Chapter 10

MARCH 16TH

A nnice made her way down the beach, walking carefully. The last tide had brought up more battered bits of wood and good-size rocks than usual, the rising spring tides did that sometimes. Not much of it was any use to her, however, though she'd been almost fooled by five pieces of coal so far.

She'd made it well away from the harbour proper when she heard someone behind her. She turned around to see Bill coming up, a little out of breath. "Bill." Annice had no reason to take her mood out on him.

"Wondered if I'd see you." Bill took off his cap, ran his hand through what was left of his hair, and tugged it back on. "Heard there was someone asking ‘bout you. Wanted to give you a word."

"Oh, he found me. The man in the wheelchair, yeah?" Annice had been trying not to think about that conversation, though of course that meant it was all she could think of unless she was absorbed by something else. Two days, and she couldn't get him out of her head, or what he'd asked. Offered. She didn't even know what to call it.

"Him." Bill hesitated, and that wasn't like him. One thing she liked about Bill is that she knew what to expect, straightforward honesty. Not this hesitation.

"Did you talk to him?" Annice glanced around and found a bit of a boulder where they could both sit comfortably enough. They'd done it before.

"Aye." Bill said nothing more until he'd sat and chewed on it for a minute. "Odd chair. Odd man. And the one with him. Right quiet. I was in Edgar's when they came in. Though he had the crutches then. Odd." Bill pronounced it. "Ought to be one or t'other, you'd think. And that's a sort of crutch I've never seen b'fore."

Annice tried to figure out what to say to that, and it wasn't like she'd had Griffin Pelson's medical history explained to her. Or any of his other history, actually, other than that baffling title. "He didn't say much about it. They had to come round the back, though. He had the chair when he came to see me."

"You want I should warn him off?" Bill was big, he was burly, he could certainly be plenty intimidating to both Griffin and what was the name? Charles. Charlus.

Annice hesitated, but then she shook her head. "They were polite. And they bought something. Well. Mister Pelson did." She had to think and put the non-magical title on it. She also didn't know how she felt about the fact he'd bought one of her pieces, the rose she'd only just finished. He'd looked at all the others, he'd complimented Grandad's work, and Da's, and all. But he'd bought hers. Definitely not something she was going to talk about with anyone. Maybe Ruth, but probably not Ruth either. Ruth didn't entirely approve of her breaking with tradition and doing her own carving.

"Huh." Bill leaned back, staring out at the ocean. "They asked a knot of questions. Who did jet carving, who'd done inlay, if anyone had. Not usual."

Annice nodded. "I didn't tell them much." The hell of it was, she didn't know if she could actually do the work. She could do the carving fine, but she did not know about the rest of it. Grandad had taught her, like he'd taught her the rest of it. But she'd never had a chance to practise. Which was the other part. Surely someone had set it the last time it needed setting, but who had done that? It was a mystery, because she didn't think it had been anyone from Whitby. Or if it had, they'd kept it very much under their hat.

Not that she could talk to Bill about that. He knew jet, the raw material, not the magic of it, and Annice kept the Pact. Everyone did, when speaking of magic to someone who didn't have it. The oaths against it brought them smack up against their worst fears. Now she swallowed. "What did you think of him? Them?" Though mostly him, because the other man, Charlus, had been in the background.

"Don't know as I trust a man who..." Bill wriggled a hand. "Chair, crutches, no explanation. Or what he asked, not being clear."

Annice was caught up with the same frustration, if from a very different angle. On one hand, Griffin had answered the questions put to him readily enough. He'd given her chapter and verse about what he did. Even about the truth charms, which made her very uncomfortable indeed. There was something about him that was almost compelling, and she didn't trust that at all. Lots of people could be compelling, and at least half of them were angry drunks and worse, if someone didn't do what they wanted the way they wanted.

Lots of men had reason to drown their sorrows, and lots of women too. But taking it out on other people, that was a problem Annice refused to deal with, at least up close. It made the way Griffin drew her attention - exactly the way jet did - make her squirm. Finally, she swallowed. "What did he ask Edgar? Was he looking for jet, or a carver, or what?"

"Both. Aye. Both. More the jet itself, though. He knew a bit about it, mind. More than some," Bill considered. "Wasn't too rude for posh."

Annice snorted. "Posh is supposed to have manners. Whether or not they use them on us."

It made Bill laugh. That was something. "Heard you had some custom, too?" Bill was cautious about this.

"Three women - grandmother, daughter, granddaughter, here for the sea air. The grandmother had an earring gone missing, and I made her a copy." It wasn't quite in the same category as making new pieces, and therefore not the same flavour of unlucky.

"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.