The border between Aden and the Eastern Empire existed not only on maps and in the papers of customs officers. It was as if it divided two completely different worlds.

The moment the carriage wheels passed the heavy border barrier, Azalea pressed against the window, spellbound by the view that unfolded before her. The grayness, severity, and eternal gloomy cold of borderland Aden were left behind. Here in the Empire, spring had already fully come into its own, and the first thing that caught the eye was an incredible, deafening riot of colors. Brightness was everywhere: in the emerald green of the rolling hills, in the azure of the clear sky, and in the colorful clothes of the passersby at the stations. The tiled roofs of the roadside towns gleamed with rich terracotta, while the stalls of the merchants teemed with the first spring flowers and overseas fabrics. This world seemed alive, pulsing, and infinitely alluring.

The journey to the trading capital of the region took an entire day and night. The roads in the Empire were impeccably paved with stone, so the new carriage flew briskly, only swaying rhythmically on its springs.

When they finally arrived at their destination, the city greeted them with a dazzling, truly summer sunlit day. The sun flooded the wide pavements, reflected in the storefronts of luxurious shops, and gilded the masts of the ships in the trading port. The city bustled, breathing with wealth and movement.

At the entrance to the artisans' guild, they were already expected. The head of the perfume house, a venerable gentleman in an expensive silk doublet, came out in person to greet the travelers. Over the winter, the Rosenthals had smuggled several batches of unique essential oils to him through reliable smugglers, which Azalea had purified in her laboratory, and this pragmatic businessman perfectly understood the true value of the young artisan.

“Welcome to the Eastern Empire, Mr. Rosenthal, venerable Madam Elena,” the merchant made a polite bow, and then shifted a gleaming gaze full of deep respect to the girl, “And welcome to you, Miss Azalea. Your latest lavender essence caused a sensation among our finest clients. And what perfumes it made! About a dozen bottles were bought for the local governor. His dear wife took quite a liking to them. It is a great honor for me to host you.”

The Rosenthals greeted the master of the house.

“I hope the journey has not exhausted you too much? We have prepared your rooms. And, of course, the workshop for my lady.”

Hubert personally saw to it that the cargo wagon with the crates of soap and perfume was driven to a secured warehouse, after which he helped the Rosenthal family settle with maximum comfort in the spacious, bright guest wing of his mansion, the windows of which looked directly out onto the bustling merchant square.

Azalea stood by the window while the servants scurried about with suitcases and crates, managed by Elena. She could not tear her eyes away from the square. Here, children frolicked, and merchants from different corners of the continent sat at the same table, sipping a frothy beverage together and arguing animatedly about something. And amid the chaos of trade, girls in bright outfits sang. Azalea heard their melody and could not stop smiling.

She remembered the market at the outpost. This place had nothing in common with that filth, the arrogance of the wealthy merchants, and the people who crowded together to snatch the last portion of decent goods.

When the bustle with the luggage subsided and Elena left to make sure that a hot infusion was brought to Marcus, who was weary from the road, Azalea headed first thing to the workshop allocated to her. She could not wait to see the place where she was to work.

The room proved to be magnificent. Hubert had clearly tried to please the young artisan. The spacious room on the first floor was flooded with soft light from wide windows, and sturdy oak tables and empty shelves, still smelling of fresh wood, stretched along the walls. Everything necessary was here, from copper distillation stills to neat scales.

Asking the servants to leave the boxes with her personal tools by the door, Azalea set to work herself. It gave her true pleasure to manually arrange her favorite vials, porcelain mortars, and bottles of rare spirits that she had brought with her.

There was a delicate knock at the door. Azalea turned around and saw Hubert. The head of the perfume house stood on the threshold with his hands behind his back. His sharp, purely mercantile professional gaze slid slowly over the girl's neatly arranged tools and then rested on her.

“My apologies if I interrupted your settling in, Miss Azalea,” Hubert smiled softly, stepping inside. “I merely wished to see for myself that the workshop meets your requirements. But, to admit truth, I am also gnawed by a purely professional curiosity...”

He squinted conspiratorially and nodded toward the window, behind which, in the secured warehouse, remained those very weighty crates secured with sealing wax stamps.

“My people reported that the cargo carriage traveled surprisingly heavy, and Mr. Marcus circled nearly like a hawk over every loader, demanding they protect the ‘fragile glass’. You usually brought essences and oils in small valises. May I ask... what kind of goods did you bring in those massive crates this time? My merchant heart senses that something special awaits us.”

“Soap, Mr. Hubert. A couple of new scents of essential oils. And a dozen perfumes.”

Hubert was momentarily lost for words. His eyebrows shot up, and his lips stretched into an incredulous smirk.

“Soap?” he asked back, as if Azalea had spoken the name of some strange, overseas beast. “My child, you carried three heavy crates of ordinary soap across a guarded border? The very same soap that makes noble ladies' skin peel and washerwomen beat their hands to blood? With all due respect to your talent as a perfumer... soap is a commodity for the rabble. It is traded in filthy squares, not brought to the artisans' guild of the Empire.”

Azalea was not offended. She merely smiled lightly and walked over to one of her boxes. Retrieving a small, neatly wrapped bar from it, bound in parchment and tied with twine, she extended it to the perfumer.

“Try this, Mr. Hubert, before judging.”

The merchant accepted the package with a touch of skepticism. He carefully tugged the twine, unfolded the paper, and... froze. His nostrils flared. The workshop was instantly filled with a pure, noble fragrance of fresh pine needles, citrus zest, and a barely perceptible, soothing lavender. Hubert brought the bar right to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

“Gods...” he whispered, opening his eyes, in which skepticism was instantly replaced by the feverish gleam of a seasoned businessman. He rubbed the smooth, silky surface of the block with his finger. “There is no... wait. It does not smell of alkaline burning. And there is absolutely no animal fat here! How did you manage to achieve such a texture? It's... why, it's as gentle as cream!”

“My secret,” Azalea answered calmly, crossing her arms over her chest. “A pure vegetable base and the right proportions. It washes away dirt better than any Aden soap, yet leaves the skin soft.”

Hubert began to pace the workshop excitedly, not letting go of the bar. His mind was already calculating future profits.

“This is a revolution, Azalea. A true gold mine!” he stopped abruptly before her, his eyes blazing. “Listen to me. My perfume house will buy all three crates from you right now. Name your price! I will take everything! The soap, the new oils, the perfumes. I will handle their finishing and resale myself. Your house will receive so much gold that your uncle will be able to forget about debts for the rest of his days!”

The offer was incredibly tempting, especially for their family. Anyone in Azalea's place would have agreed without hesitation. But the young artisan remained deceptively calm.

“No, Mr. Hubert,” she said firmly. “I will not sell you these crates.”

Hubert actually choked from surprise.

“But why?! Are you afraid I will cheat you on the price? I swear by the honor of the merchant guild, I will give you the best share! Selling such goods alone is madness; you will be crushed by the large syndicates of the Empire! Soap from the island nations is more expensive, but it is more to the liking of local connoisseurs. You will not withstand the competition with them!”

Azalea calmly listened to the merchant's emotional speech. She stepped closer to the table, ran her fingers over the cool wood of the new furniture, and turned to Hubert. In her eyes, there was not a shred of girlish hesitation.

“You are right, Mr. Hubert. To compete openly in the squares with imported island soap or the large guilds is foolish. That is precisely why I have no intention of doing so. I will not open an ordinary shop. I will open a private salon.”

Hubert fell silent for a moment, digesting what he had heard.

“A salon?” he asked back, lowering his tone.

“Exactly. A private, elite salon for noble ladies,” Azalea nodded toward the crates. “And everything brought in those wagons is not merchandise for sale. They are gifts. Gifts for the first high-ranking figures who visit my salon. Every lady from high society, upon coming to me, will carry away a bar of this gentlest soap and a vial of new perfume completely free of charge, as a token of my respect.”

Hubert's eyes widened. As a true merchant, he was initially horrified by such extravagance, but within a second, his mind caught the genius of this move. A free, yet incredibly high-quality, scarce product in the hands of influential women... They themselves would create a furor around Azalea. Noble ladies would move heaven and earth to gain entry to this salon again and be the first to find out where these miracles came from. Moreover, since this young girl wished to open a salon, it meant that what lay in her hands was not just perfumery, but something more. In the Empire, the logic was simple: the wealth of gentlemen is judged by the appearance of their wives. And that meant if Azalea won over the wives, she would have the husbands in her pocket as well.

“You... you are not offering them a purchase, you are offering them exclusivity,” Hubert whispered, looking at Azalea with mounting delight and even a slight trepidation. “Island soap may be thrice as expensive, but anyone with coins can buy it.”

“Precisely,” Azalea smiled. “At the same time, our cooperation, Mr. Hubert, will not suffer in the least. The Rosenthals will continue to uninterruptedly supply your perfume house with purified essential oils. Furthermore, I am ready to help you with composing new, complex formulas for your own lines of perfume. You will remain my primary and most valued partner in the Empire. On the condition that your house produces rare goods for my future visitors, of course.”

Hubert exhaled in relief, rubbing his chin. The terms were more than favorable for him. He retained an exclusive supplier of oils, gained the secrets of new formulas, and at the same time bore none of the risks associated with opening a new business.

“And you...” Hubert squinted, trying to unravel the plans of this astonishing girl. “You, then, will set about doing that for which you made this long journey from Aden?”

“Yes,” Azalea replied firmly, looking out the window at the gleaming merchant city. “I will begin doing what I came for.”