Cameron To Candy

Marcus had meant well. When he handed Candy the carriage paperwork that morning, he said it like a gift.

“I thought you might enjoy something different,” he told her, sliding it across the breakfast table. “A bit of the man’s world again. You know, smell the forge, the woodwork, hear all the guy talk. The Brakebell shop’s got stables out back too. No pressure, I’ll hook Hearthwind up and you can just, you know, drive it down there, let them fix the thing and take in the sights and sounds.”

Candy had stared at him, then at the paperwork. “You want me to… drop the carriage off?”

He smiled. “It won’t be hard. Just the kind of errand that clears the head. You penned a few of the manuals for the new coaches a year back, right? The Penance Phaeton and the Correction Cab? Could be fun to see a few down there,” he said in the kind of hopeful tone people sometimes got when they’re trying to help and not sure the other person likes it.

“The Obedience Cart, not the Penace Phaeton,” she corrected him. She could never help herself. “But yeah.”

And she’d thought, fine. It seemed low pressure. A day away from lace and tea tables. A chance to walk among men shouting over hammer clangs, smell iron dust and horse oil, pretend she was part of that again. And Viridicus knew she could use a distraction after the gravitea incident last week.

So now she stood in Brakebell Carriage Works, breathing in the scent of leather and burnt grease, listening to the hiss of rune torches and the rhythmic clang of shaping irons. The air vibrated with the sounds of competence: men talking shop, nails being hammered in, the steady curse of someone dropping a wrench.

Outside the bay doors, she’d even walked the stable track, peeking at sleek mares in harness, the rhythmic flick of tails, the sweet hay and sweat musk of real work. For the first time in days, she’d thought: Yeah. This isn’t so bad.

Then the foreman arrived.

“Mrs. Elwood?” he asked, wiping his hands on a rag. “Husband sent you about the axle cap. Right, follow me.”

He led her into the main bay, all confidence and clatter. Her carriage sat lopsided on a jack, and a few scraps of metal lay on the worktable nearby.

“Here’s your problem,” he said, tapping a random hunk of iron. “Warped torsion beam, cracked rim bolts, full brace work needed.”

Candy frowned. “That’s… a lamp bracket.”

He stared. “Pardon?”

“That’s a side lamp bracket. It doesn't have anything to do with the axil.”

A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Well, the principle’s the same,” he muttered, handing her a clipboard. “Anyway, here’s your total. Fourteen silver plus eight hazard surcharge. Brass bolts’ll need full re-tightening. Labor, brace work, et cetera.”

Candy traced the circled total with her finger. Eight silver higher than Marcus had been told. She tried polite curiosity first. “Hazard surcharge?”

“Standard,” he said flatly. “Extra for risk.”

She tilted her head. “You’re not lifting the carriage. The rune jacks do the work.”

“Sounds like lip,” he growled, his voice dropping to that familiar authoritarian tone Paddlewick men reserved for wives and apprentices. His hand drifted toward a bench paddle, casual but deliberate. “You looking to earn yourself a correction, girl?”

Her heart tripped, just once, but her face didn’t show it. What was going on here? Too much manly vapors? Was he incompetent? How did he think that... Oh. No, it couldn't be. Was he... was he trying to trick her because he thought as a woman she wouldn't know what's what with the carrage? That was low.

She blinked up, wide-eyed and fragile. “Oh, sir, of course not. I’d never dream of questioning you. It’s just… my husband didn’t give me extra silver. If I overspend, I’ll be disciplined. I might have to take it to Greasely’s across the lane.”

That name hit him like a slap.

“Greasely’s?” he repeated, uneasy. "You know Greasley's"

She nodded, twisting her hands together as though ashamed. “He serviced my cousin’s carriage last spring. Didn’t charge a hazard fee. He said honest work was its own reward.”

She turned, feigning flustered retreat. “I shouldn’t keep you—”

“Wait,” he said quickly. “Tell you what. Drop the surcharge. I’ll match Greasely’s and throw in a wheel rotation. Fair?”

Candy brightened instantly. “Fair as fresh cream, sir! My husband will be so relieved.”

He grinned, proud of himself. “Good little wife you are. Your husband's a lucky bloke.”

Outside, the forge roar faded behind her. She clutched the receipt and breathed out a shaky laugh. The obedience gem at her wrist glowed faintly, still within the law’s bounds. “Lucky bloke, my arse,” she muttered.

Marcus was impressed when she brought the carriage home.

“Already done? Huh. And they threw in the rotation?” He looked genuinely delighted. “See? I told you it’d be a nice break. Bit of the man’s world for you again.”

Candy only smiled and said, “Mhm.”

***

A few days later, after their weekly visit concluded, Candy walked Mrs Prim and the Sergeant to the gate.

“Sargent,” Candy called, “you seem to me to be a man who knows a bit about everything.” The Sargent grunted in a way that suggested this might be true, and she may continue. “I know very little about carriage repair, you see, and I was wondering if I could ask you a question?”

***

It wasn’t until the following week that Marcus heard the gossip. A certain Brakebell foreman had been reprimanded by the Ministry for “inappropriate behavior toward a married woman” and had his repair license suspended for “conduct unbecoming.”

Marcus told it over dinner like an amusing story. “So get this. Apparently, some idiot at Brakebell tried to cheat a woman on her invoice,” he said. “Can you believe that? I mean, for Viridicus' sake, what sort of fool thinks you can get away with that here?”

Candy spooned her soup slowly, lips pressed in a smirk she couldn’t quite hide.

“Yes,” she said. “What sort of fool indeed.”