“Ah. Wish there were more of that. It’d cause less trouble for you. But they were happy?”
“Mmhmm. And bought one of Da’s pieces, too.” She hated selling them. But on the other hand, he’d made them to be worn and to be sold. And to feed the people he loved and keep the house warm in the winter. And she’d liked those three women. It hurt less to have one of Da’s pieces there than a lot of places. Annice swallowed, wanting to change the subject. “Bill, did Grandad ever talk about having pieces he didn’t talk about? This big, polished.” She held her hands out, making the curve of the shape.
Bill was silent again, long enough Annice thought he wouldn’t answer at all. “He bought some big pieces from me, like that. Don’t know what he did with them. Over the years. Not that many to be found. And a few came from the mines, inland, before they got shut down. Back when. Before.” Before the crafting peaked and then dropped off, before a flood of Spanish jet came on the market to fill the gaps from the mines being shut down.
“So it wouldn’t surprise you that he had some.”
“Nah. You found one?” Bill glanced over at her. “I could have a look.”
Not that one, he couldn’t. She wasn’t sure what the magic in it would do, and it certainly looked like magic, even if he couldn’t make sense of the actual purpose. She didn’t want to risk him like that, or herself. “Nah. But I’m cleaning out cupboards. You know where he might have kept blanks?”
There was another long silence. “Heard he stuck them away, somewhere. Dunno where. House, maybe. Shed, maybe.”
“Ta.” Annice swallowed. “Good hunting?” she offered. “Ought to get back up the hill and open the shop.” She didn’t expect it’d do any good, but it wouldn’t do any harm. And she could be confused about what to do next up there, with a cup of tea and a bit of warmth, as well as think here. Or if not warm, at least not so much of a wind.
Bill nodded. “You be careful.” It was the sort of thing elders said, and just like with Griffin two days ago, she was at a loss at how to interpret this.
She made her way back along the beach, picking her way over stones, and finding three modest pieces of jet for her trouble. They’d been covered by seaweed from the other direction. She left two others for Bill to spot, sizes that she’d have a harder time selling. Then she went up the harbour, and up to the house and shop. Twenty minutes later, she had a mug of tea, the stool she perched on by the counter, and no customers. Nor any sign of them.
Annice cupped her hands around the mug. Bill hadn’t told her anything terribly new. If Grandad had one big piece of jet, he might have had more. She could unbury every cupboard and check. She probably ought to, and do a proper inventory of the house, anyway. And she might find some clothes from Nan she could make over or sell. Maybe she’d find something else useful.
No one came in all afternoon, and so she turned the sign around, locked up, and looked longingly up the stairs at the workshop. Her fingers itched to get working on the pieces she’d found today. One had a curve that suggested a selkie, perhaps. But that wouldn’t get anything sorted in the cupboards. She found scrap paper to write on, and a stub of pencil, and promised herself that after she’d inventoried two cupboards, she could go up to the workroom.
The two cupboards took much longer than she’d expected, and by the time she was done, she was starving and her back ached. She heated up a little soup, not wanting to cook more, but then at least she got an hour in the workroom, sketching and then beginning to prepare one of the other pieces for something decorative, the arc of a leaf.
Chapter11
MARCH 16TH
Talking to the jet workers hadn’t got Griffin very far. And he’d meant it when he said Lord and Lady Hutton weren’t particularly in favour of him. Just before the War, he’d been the one to point out some factors in an inheritance case for Lady Hutton that hadn’t gone the way she wanted. Fortunately, Charlus knew the family, and had got hold of a contact or two within the magical community in Whitby for a conversation.
It meant they were ensconced in an exceedingly ornate parlour that hadn’t been redone since perhaps 1870. Griffin had set the crutches to one side, but it was the sort of place that didn’t like to admit furniture had legs, never mind people. Everything was covered by pleats of patterned fabric and doilies in an excess of fabric decoration. Mistress Hemworthy certainly extended the theme. She was wearing unfashionably long skirts by modern standards, her ankles tucked back under the chair she was settled in.
“I don’t know what you young men think you’ll manage, coming here. Whitby is beautiful, but she is insular. Particular about who is welcome, and who isn’t.” Mistress Hemworthy sipped at her tea. “I married in, but it took me, oh, two decades to have any acceptance at all. And that was with my dear Simon smoothing my way, every step. And my own poor skills, of course.”
“Mistress Hemworthy, word of your skills has spread far and wide.” Griffin wasn’t exactly lying, but he was laying it on thicker than he usually did. She did a particular kind of porcelain painting. It was a genteel lady’s art of the previous century. Hers had a touch of magic to bring a little protection to the cup and well-being to the drinker. Like the cups they were using now, and Griffin felt he could use as much of the latter as was on offer. “But we would be most grateful - myself, my apprentice, and my colleagues back in Trellech - for any assistance you might provide on how best to approach things.”
“Grateful, is it?” Mistress Hemworthy let that hang there for a moment.
It wasn’t a bribe. First, this woman would not be so crude, and second, it wasn’t actually the sort of thing bribes worked on. Griffin took a moment to consider his options. “You mentioned you make it down to Trellech every so often. The Courts would be glad to include you as a guest to one of the Temple of Healing garden parties in the summer. Or I believe there’s an opening for an exhibit at the museum, Chinese porcelain and such, coming in...” He let his voice trail off.
Charlus cleared his throat. “August, sir. Magistra Hollings mentioned she thought it should be a spectacular show. She has quite an interest herself. A number of pieces from private collections, and so on.”
This sort of thing was the usual way to spread goodwill. Griffin would never touch it for something dealing with a specific case, but when it came to the other business of the Courts, how to keep them running smoothly, he knew the parameters of what he could offer on his own. Neither of those would be difficult to arrange. The Courts got extra tickets for just such a reason.
Mistress Hemworthy sniffed, then nodded. “The museum. If you could arrange tickets, that would be a delight.”
Charlus nodded. “I’ll check into the arrangements and confirm the dates, mistress. There may be a possibility for a private tour.” Very polite, almost demure. Charlus carried that off well.
“As to your question,” Mistress Hemworthy turned her attention fully to Griffin. “No one knows what to make of you, of course. You are not from here. You are asking complicated questions. And your, your...” She gestured at the crutches. “We’re not used to that sort of thing. A few people in town use a wheelchair, a few use crutches, but not both.”
Griffin caught Charlus stiffening a bit beside him, but he kept his tone light. “It’s always an awkward thing to handle. People will make assumptions, and of course if someone sees me across the street or some such, they can’t even ask the polite questions.” He wouldn’t say - not here and now - how often the questions were something far from politeness. She wasn’t a stupid woman, she could figure it out. “I was injured in the War. The way the Temple of Healing put it, when they were sorting out what happened, was that sometimes my head and my feet don’t talk to each other very well. Like seeing the bottom of a muddy pond, one of my Healers said. You know it’s there, you can feel it, but you might mistake a rock for a turtle.”
“Well, my.” Mistress Hemworthy considered him, looking him up and down like some exhibit. “Well, it’s really quite inspiring, working like you do, with such limitations. Not like so many others we see, hurt during the War, poor things.” The mix of fawning toward him and pity toward others wasn’t something Griffin heard often these days, not directly. But it always grated. Other people disabled by the War hadn’t had his resources and existing standing, for one thing. And for another, he was here to keep the Courts working as they ought, not to be anyone’s inspiration. Same as he had been before the War.
Beside him, Griffin could tell Charlus had frozen, unsure how to act. Griffin shrugged slightly. “I care a great deal about the work of the Courts. But my work relies on my mind, not my feet, fortunately. I’ll never be a grand dancer, but I wasn’t much of one before the War, so it’s no great loss.”
It provoked Mistress Hemworthy into a small snort. That was a very human reaction. Griffin went on. “Sometimes I trip - and a fall can be quite painful.” Worse, he’d broken his wrist once, and that had him out of commission entirely for a week, even with quick access to healing magic. “More my balance than the strength of my legs.” Though the nastier falls were usually the latter, he wasn’t going to get into that. “But a lot of places aren’t set up well for a chair, so while I prefer it when I can, sometimes the crutches are easiest.” Like here, where there had been a set of stairs up to the front door.
