“Any decent person would want to help,” Annice said firmly. “Theory?”
Griffin took a breath, adjusting how he was sitting a little to twist toward her. “Leaving out a lot of background that’s long, I’ve been fascinated by the judicial magics for ages. Since I knew they existed, I think. My dad had a case in the Courts when I was nine. Nothing he’d done badly wrong, but he had to go and give formal evidence. Mum had to come with him, and they couldn’t leave me alone - my sister’s a bit older. She was away at school.”
Annice nodded cautiously. “That part almost makes sense.”
It got a laugh out of him, a warm one, and she liked the sound of it. Not that it mattered if she liked it. But he was talking, and she thought that was probably good for him. “Anyway. I went to Schola, and then straight into apprenticeship. Not something anyone in my family had done, but I loved it. Still love it. But I think that if you’re spending your life in the courts, in those particular kinds of magic, you have to think about how it shapes you. Not everyone agrees with me. Some of them are even quite successful and accomplished, professionally speaking.” Annice was fairly sure there was some particular person he was thinking of, speaking with the excruciating politeness someone might well use with someone he hated. The way Rob and Cliff talked about each other when they had to.
“And so you, um.” She tried to figure out how to put this. “You’re always thinking about the shape of it. Like when I’m carving. Everything goes into making the shape.”
Griffin nodded. “Exactly. And I built myself around it. Making that shape.” He gestured up toward the abbey behind them. “Like that, in miniscule. I think a lot about how the spaces we’re in shape us, shape what we do, what is more or less possible.”
“A life isn’t small. Not over the length of it,” Annice pointed out. “You went to the War. You came back. What would, um.” She considered. “Were you an officer?”
“A captain, before I was injured.” Now his voice was more cautious, with spaces between the words.
“What would your men have said about you?” Men like her da, that would have been. Or from somewhere else, thrown into a war that didn’t make sense, with not enough of anything.
“I tried to live so they’d think I took care of them, as best I could. It worked better with some than others. And then I was gone.” Griffin looked away abruptly. “I didn’t quite break any promises, but it felt like I had. They felt like I had, I think.”
“Did they tell you that?” Annice asked. “With words? Directly?”
Griffin kept looking away. “Most of them weren’t magical. There was so much I couldn’t talk about.” Then, suddenly, he pushed himself with his hands, rocking upward. He got the crutch under one arm, his forearm in the curved piece, his hand braced on the handle at the bottom, then the other. “Let’s give the stairs a try. Don’t foul the crutch, that’d be bad, but if you could keep an eye out, anything uneven or that might catch me up.”
She wasn’t going to argue. And honestly, she was worried about him sitting out in the cold, even without how the last bit of talking had gone. “Sure.” Annice stood, brushing her hands off on her skirt. “A step or two ahead.”
Chapter17
MARCH 21ST
Griffin forced himself to moderation. He hated the in-between stage, when he knew he’d done too much. It hadn’t quite caught up to him yet, but he also wasn’t back somewhere where he could rest and take all the masks of coping off. Annice did what he’d asked her to, keeping far enough ahead that he wasn’t worried about her skirt catching on one crutch or something worse. Hemlines were trending shorter this year, so his various contacts who cared about fashion had mentioned, but of course Annice wouldn’t follow that.
It was an absorbing question, actually, or at least a distracting one. She made beautiful things, given the opportunity, but her clothing was decidedly neutral. Some of that might well be a quiet mourning, and Griffin approved of that. He’d seen so many people in all the prismatic stages of grief come through the inheritance courts. The ones who took their time almost always had the right idea. The ones who didn’t hurry into what their life should look like now, or shove every bit of missing someone down and away.
But outside of that, when there was space for it, was she the sort of person who’d like to keep up with fashion trends for herself, given the chance? Or was all of her attention focused on the jet carving, with whatever she wore as a neutral craftswoman’s uniform? Griffin couldn’t actually throw stones. He had a wardrobe full of appropriate and unexciting suits, with a few minor alterations from his tailor to make them more comfortable when seated all day. There were no seams where he sat that might rub or cause hot spots. But beyond that, he looked like every other man of his profession. And since he was no barrister and certainly not a judge, he didn’t get the traditional flowing robes in court.
That set of thoughts kept Griffin occupied most of the way down the steps. Annice hesitated for just a second each time they got near a bench, to see if he wanted to stop. But Griffin rather thought that if he did, he wouldn’t move again for days. Every time he just shook his head minutely, and she kept going. At least she wasn’t arguing with him.
Finally, they got to the bottom of the steps, near to Annice’s shop. Griffin half-expected her to stop there, but she glanced at him again. “Cottage, then.” She had the address. He’d given it to her in case of sending a message, so now she just went onward. She ducked through the alley between two buildings into the courtyard, then stopped by the door. That meant he had to fumble for the key. It was clipped into the satchel over his shoulder. As always, it had fallen down into the bottom, and even the key strap he’d attached it to wasn’t a great deal of help.
Once he got the door open, she let him go first, hovering on the doorstep. He didn’t turn around, just said, “Come in, if you want. Or if you need to get back to something, I’ll be fine.” Precision - and truthfulness - meant he couldn’t say he was fine now. He’d be fine. In a day, maybe three, depending on how much of that cold had affected things. Or sitting out in it.
“Can I put the kettle on for you?” Annice’s voice was a little tentative, as if she weren’t sure he’d accept.
Griffin nodded. “Please.” Then he considered his options. The sofa would be more comfortable, but the chair meant less moving around later. He had just enough space to wheel it into the bedroom, or to leave it right outside the loo. A moment later he settled into the wheelchair. Griffin let habit guide him into tucking the crutches where they’d be held in place with a touch of magic, for when he needed them later. Then he wheeled himself over to the low table by the sofa, so he could put the satchel down and rummage for the pill he really ought to take.
Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the kettle filling, then beginning to heat. Without looking, he said, “Thank you for keeping me company.” Then that didn’t sound like enough. It was curt. He didn’t want to be curt. She hadn’t done anything wrong, not in the least. “And I’m sorry I was abrupt. I don’t talk much about the War, not with other people who weren’t there.”
“That means you talk about it with someone who was.” Annice’s voice was neutral, and moving to see her face would be very obvious. “We’re near strangers. Why would you talk to me, anyway?”
That sentence, though, made him turn, the twist of the wheels that brought him halfway around so he could see her. “You’re lonely here, aren’t you?” Then he swallowed. “That was terribly rude of me.”
“It’s true.” Her mouth twitched, then Annice spread out her hands. “I’m fighting the tide. Not much trade in jet, not anymore. Not much chance of marrying at my age. Old house, just me in it, and my aunt and cousins on my nan’s side. They could use the space. Barely making ends meet with the carving, and that’s not likely to get better, because too many people think women shouldn’t carve jet. But... where else would I be?”
He heard it, then, the note that was all about how he loved Trellech. Griffin considered. “I don’t have answers for you. I don’t know enough about the way things are here. But look. Would you make tea, and there are some sandwiches and things in the keep-cold? Charmed to keep. Charlus left me well stocked.” He saw her hesitate, and added, “Or if you’d like something hot, I’d be glad to pay for you to pick up something at one of the pubs or inns or whatever.”
“That, if you don’t mind.” Annice straightened up.
Griffin rummaged for his coins and turned over what he thought ought to cover it. “That enough? I eat most things, but something hot sounds good. Fish or whatever.”
