bloodsong1 | No, really, she needs the money.

"Hello Mayor. It's Bridget."

"Oh, hello Bridget! How goes the portrait?"

"Your ladies are excellent subjects. I hope to have it done in a week or two."

"Excellent! I'm very glad to hear it. Was there anything I can do for you? How's your wood supply?"

"I am set for wood, thank you. I was ringing to ask you if I can get my market license extended to the Monday and Farmer markets."

"Mmm. Well, I'm afraid I can't help you with the Farmer's Market. That is only for food and animal goods. The Monday Market, hmm. Do you have the money for the license? Can you demonstrate adequate sales?"

"I sold nine pieces of art at the Local Excellence and was hired for a commission by the Honorable Carlisles. I have two pieces that will be ready the Monday after next and a third should be ready for next week. I offer portrait sketches during market hours and I am equipped to receive bank cards, cheques and cash."

"I see. That is good to know, however, can you maintain a steady volume?"

"I can."

"Hmm. To be honest Miss Bridget, I would prefer you finished my commission before joining the Monday Market. Don't want you distracted, as it were."

"Mayor, that is not only untrue but insulting. I am a professional artist. I make my deadlines."

"But, my girls. You've only seen them once."

"Yes and they are coming again on Thursday. I will flesh out the portrait and take pictures so I can continue working. This will not interfere with my overall production."

"Hmm. Well, I'd rather wait until you have inventory. You haven't told me you can pay for a yearly license."

"You haven't told me how much it is, Mayor."

"It would be, let me look. Ah. One hundred fifty pounds a year."

"Very well. I will be in town Tuesday week with the fee and I will open my stall the following Monday. Have a nice day, Mayor."

Bridget punched the end call button and threw her moblie on the bed. It bounced twice. The nerve! How DARE that fat old coot suggest she couldn't produce! Muttering disparaging commentary over Mayor Puffball's heritage and humanity, she stomped down the stairs with her washing. Creativity shot to hell! She couldn't paint in this state. The portly rat bastard! Throwing her clothes into the washing machine, she started it and yanked out her cleaning supplies. Tidying the house was the best, nay, only therapy for such a mood. She didn't calm down until the entire downstairs was spotless, even the windows.