrears, repair the cooling rune, settle staff wages and finance a controlled relaunch.
In exchange:
forty percent equity.
Lucien retained culinary authority.
Céliane became general manager.
I received temporary operating authority over finance, procurement, pricing, service standards and expansion for ninety days.
Not the kitchen.
Lucien insisted on that clause three times.
I wrote it three times if necessary.
After three consecutive profitable months, operational authority would transfer to Céliane under a three-person management board.
Lucien.
Céliane.
My designated representative.
I retained equity, audit rights and veto over new debt above a defined threshold.
Lucien read the contract.
"You get forty percent of my wife's restaurant."
"No."
His eyes lifted.
"I get forty percent of the company that exists tomorrow. You keep everything you owned yesterday, including the debt, if you prefer."
He hated me.
Good negotiating environment.
Céliane read more carefully.
"What prevents you selling your share to someone we hate?"
Excellent.
Marcus looked at me.
I added a right-of-first-refusal clause for the Vaudrins.
"What prevents Papa borrowing against the building again without telling me?"
Lucien looked offended.
Marcus added joint approval above the threshold.
"What prevents Raymond changing the name?"
I answered.
"Nothing."
Lucien nearly tore the contract.
I continued.
"But I won't."
Pause.
"Why?"
"Because Vaudrin still means something. A failed reputation is cheaper to repair than a reputation nobody has heard of."
That he understood.
Céliane signed first.
Lucien watched her.
Then signed.
Marcus witnessed.
I signed last.
Forty percent.
One failing restaurant.
Less money available for the moon.
Xavier stared at the signatures.
"You're insane."
"Frequently."
"What now?"
I looked around the dining room.
"Now we close."
Lucien stood.
"No."
"Two days."
"I will not close while we are drowning."
"You are losing money while open."
"We need customers."
"You need customers to return."
He started to argue.
Céliane put one hand on his arm.
"Two days."
He looked at her.
Not me.
Then nodded.
That was how it should have been.
---
I took the chalkboard outside personally.
Forty-one dishes became nine.
Lucien discovered this and nearly killed me.
We negotiated back to eleven.
Progress.
Two starters.
Three mains at lunch.
Four at dinner.
Two desserts.
Shared ingredients where possible.
Seasonal additions only when supply justified them.
The onion broth stayed.
I did not ask its margin.
Some things have value before accounting reaches them.
Céliane reorganized reservations into one book.
Marcus arranged proper daily close sheets.
Hella became head server rather than an undefined pair of hands.
Tomas stopped making deliveries; a contracted runner could do that cheaper than removing a trained server from the floor.
Lucien rejected my first supplier consolidation.
Correctly.
One cheaper fish merchant was unreliable.
His culinary knowledge saved my spreadsheet from stupidity.
I accepted the correction.
He noticed.
That helped more than any compliment.
By sunset, the dining room was full of furniture nobody was allowed to use.
We moved tables.
Removed four.
Lucien protested.
"Fewer seats?"
"More space."
"Less revenue."
"Only if the old seats were occupied."
They had not been.
Private tables received more distance.
The back room became reservation-only dining for six to ten guests.
Céliane understood first.
"Nobles."
"And guild officers. Faculty. Merchants."
"Higher prices?"
"Higher reliability."
Lucien looked suspicious.
"What changes in my food?"
"Nothing that makes it worse."
"I decide that."
"Yes."
He stopped.
The word *yes* had become unusually effective.
---
Near midnight, I found Lucien alone in the dining room.
He was cleaning the old reservation desk.
Not because I had assigned it.
A small brass plate had been hidden beneath papers.
SABINE VAUDRIN.
He wiped it with his sleeve.
I considered leaving.
He spoke without looking up.
"She would hate you."
"Most intelligent women eventually do."
"She would have liked the contract."
"That sounds contradictory."
"She liked contracts."
A pause.
"She made me read every supplier agreement twice."
"Wise woman."
"I never did."
"That explains several entries in your ledger."
He laughed.
A real one.
Brief.
Then silence again.
"She was the restaurant," he said.
"No."
He looked at me.
I nodded toward the kitchen.
"You were part of it."
Then toward the desk.
"So was she."
Toward the stairs where Céliane had finally gone home.
"And now your daughter is part of whatever comes next."
Lucien stared at the brass plate.
I didn't tell him to move on.
People who say that have generally misplaced something less important.
Instead I placed tomorrow's reduced menu beside him.
"Eight in the morning."
"What happens?"
"You cook every dish once."
"For you?"
"For the staff."
He frowned.
"Why?"
"Because nobody should sell something they haven't tasted together."
He looked at the menu again.
"Your lamb reduction is wrong."
"It is your menu."
"You wrote the garnish."
"Then correct it."
He took my pencil.
Good.
---
Outside, Xavier waited against a lamp post.
"You spent expedition money."
"Yes."
"To buy a restaurant."
"Forty percent."
"That correction doesn't improve it."
We walked toward Sierra.
Catington had quieted.
Not completely.
It never did.
A delivery wagon passed carrying sealed crates uphill toward the Crown district.
Another followed.
Both bore government requisition marks.
Xavier glanced at them.
"More ward-salt."
"You noticed."
"Third shipment this week."
Interesting.
"Normal?"
"No idea."
I filed it.
Nothing more.
Evidence before imagination.
Xavier shoved his hands into his coat.
"You really think the restaurant makes enough before we leave?"
"No."
He stopped walking.
I continued.
"Raymond."
I turned.
"The restaurant cannot make us immensely rich in thirty-four days."
"Then why—"
"It can become worth far more than I paid."
That stopped him.
I walked back.
"Cash is one form of wealth. A profitable organization is another. A restaurant trusted by merchants, professors and noble households produces recurring income. Private dining produces higher margins. Events produce contracts. Procurement produces supplier leverage."
"You've thought about this."
"Since the soup."
"That was three hours before the contract."
"It was excellent soup."
He shook his head.
"And when you disappear into Pandemonium?"
"Céliane runs it."
"Not you."
"That is the point."
We resumed walking.
Behind us, Maison Vaudrin's sign remained dark.
For two days, it would earn nothing.
In eleven days, its creditors could begin taking pieces of it.
In thirty-four, I intended to be somewhere on the moon.
The arithmetic was offensive.
I liked it.
Back aboard Sierra, I opened the Blacklist and made a new entry.
MAISON VAUDRIN.
Asset: 40%.
Chef: Lucien Vaudrin — high culinary value, poor operational discipline, retained kitchen authority.
General Manager: Céliane Vaudrin.
Operating control: temporary.
Primary risk: time.
Then another line.
Goal:
Become profitable without requiring Raymond.
I stopped there.
That was harder than saving it.
It was also worth considerably more.
Outside the cabin, Catington's bells marked midnight.
Thirty-three days remained.
And for the first time since learning the number, I had spent money on something I did not intend to carry with me.