The rain outside seemed to fall harder. Wind swept over the windmill's blades with a mournful howl, and the brief heat sparked by Boer's words, "make a small fortune," quickly cooled against the solid ice of reality.
The excited flush faded from Woolf's face, replaced by an expression mingling endless exhaustion and pain. The smile he had struggled to maintain collapsed. Every wrinkle on his deeply lined face seemed steeped in bitter memories. Slowly, he closed his eyes, as though shutting out that dazzling flame of hope, and the fleeting, impossible notion in his heart that he dared not grasp.
Almost simultaneously, hurried footsteps came from the stairs. Led by Kyle, three young fishermen who were usually closest to him and shared his resentment pushed through the door. They had clearly heard the entire conversation downstairs. Now they were breathing hard, their faces flushed with excitement, their eyes frighteningly bright, like desperate outlaws who had discovered a gold mine in the dark.
"L-Lord Aaron! Is it true?" Forgetting his manners, Kyle took two steps forward, his voice warping with urgency. "I saw the salt you made. It's much better than the 'refined salt' the Salt Gang sells in the Royal City! On the market, coarse salt costs twenty Beli a catty, and even refined salt with impurities costs a hundred and fifty. Good-looking salt costs even more! If we... if we sold it for a hundred Beli a catty, people would snap it all up!" His words came like gunfire, his eyes flashing with naked hunger for wealth and calculation.
Boer picked up his wooden spoon and gently stirred the remaining fish soup in his bowl. At those words, he lifted his eyelids and nodded approvingly at Kyle. This young man had courage and a little basic business sense, though