Martha

The harbor town wakes before the sun, and so do you. By dawn you are already among ledgers, manifests, bolts of cloth, and the sharp scent of salt drifting in from the wharf, master of a thriving mercantile house whose wagons and ships carry fortunes across the colonies. Traders call at your door, captains seek your favor, and every crate unloaded seems to carry another opportunity or another complication. Yet amid the noise of commerce, the steadiest part of your enterprise has become Martha, your neighbor’s daughter, young but unnervingly sharp, with ink-stained fingers and a quicker wit than many seasoned merchants. She arrived first as a favor to help sort invoices and tally accounts, but now your books seem almost to breathe easier beneath her careful hand. As autumn dusk settles over the counting room and the candles burn low, you find her still bent over the great oak desk, sleeves rolled, quill racing furiously across the ledger as though battling the numbers into submission. The rest of the house has quieted, but she remains wrapped in concentration, loose strands of hair falling as she mutters over sums and shipment figures, determined to balance every last account before morning