The glass jars arrived the next morning.
Dozens of them, neatly packed in wooden crates, stacked outside their small cottage. The sight should have been a relief—but instead, it was terrifying.
"We really have to fill all of these," Violet muttered.
Her mother stood beside her, arms crossed. "We don’t have time to waste. Let’s get to work."
By midday, the kitchen was a battlefield.
Boiling fruit bubbled in the iron pots, steam fogged the windows, and the air was thick with the scent of sugar and citrus. Violet’s hands ached from stirring, and her apron was stained with syrup.
"Careful with the temperature!" her mother warned as Violet rushed to check one of the pots.
Too high, and the preserves would burn. Too low, and they wouldn’t set properly.
Her younger helpers, Annie and Rupert, had gathered baskets full of ripe fruit, their small hands stained red from berries.
"Violet, we got more!" Rupert announced proudly, holding up a basket.
Annie nodded, shyly adding, "It’s the best we could find."
"You both did great." Violet ruffled their hair before turning back to the chaos.
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They were working as fast as they could, but by the time the sun started to set, they had barely finished half the order.
"We’re not going to make it," Violet whispered under her breath.
Her mother, exhausted but determined, placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "We will. Keep going."
But just as Violet reached for another jar—
CRASH!
Glass shattered.
Violet froze.
One of the crates had tipped over, sending a dozen precious jars to the floor.
A sharp silence filled the room.
Then—
"I’m so sorry!" Lisette, the tavern’s cheerful waitress, scrambled to pick up the broken shards.
Violet’s heart pounded.
They were already short on time. Now, they were short on jars.
And Lisette, usually so carefree, looked on the verge of tears.
Violet took a deep breath, pushing down her frustration. "It’s okay. Just—just be careful."
Lisette nodded quickly.
But even as Violet tried to keep calm, she couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in her chest.
They needed a solution. Fast.
That night, as exhaustion weighed on her, Violet sat outside, staring at the empty crates.
She was so close.
But not close enough.
"Can’t sleep?"
She looked up to see Lillian Valmont, the noble girl who loved sneaking out, standing nearby with a smirk.
"What are you doing here?" Violet asked, rubbing her tired eyes.
Lillian sat beside her. "I heard from Lisette that you’re in trouble. And I hate unfinished stories."
Violet sighed. "We lost some jars. We might not finish in time."
Lillian hummed in thought. Then, she pulled something from the small pouch at her waist.
A single gold coin.
"Use this. Buy more jars."
Violet stared at it. "I can’t take your money."
"Think of it as an investment. If your business takes off, I’ll expect free samples."
Violet hesitated—but then she remembered Albert Faulkner’s words.
“I do not make investments that fail.”
She wasn’t going to fail.
Taking the coin, she stood up.
"I’ll pay you back."
Lillian grinned. "I’ll hold you to that."
With renewed determination, Violet rushed back inside.
Tomorrow, she would buy more jars.
Tomorrow, she would finish the order.
Because failure was not an option.
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