Till

Till had learned about fair pricing by getting it wrong both ways.

The first time she sold her baskets, she was so eager to be liked that she charged almost nothing — less than the reeds cost her. People loved the deal, but she ran out of money for reeds and had to stop, sure she was just bad at business. So the next time she overcorrected and charged as much as she possibly could — and people felt squeezed, muttered that she was greedy, and didn't come back. She sat between her unsold baskets feeling like there was no way to do it right at all.

Her grandmother, an old squirrel with a worn little scale, sat with her. "You swung from giving it away to squeezing it out," she said. "Both feel wrong, and both ARE wrong. There's an honest middle." She set acorns on her scale. "Cover what it cost you. Add a little for your work — you deserve that; there's no shame in it. And stop where it still feels fair to the person buying. That price won't make you rich, and it won't make you a saint. It'll just be HONEST — and honest is what keeps people coming back." She tapped the scale, balanced. "A price isn't about getting the most or being the nicest. It's about being fair to both of you at once."

Till learned to weigh it that way — costs, a little for her work, still honest to the buyer — and her stall steadied. People paid gladly and returned; she could keep buying reeds. The bad-at-business, greedy-or-broke feeling settled into a calm, fair confidence. There WAS a way to do it right: the honest middle.

When Till turned twelve, she went to VentureQuest, where a wise old mentor named Ledger asked, "What makes a price fair?"

Till didn't answer with a speech. She set out acorns. "It covers costs — the price can't be less than what the thing cost to make. It pays a little for the work — my time is worth something, not a fortune, just a little. And it still feels honest to the buyer — they'd be glad to pay it." She held up the small, balanced stack. "Not the most I can squeeze. Not so little I go broke. The honest middle, where we both walk away fair."

Ledger's eyes crinkled warmly. "Some people charge all they can," Ledger said. "Others give it all away."

"Both leave someone feeling cheated," Till said. "Fair leaves you both feeling good." Ledger smiled. "Then come in," Ledger said. "VentureQuest needs someone who finds the honest middle."

One afternoon a worried young mouse came to Till's stall, wringing his paws over a lemonade stand.

"I don't know what to charge for a cup!" he said. "My big cousin says charge as much as people will pay — squeeze every coin. But that feels awful. So I was just going to give it away free. But then I can't buy more lemons. I'm stuck."

"Both of those feel wrong because both ARE," Till said gently, laying out acorns. "Let's find the honest middle. What does one cup COST you — the lemons, the sugar, the cups?" They worked it out: a few coins. "So the price has to cover that, or you lose money." She added an acorn. "Then a little for your work — squeezing the lemons, running the stand. A little." She held up the small stack. "Now — would YOU happily pay that for a cup of lemonade on a hot day?" The mouse nodded. "Then that's your fair price. It covers your lemons, pays you a bit, and feels honest to the person buying."

The mouse looked at the small, sensible number. "So I don't have to choose between squeezing people and going broke. There's a fair price in the middle that works for everyone."

"That's the whole craft," Till said. "The squeezers lose customers; the give-it-all-away folks run dry. But the fair price — covers your costs, pays you a little, feels honest to the buyer — that one lasts. And it never costs you a wink of sleep."