Chapter 4: Fishing

At six o’clock in the morning, Arna awoke promptly in her bed. She opened her eyes, swiftly changed her clothes, then gathered her gear—a high-quality fishing rod and a plain, unremarkable bucket she had found yesterday. After locking the door quietly behind her, she crept down the creaking wooden staircase and cheerfully ran downstairs.

Morning! Fishing time! A new fishing spot, here I come!

The morning sky was gray and overcast, with only the gas lamps casting a faint yellow glow, struggling to illuminate the cobblestone street.

Carrying her fishing rod and bucket, Arna climbed over a wall and landed silently on the other side, choosing a shortcut to the river she had passed by the day before. She walked along, curiously taking in the surroundings.

A milk delivery cart creaked slowly past her, the wooden frame groaning under the weight. The driver, half-asleep, nearly splashed dirty water onto her trousers.

With a speed few could match, Arna darted back onto the main road, narrowly avoiding the splash.

That was close—almost had to pay for new clothes.

“Such bad manners!” she muttered.

The driver, half in a dream, looked up, “Huh?”

He groggily watched the young person climbing over someone else’s wall, carrying suspicious and unfamiliar items early in the morning, sneaky and clearly no upstanding citizen.

…Who’s really the ill-mannered one here?

“I’m talking to you!” Arna called out loudly. “Bad manners!”

Was he dreaming? Or have thieves nowadays become this brazen? Maybe this fellow had just escaped from the Bethlem asylum?

The driver cursed silently, stunned and still lost in his dream. The tired horse ahead did not stop, dragging the cart slowly down the street.

After a while, the driver came to his senses.

Wait a minute, who steals a fishing rod so long and conspicuous? Not to mention the bucket in the other hand.

Recalling the young person’s attire, the driver suddenly realized, “A country bumpkin, come fishing in London!”

*

The proud country girl marched boldly down the path, feeling proud of having silenced the other party with her words.

Soon she reached the riverbank, glanced left and right, then chose a perfect fishing spot.

She shifted her stance, and the fishing rod clanged sharply against the iron railing by the shore, ringing out a clear note.

The noise startled nearby birds pecking at the ground; they fluttered their wings and flew away. Rats on the street scurried forward in fright, wetly diving into the sewer.

Ignoring the frightened creatures, Arna set up her rod and happily began fishing.

Two hours later, her bucket was full, so she stuffed two fish into her inventory, carried the rod with her left hand, and the full bucket of fresh river fish with her right as she walked to a stall in Covent Garden.

The crowd bustled, shoulders brushing, and the salty fishy smell spilled out from the open wooden crates on the street.

Arna squeezed between two housewives and hesitated briefly before choosing a fishmonger who looked somewhat fierce.

“I want to sell these fish,” Arna said, raising the bucket. “How much will you give me?”

The burly fishmonger snorted suspiciously, “Where did you get them?”

He stared at the bucket, which held several eels and bass, average in length, only medium-sized.

“By the Thames,” Arna replied, stepping forward a little to keep an eye out for any red dots labeled “thief.” “Less than two hours ago.”

The fishmonger scrutinized her, doubting she was an experienced angler, but uninterested in the fish’s origin, he casually quoted a price.

“Sixteen shillings and eightpence,” he said, poking the fish inside the bucket and smacking his lips. “They’re fresh, but tiny. And the market’s full of better fish.”

Arna blinked.

A trade panel popped up, but no price prompt appeared. It seemed now was the bargaining phase, where she could try to raise or lower the price.

The question was, how to haggle?

Why didn’t this game have a bargaining minigame? One where you randomly pick two icons and start chatting to get the other side to pay more? Last time, the ticket inspector NPC just quoted automatically.

She glanced at the bucket. The fish inside were lively, looking very healthy.

…Just moments ago, one had flicked water at her face by the shore.

At least they weren’t stupid! She deserved more money!

“Too little, not enough,” Arna said dryly. “Add a bit?”

“Take it or leave it,” the fishmonger said, spotting she didn’t know how to bargain. The tough meat on his face twitched as he glared fiercely. “If you’re not buying, get lost. Don’t block my stall.”

Arna: …Negotiation failed!

She scratched her head and tried to say something else to smooth the mood, “Nice weather today, isn’t it?”

Hearing their conversation, a strong woman nearby laughed.

She wiped her hands on a stained apron and joined in, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

She winked and smiled broadly. “You can get better prices at the taverns near the docks, young man. They’ll throw anything into their fish stew, as long as it’s not wriggling when it hits the pot. Tell them Molly sent you.”

The fishmonger frowned at her sudden interruption and unfunny joke but said nothing more, crossing his arms and waiting for the country boy to make his choice.

Caught between the number one and number two fishmonger NPCs, Arna shrank back a little, then a little more.

You want me to choose? Me?

But she needed to free up time to go to the factory later, eager to sell the fish quickly and return to the Baker Street residence. Going to the tavern now would cost at least another half hour.

Still, who wouldn’t want extra money? She’d be waking up in the middle of the night thinking about it!

Such a dilemma.

Just then, a well-dressed woman stopped by the stall, wrinkling her nose at the faint fishy smell.

“These are from the Thames?” she asked, looking down at the fish in the bucket.

—A big customer! And probably wealthier too!

Arna’s eyes lit up, nodding. “Yes, that’s right.”

She eagerly shook the bucket, the fish scales glinting faintly in the sunlight. Several fish jostled inside; one barely flicked its tail, splashing a few drops of water, looking fresh and lively.

The wealthy woman studied the fish a moment, then nodded decisively.

“I’ll take them,” she said. “I’m hosting guests tonight.”

She offered nearly twice the fishmonger’s price, making the fishmonger grimace and twitch his eyebrows.

Arna quickly nodded and watched expectantly as the woman opened her purse, counted out a few coins, placed them in Arna’s palm, then handed the bucket to the silent maid behind her.

Seeing the young man so honest and straightforward, without trying to haggle like those cunning merchants who chat about foreign affairs and Queen’s blessings to cheat a few coins, the buyer smiled wryly and shook her head.

She added, “If you have fish of the same quality next week, deliver them to the back kitchen door at 26 Bruton Street before seven o’clock.”

*

With that, she turned and left.

The fishmonger cursed under his breath, spitting out some crude words Arna didn’t understand, while Molly, the sturdy woman nearby, chuckled.

“Looks like you found a good buyer, lucky you,” she said cheerfully. “But be careful — the cats on Bruton Street are fatter than the servants!”

*

Back at the Baker Street residence, Arna first emptied the fish from her backpack into the kitchen bucket and filled it with half a basin of water.

Once everything was ready, she crept up the creaking old stairs.

Holmes sat by the sofa wearing a gray-blue robe, eyes closed, focused on plucking his violin strings.

When the door opened, he suddenly stopped his strange performance, ending the melancholy and lively tune altogether.

His keen gaze swept over Arna’s muddy boots and the fishing rod she carried, then he smiled knowingly.

“Look! Our diligent angler returns victorious,” he announced cheerfully, setting aside his beloved instrument. “Your aunt left your oatmeal by the fireplace; it should still be warm—though I must warn you, Watson insisted on adding so-called ‘medicinal’ honey before serving it.”

Arna: “…Wait, medicinal honey? Is that even a thing?”

If Dr. Watson really believed in such nonsense, he might get scammed when he’s old.

Watson was eating at the table, evidently having gotten up later, still spreading butter on toast.

He looked helpless about Holmes’s dramatics.

“Oh, it’s not medicinal honey, just regular honey,” he said resignedly. “It’s for digestion, Holmes. If you ate breakfast like a civilized person, you’d know that…”

Holmes waved him off disdainfully. “No, no. Even a little food in my stomach stops my thinking. Not today, Watson, we have to go out.”

He sat down in a chair and turned to Arna. “Let me guess—total victory?”

“Oh, really?” Watson encouraged, waving his toast. “Looks like our lunch is settled! I bet it’s a big bass?”

“Something like that,” Arna replied, changing into a fresh pair of shoes before collapsing into her seat and sipping the porridge.

The warm porridge slid down her throat, and she sighed contentedly as her nearly depleted stamina bar slowly refilled.

“Two fish? You must have been a fishing champion in Yorkshire,” Watson said solemnly. “As a guy who loses nine out of ten times, I guess I have to learn a few tricks from you…”

“Two fish,” Holmes said lazily. “No, no, Watson, you’ve been deceived by Arna’s modesty.”

He waved his hand and poured himself a glass of water. “At least nine fish, I’d wager. She sold some.”

Watson choked suddenly on his porridge, coughing uncontrollably.

Once he recovered, he said in disbelief, “Good heavens, really? You’re already turning a profit?”

“Ah, yes,” Arna answered, now fully restored, letting out a breath as she set her bowl on the tray. “I have urgent matters; I must leave now.”

She dashed down the stairs like the wind, then stopped halfway to turn back.

“If my aunt tries to cook those two fish,” she said seriously to her two roommates, fearful that her prized catch would be ruined and end up staring blankly at the ceiling, “make sure she waits until I get back before doing anything.”