Richard's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

Richard's first sale came on a Tuesday morning. A man in a wool coat stopped at the chalkboard, read the sign, and nodded. Richard poured the peach sour into a clean glass and handed it over. The man sipped, paused, then finished the whole pour. He paid and walked off without a word. Richard slipped the coins into his pocket. One customer. One sale. The brewery had begun. By afternoon, Richard needed more bottles. He locked the unit and walked into the old brewing district. His boots clicked over cobblestones patched with thick moss that grew in the cracks and gaps. The stones had been here for hundreds of years, worn smooth by carts and feet. Green tufts filled the spaces between them, fed by Edinburgh's constant mist. Richard followed the old streets toward the suppliers he'd mapped out weeks ago. The Victorian clock tower rose ahead, marking the district's center. Its stone face showed a starry night pattern on the clock, dark blue with gold points for the hours. Brewers had used this tower to time their mash schedules for generations. Richard checked the time against his watch—three forty. He had an hour before the malt supplier closed. Pink snapdragons lined the square around the tower, their blooms bright against the gray stone buildings. The flowers gave off a light, sweet scent that mixed with the yeasty smell from nearby brewhouses. Richard reached the supplier and bought six cases of brown bottles. He carried them back through the district as the tower bells rang four times. The weight pressed into his shoulders, but he kept his grip steady. Tonight he'd bottle his latest batch—a cherry lambic that had been aging for two months. Tomorrow he'd update the chalkboard with a new flavor. Each bottle he filled brought the brewery closer to what it needed to be: a name people recognized, a taste they came back for.