Chapter 6: Money, Money, Money

It probably wasn’t the best way to ask about money. Certainly not the most polite, and brazen enough that any member of high society (past or present) would regard it as gauche. But I didn’t much care for niceties in the conduct of business, just results, and crucially, I knew the Matron was of the same opinion. The few times Will could remember seeing her in person, he’d recalled her as stern, strict, and possibly even a bit scary for the troublesome preteen, but she never lost her temper, acted out unfairly, or danced around an issue.

“Your Class day is in a week, as is the end of your stay here,” she pointed out. “Most in your position choose to deal with all formalities on that final day, once they have a better idea on the path their life will take.”

“Most children don’t face a life threatening situation a week beforehand, causing them to reevaluate their own mortality.”

It was a safe rebut, one that even had the benefit of being true. Whilst the orphanage had sheltered its charges the best it could, I knew firsthand how a traumatic injury could bring about personality changes, sometimes drastic. Head injuries in particular fell within these lines, to the point where I was extremely lucky to have come out of my own with more memories, not less.

“Perhaps,” the Matron acknowledged, reaching into a desk drawer to procure a ballpoint pen: yet another unexpected spark of modernity. “I am not opposed, barring two conditions added to the normal procedure. Firstly, you will sign a waiver acknowledging your sole responsibility for any monies withdrawn today. As such my house will not be liable to any loss or misadventure, as would ordinarily be the case for children.”

“Naturally,” I nodded along, for nobody sane would omit such a glaring loophole, lest I ‘lose’ my inheritance in short order.

“Secondly, one gild will remain in your account until your Class day, a deposit to maintain the contractual arrangement that has seen you reside here these past seventeen years and eleven months. You may collect it at the same time as your belongings, when you vacate your room.”

This, too, was a familiar concept; a legal contract was stronger when proper consideration was added. The sum was nominal, the smallest whole unit of Frontier’s currency, but it was the symbolic exchange of currency that sealed the deal. A ritual, albeit one without any magic involved, but an important one nonetheless. That said, the Matron’s words did bring up more questions, uninvolved with my stay at the orphanage.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The fact that Frontier, an entirely different world, ran off a modern twelve month calendar bore investigation; back on Earth, even different nations reconciled their clocks according to different celestial bodies. The Gregorian calendar was the most common standard, but by no means the only one. So why such a degree of similarity, when the coinage took on a different name entirely, but still adhered to decimalisation? The more I learned of this new (hitherto unnamed) world, the more obvious the signs of intelligent design presented themselves: a question for later, perhaps, once I accrued far greater resources alongside the time for leisure.

“I understand, thank you for making an exception,” I replied, adding a polite bow of the head this time, once I recalled where I was and noticed the Matron staring.

“One week is hardly irregular,” she replied, handing me the pen and the waiver.

I gave the document a glance over, picking the kind of legalese that instinctively made my eyes start to glaze. I powered through, willing to bear a bit of discomfort to ensure the sanctity of my first big payday in this life, and eventually, satisfied, affixed my signature to the line at the bottom.

“Good calligraphy,” the Matron remarked as she collected her belongings. “Perhaps there’s a Scribe class waiting for you.”

“I could do well with that,” I replied neutrally, pretending I knew anything about it beyond the involvement of copious amounts of ink.

The pen and paper went into another drawer, further down her desk, before the Matron proceeded to do something altogether shocking. A single tap of what I’d thought to be her wedding ring, and an entire burlap sack landed on the desk, jingling merrily. Now that, let me tell you, was the surprise of my life. Oh, I’d known that magic existed, the System and my own reincarnation proved that handily, but, as well as Amelia’s healing. But that knowledge had stayed in the abstract, helped along by my concussion. This, on the other hand, was the first bit of magic I was in the right mind to witness, and holy hell, did I want it for myself. Sadly, I doubted I could afford a storage ring with my means at the time, so I was forced to content myself with the bag of coins that were my parents’ last will and testament.

“Fifty three gild, if it pleases you.”

I had no idea if that was the correct amount, or even what a gild was worth: again, children didn’t tend to handle money in Frontier. As such, I regrettably couldn’t try my usual trick of haggling, and instead had to take the money for granted with a smile and a wave. I was already halfway out the door to the Matron’s office, when she spoke again.

“One word of advice, William. Be careful who you make Contact with, for there are many in the world of adults waiting to take advantage of an inexperienced youth.”

I shuddered as I turned around, sure that I was about to receive The Talk for the second time, just as mortifying as the first time round.

“Indeed, there are many spells of varying degrees of danger, all of which require Contact via the System to initiate. Find Contact is the most innocuous of the bunch, merely pointing the caster in the target’s general direction, but there are far worse, some of which can suborn a man entirely.”

Oh. Not the talk then, but something altogether worse.