I was in the middle of explaining the ledger when the interruption occurred, which was a pity, as I had just reached the portion that tends to render the rest of the discussion unnecessary. We were standing just outside his shop, where the morning air carried a gentle warmth and a faint dampness that made the ink behave rather agreeably. I had the book open between us, angled so that the light fell neatly across the columns, and for a brief, promising moment it seemed as though everything might resolve itself with minimal fuss.
“You see,” I said, resting the tip of my finger along a line of figures, “if you arrange the entries by date rather than by vendor, the discrepancies begin to present themselves in a manner that is at least willing to be addressed. Numbers are not naturally cooperative, but they do respond to consistency, much like most other things.”
The cooper leaned in with a look of patient endurance, which I have come to recognize as the expression of a man who would prefer to be doing something else but has resigned himself to the present necessity. His hands, still bearing the faint scent of wood and resin, rested on the edge of the counter as though anchoring him against the slow drift of arithmetic.
“It isn’t that anything here is wrong,” I continued, turning a page with some care so as not to smudge the margins, “but rather that everything is slightly out of step with everything else. When that happens, small errors begin to accumulate in ways that are both subtle and, ultimately, quite tiresome.”
He nodded, though whether in agreement or simple acknowledgment of sound I could not say.
“I’ve always found that figures behave best when they are allowed to follow a sensible progression,” I added. “If you give them a proper order, they cease attempting to surprise you, which is, I think, the least one can ask of a column of sums.”
He squinted at the page, as though the numbers might rearrange themselves under sufficient scrutiny. This is a common misconception, and one I have long since ceased to discourage directly.
“It’s all present,” I said, tapping lightly near the bottom of the column. “You’ve simply hidden it from yourself by asking it to stand in the wrong places.”
There was a brief pause while he considered this, during which the street continued on in its unremarkable fashion. Somewhere further down, a cart rolled past with a soft, rhythmic creak, and a pair of voices exchanged greetings in tones that suggested long familiarity.
“I don’t recall hiding anything,” he said at last, sounding faintly defensive in the way of someone who suspects they have done precisely that.
“Most people don’t,” I replied. “It would rather defeat the purpose if they did.”
It was at this point that a new voice inserted itself into the conversation, louder than necessary and entirely without regard for the flow of things. It arrived with the sort of abruptness that suggests a complete absence of prior thought.
“Oi.”
I turned, as one does when addressed, and found myself looking at a youth whose posture conveyed both impatience and a notable lack of occupation. He had the air of someone in search of something to disrupt, and having found it, appeared determined to make the most of the opportunity.
“Yes?” I said, closing the ledger partway so that nothing important might wander off unattended.
He looked me over in a manner that was not especially thorough but was certainly decisive, his gaze moving from my skull to my hands and back again as though confirming a suspicion he had only just formed.
“Why are you a skeleton?” he asked, with the blunt certainty of someone who expects the world to provide immediate explanations for its more inconvenient details.
There was a small pause, which I used to secure the ledger properly beneath my arm. It has been my experience that such questions benefit from answers that are both accurate and concise.
“I don’t know,” I said.
He blinked, as though this response had not been included among the possibilities he had prepared for.
“That’s it?” he said, his tone suggesting a certain disappointment.
“I’m afraid so,” I replied, adjusting the strap of my satchel, which had developed a tendency to slip at inopportune moments. “It appears to have occurred without consultation, and no satisfactory explanation has presented itself since.”
The cooper remained silent, which I felt was a commendable decision under the circumstances.
“You don’t know why you’re like that?” the youth pressed, as though repetition might yield a more satisfying answer.
“No,” I said, with what I hoped was a reassuring level of calm. “I did spend some time considering the matter, but found that it did not, in fact, become clearer upon reflection. Eventually, I concluded that it was more efficient to proceed with things as they are.”
He shifted his weight, frowning in the way of someone encountering a concept that does not immediately resolve into agreement.
“That’s weird,” he declared.
“Yes,” I agreed, inclining my head slightly. “It is somewhat outside the usual range of expectations.”
He glanced briefly at the cooper, who continued to offer no assistance whatsoever, then returned his attention to me with renewed focus.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked, with a tone that suggested he would very much like it to.
“It did, for a time,” I said, considering the question with the seriousness it seemed to require. “However, I found that being bothered did not produce a solution, nor did it improve the situation in any measurable way. As such, it seemed reasonable to discontinue the effort.”
He absorbed this in silence, which I took as progress of a sort.
“So you’re just… like that now?” he said eventually, gesturing vaguely in my direction.
“For the present, yes,” I replied. “I’ve learned that circumstances have a tendency to change without warning, so it seems unwise to make firm assumptions about permanence. In the meantime, there are still ledgers to be balanced and errands to be completed, which occupy the greater portion of one’s attention.”
He looked at me for a moment longer, as though searching for some hidden complication that might justify continued engagement, and appeared to find none.
“Well,” he said at last, with a dismissive shrug, “that’s stupid.”
“That may be so,” I said, without particular emphasis, “but it is also, regrettably, the situation in which I find myself.”
I gestured gently down the street, where a pair of merchants had begun arranging their wares with the quiet efficiency of those accustomed to the morning routine.
“You might consider directing your inquiries elsewhere for a time,” I suggested. “There are a number of individuals who would likely benefit from your attention, and it would be a pity to leave them unattended.”
He followed my gesture, then looked back at me with the air of someone weighing the value of persistence against the promise of fresh distraction.
“Fine,” he said, in a tone that implied he was granting a concession rather than accepting a suggestion.
He departed shortly thereafter, his footsteps fading into the general murmur of the street, which resumed its previous equilibrium with admirable speed.
I reopened the ledger and adjusted its position so that the light once again fell cleanly across the page.
“Now,” I said, returning my attention to the matter at hand, “if we examine your timber receipts in sequence, you’ll notice that the totals begin to align once they are permitted to follow a proper order. It’s rarely more complicated than that, though it does have a tendency to appear otherwise at first glance.”
The cooper exhaled slowly, as though releasing a tension he had not realized he was carrying, and leaned in once more to consider the figures with renewed patience.
