Amanderella Gottsnobbler and the Bangolin Tree Chapter 4

 

Chapter 4.

 

Wealth beyond Imagination.

 

Amanderella set out the next morning in her expedition clothes, which were clean but unmistakably practical. Her boots were polished to a shine, yet still bore the faint, honourable scars of Amazonian travel. Her shirt had pockets that suggested competence rather than fashion. Her hat, tall and uncompromising, was the only part of her ensemble that could be mistaken for decorative, though only by someone with very poor judgement.

Ferdinangle Fromlager’s establishment stood on a polished corner of the jewellers’ district, its windows gleaming with the smugness of objects that had never known mud. A discreet brass plaque announced:

Fromlager and Sons, Purveyors of Fine Jewels and Other Sparkling Necessities

Amanderella stepped inside.

The shop was silent, carpeted, and so dust free that even Mrs. Gaffletter would have been impressed. Velvet trays lay arranged in perfect rows.. A chandelier hovered hung overhead, sparkling in the light.

Fromlager himself emerged from behind a curtain, tall and angular, his expression set in the polite frostiness of a man who had been interrupted by something unexpected. His gaze travelled from Amanderella’s boots to her hat, then back again, and his eyebrows rose up his forehead until they almost disappeared into his hair.

“Madam,” he said, in a tone that suggested he doubted the accuracy of the term, “may I assist you?”

“You may,” Amanderella replied. “I have something for you to examine.”

Fromlager hesitated. “We do not, as a rule, appraise… souvenirs.”

“It is not a souvenir,” Amanderella said.

She opened her specimen tin and tipped a pinch of dried Amazonian earth onto his velvet tray. Fromlager inhaled sharply, not because he recognised the diamonds, but because it was as if the dirt were personally insulting him.

Then he saw the glint. He froze.

Amanderella waited.

Fromlager leaned closer. His monocle, the little glass lens in his eye, trembled. Then it popped right out of his face with a tiny ping! and bounced off the tray like a startled teacup.

Amanderella regarded this calmly. “Does that happen often?”

“Only,” Fromlager whispered, “when I am catastrophically mistaken.”

He bent over the tray, magnifying glass in hand, then exchanged it for a larger one, then for a device that looked suspiciously like a repurposed pepper grinder. Each time, his eyebrows climbed higher.

 “These are genuine,” he whispered. “Untouched, uncut, and of a clarity I have only seen in legends and books. Madam, I must apologise for my earlier misapprehension.”

“Accepted,” Amanderella said.

He named a price, an amount of money that Amanderella  recognised as more than enough for her own purposes, and, most satisfyingly of all, enough to let her keep every remaining gold coin exactly where it belonged, sewn safely in her vest.

Fromlager wrote the cheque with reverence, then paused. “You do have a bank account,” he said, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“I do not,” Amanderella replied.

Fromlager went pale. “Then we must rectify that at once.”

He seized his coat, locked the shop door, and escorted her down the street with the solemnity of a man accompanying a priceless artefact.

The bank stood on a corner, tall and respectable, its brass fittings polished until they glowed

Inside the clerks looked up. They saw Fromlager. They saw Amanderella. They saw her expedition boots. A faint ripple of alarm passed through the room, as though someone had opened a window on a windy day. Then they saw the cheque, and the ripple became reverence.

The senior clerk approached, spectacles trembling. “Madam, if you would care to step into the private office.”

Amanderella followed him. The clerks watched her pass as though witnessing the arrival of a comet.

The account was opened with great ceremony. Forms were produced. Pens were offered. Amanderella signed with her usual brisk precision. The cheque was deposited. The clerks murmured among themselves, their voices hushed and reverent.

When the process was complete, the senior clerk bowed. “Lady Gottsnobbler, we are honoured to have you as a client.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Thank you.

Fromlager escorted her back to the street, his respect now firmly established.

“If you ever find yourself in possession of more mud,” he said, “please consider me your first port of call.”

“I shall bear it in mind,” Amanderella replied.

She walked away with her boots gleaming, her bank account newly opened, and the distinct feeling that the world was about to become even more interesting than she had anticipated.

Miss Hemstitcher had everything ready, pressed, and arranged with military neatness.

Amanderella tried on the final ensemble, approved the ankle‑length hem, and paid without fuss. Miss Hemstitcher beamed with the pride of a woman who has successfully outfitted a woman of true importance

“The garments will be delivered to your lodgings this afternoon,” she said. “I would not dream of allowing you to carry them through the streets. Fabric of this calibre deserves a dignified journey.”

Amanderella inclined her head. She had no intention of carrying them home herself, and she appreciated Miss Hemstitcher’s efficiency. It was always a pleasure to meet another woman who understood the value of order.

She stepped back into the street feeling lighter, sharper, and entirely satisfied. Her new clothes would arrive without creases, without fuss, and without requiring her to juggle brown paper parcels while navigating the capital’s pavements.

Mr. Cobblethwaite did not appear to have moved from his workbench. He bade her a good morning and pointed his pipe stem at a pair of boots on his bench. “They are ready for you,” he said. “None of this ‘they’ll be ready on Wednesday in my establishment.’”

Amanderella allowed herself to be escorted to a seat. She removed one of her boots and tried on a new one. The fit was perfect. Mr. Cobblethwaite beamed. “I will wrap them and have them delivered this afternoon,” he said.

It was, she reflected, exactly how things ought to be.

She returned to her room, polished her boots again for good measure, and began arranging her lecture notes. Her compass was aligned precisely with the edge of the blotter. Her pencil was sharpened to a point that looked ready for battle. She felt very satisfied indeed.