Buck sets up his operation just after breakfast, with Maeve’s permission of course.

  A low stool. An overturned crate. His whetstone darkened with oil and use. He keeps the motions slow and visible, nothing secretive, nothing that looks like he is hiding anything. People trust what they can see.

  The boarding house door stays open behind him. Warm air. The smell of bread and boiled something. Mrs. Hale watches from the threshold for a moment, arms folded, then nods once and disappears back inside.

  Trade accepted.

  The first blade is hers. A kitchen knife worn thin and dull enough to be dangerous. Buck works it carefully, angle steady, pressure light. He does not rush. He has learned that rushing makes people nervous.

  A shadow falls across the stone.

  “You make it sharp,” a small voice says.

  Buck looks up.

  Elysia sits on the stoop with her knees hugged to her chest, chin resting on her arms. Her eyes track his hands with serious concentration.

  “I try,” Buck says.

  She tilts her head. “Why.”

  “Because dull knives hurt people,” he says. “Sharp ones behave.”

  She considers that. “Do they listen to you.”

  Buck smiles. “Sometimes.”

  She scoots closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her presence. Mrs. Hale appears in the doorway again, opens her mouth to say something, then closes it when she sees where Elysia is sitting.

  “You from far away,” Elysia says.

  “Yes.”

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  “How far.”

  Buck pauses. “Farther than most.”

  She nods like that makes perfect sense.

  “Are you staying,” she asks.

  “For a while,” Buck says.

  She seems satisfied with that and returns her attention to the knife.

  The morning builds around them.

  A dockworker brings a hatchet. A seamstress hands over her shears. A boarder with a permanent scowl offers a pocketknife and grunts when Buck names the price, then pays it anyway.

  Coins clink into Buck’s pocket. Not many. Enough.

  You’re doing well, B.U.C.K. says quietly. Your posture is relaxed. Your tone is right. People like useful men who don’t ask questions.

  “Good,” Buck murmurs.

  Maeve comes out again and sets a cup of weak tea beside him without a word. He nods his thanks. She taps the stone with one finger.

  “Sharpens my knives twice a week,” she says. “Room’s cheaper that way.”

  Buck meets her eyes. “Fair trade.”

  She studies him for a long moment, then nods and goes back inside.

  Elysia watches this exchange closely.

  “She’s the boss,” Elysia says.

  “Yes,” Buck agrees.

  “I like her,” Elysia adds. “She yells at bad men.”

  Buck smiles. “That’s a useful skill.”

  The mood shifts before he sees why.

  Voices carry from down the street. Louder. Heavier. Boots striking stone with purpose instead of accident.

  Elysia looks up first.

  “Oh,” she says softly.

  Three men come into view, coats cut a little better than most, hats worn with intention. The Atlantic Guard do not hurry. They do not need to. People make room for them without being asked.

  Buck keeps sharpening.

  Heads up, B.U.C.K. says. These ones matter.

  One of the men stops a few paces away, eyes flicking over Buck, the stone, the line of people waiting.

  “Well now,” he says. “What’s this.”

  “Sharpening,” Buck replies, calm, polite.

  The man smiles without warmth. “And you paid for the right to sit here.”

  Maeve steps into the doorway. “He works for me,” she says. “Sharpens my kitchen.”

  The Guard looks at her, then back at Buck.

  “That so,” he says. “Funny. Didn’t hear about any new trades setting up.”

  Buck sets the knife down carefully and meets the man’s eyes.

  “I’m not a trade,” he says. “I’m a service.”

  The man laughs. His friends do not.

  “You’ll want to clear out by evening,” he says. “This street gets ideas.”

  Buck nods once. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The men linger a moment longer, then move on, boots heavy, presence lingering like a bad smell.

  Elysia exhales loudly. “I don’t like them.”

  “Most people don’t,” Buck says.

  Maeve watches the men disappear, then looks down at Buck.

  “You keep your head down,” she says quietly. “They’ll find someone else to bother.”

  Buck nods. “That’s the plan.”

  She hesitates, then reaches into her pocket and drops a coin onto the crate. “For supper.”

  Buck looks up. “I sharpened your knives.”

  She snorts. “And you didn’t talk back to them.”

  She goes inside.

  Elysia slides closer again. “You weren’t scared.”

  Buck considers that. “I was paying attention.”

  She smiles at him like he has just said something very important.

  The afternoon wears on. More blades. More coins. Enough now that Buck feels the weight of them in his pocket, solid and reassuring.

  When the light starts to thin, he packs up slowly.

  Elysia stands. “You’ll be here tomorrow,” she says. Not a question.

  Buck meets her eyes. “Yes.”

  She nods, satisfied, and runs inside.

  Buck tucks the stone away and straightens, the street already shifting around him, evening settling in.

  You made yourself useful, B.U.C.K. says. That’s step one.

  “And the Guard,” Buck murmurs.

  Step two, B.U.C.K. replies. Is learning when to move and when to stay.

  Buck looks down the street where the men vanished, then back at the boarding house.

  For now, staying feels right.