If you go hunting a tiger...

- 3 -

Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading!

The first breakfast was at nine in the morning. And it consisted of the worst version of the old northern cuisine: boiled eggs, fried bacon, stewed beans and buttered toast. It's the morning when you don't want to eat yet! Moreover, there is no greenery, and without it, there will be indigestion from such food.

Was no one around here smart enough to make oatmeal or cereals filled with milk if they are so drawn to traditions? In general, I prefer a southern breakfast, from a bun and coffee, which I often replace with juice.

But then I found slices of black pudding (I love it) and baked tomato (it's good for the stomach, especially with heavy foods, and keeps you young), and they reconciled me to the local cuisine.

Fortunately, the TV-shows didn't lie about breakfast: there were two tables — one with ready-made food, which everyone put on their own plate as much as they wanted, and at the second table they sat down to eat. There were drinks on the second table: tea and juice.

I took a slice of pudding and a large tomato. James, who was behind me, wanted to put toast on my plate, but I pushed his hand away. Moron! Black pudding is half made of oatmeal, why do I need bread?

I went with a plate to the table. Dave — he was at the head of the table, I greeted him earlier — was watching me gloomily. If he hopes that tying himself snout in a knot will deprive me of my appetite, then let him make his ass with a corkscrew.

I tried black pudding. The hell's bang! I have never tasted such deliciousness. There are many places in the city where they sell black puddings, there is a good shop with traditional handmade puddings in our area but this is just a masterpiece! And I went for the second piece.

Judging by the reaction of my convoyers and Dave, I did something wrong.

"You bring — you feed," — I said to Dave. "Tell the chef that this is the best black pudding in Alnorria. But I'd rather tell him myself. The heiress has to look after the household too, right?"

"It's disgusting!" said a young female voice from the door. "Such a plebeian cannot inherit TGS!"

I looked at the speaker. A pretty blonde in her twenties, in an expensive dark blue business dress, two guys in tuxedos stood behind her.

"Take and eat your breakfast, Eleanor," Dave ordered. "And don't talk until I ask you."

The girl obeyed. Who is she here if she climbs to indicate who can inherit? Judging by the convoy, she is no ordinary pig in this barn. However, I don't give a damn. I own my father's property, I will take its value, and the rest can burn with blue fire.

I, along with an extra portion of black pudding and tomatoes, sat down at the table and said: "I want to visit my granny today. And I need a worker in a candy shop and a tenant for a flat. And the flat itself must be prepared for rent, things dismantled. Or I live at home, work in a candy shop, and study lady style in evening courses."

Dave was saying something, but I didn't listen, just raised my voice a little, setting out my terms. Eleanor's eyes bulged like those of a deep-sea crab. Her retinue even leaned forward a little, listening. Dave's valet, standing behind his chair, pierced me with an evil look. And three men in expensive suits froze like statues of amazement in the doorway. Dave threw me: "You don't have a candy shop or a flat. Everything is mortgaged. And the bank will not extend the loan."

All are mortgaged. Oh how! Looks like Dave talked to the migration lawyer yesterday and he said I had a better chance of winning. This is good. But when did granny manage to mortgage the property? Why didn't she tell me?