Chapter 17

MARCH 21ST

G riffin 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."

"Fish and chips? Easy and fast." She flicked her fingers over the coins. "I'll bring you the change. And leave the kettle ‘til I'm back." Griffin nodded, and without saying anything else, she slipped out the door again.

She was gone long enough for him to wheel to outside the loo, make use of it, wash his hands, snag a jumper from the bedroom, and return to the sitting room. He was very pleased he hadn't fallen over doing any of it, though he was definitely going to be regretting several recent choices soon. Annice came in bearing a basket, and then said, "You eat there?" pointing at the lower table. "Or, no, your chair has a thing."

"It does. Wherever you'd like to eat. The kitchen table's fine if you'd rather." Annice shook her head. She efficiently set out two packets of fish and chips, poured hot water into the teapot to steep, and had everything out on the low table by the sofa, where Griffin could reach it well enough. When he had a free hand, she held out hers with the change. He wanted to tell her to keep it - he wouldn't miss it - but that would be an insult, so he took it back.

Once she sat, they both spent a couple of minutes inhaling half their respective food. Then the tea was ready, and she poured it out into the sturdy mugs that had come with the cottage. Griffin cupped his hands around it, letting the heat warm his fingers. "The fish and chips are grand."

"My favourite place. Grandad loved them." Annice wiped her mouth with her hand. "You wanted to know about the town?"

"What you love about it." Griffin shrugged. "I love Trellech. I know Trellech, a way I'm never going to know anywhere else. But right now I'm here, and I'd like to know more about it. The way someone who loves a place can tell it."

"You're sure I do." It wasn't a question. She didn't make it into a question. "I'm not arguing. Just. How do you know that?"

Griffin shrugged, setting the mug on his little ledge of a table so he could go back to nibbling at the chips with appropriate appreciation while listening. "I spend a lot of time listening to people talk about what they care about. Sometimes they say it outright. Most of my work is with the inheritance court. It brings out explicit things people want or are upset they're not getting. But often, they want something, and they maybe can't admit to it. That's the hardest part. It's so tricky to help someone feel like they can say the difficult bits out loud. Sometimes that's because of family - someone else will be angry if they speak up, or disappointed. Disappointed is somehow worse, I think."

Annice opened her mouth, closed it, then took a bit of a chip. Then, carefully - and oh, he could read volumes in that - she said, "Oh?"

He chose his words carefully, but also went to some pains to cover that. "If someone's angry with you, you can argue with them. Stand up to them, resist them, whatever that looks like for you in that situation. Mostly my people don't run to anger. I get along well with my Mum and Dad and sister and her husband. And my nieces and nephew are lovely. Sometimes very loud and messy, but they're an age where that's expected. Ordinary. But I've heard it enough. A few times at school, more since. Plenty, in the Army."

Annice nodded, and that was what he'd wanted, to give her examples where she could see what he meant. For probably the millionth time in his life, he blessed the training he'd had in rhetoric, going back to Schola, and everything since. "But disappointment?"

She was quick. And he'd set that up, deliberately, but that didn't mean it didn't make him flinch a little, and that he let her see it. It was honest. It was truthful, and it was also a touch manipulative. "That too. Oh, my parents were plenty proud of me. But once I got into Schola, there were a lot of expectations. And I am, truth, excellent at my job. It is a highly specialised job. Other people can do it, but not that many people actually want to and are capable of it. Like a lot of other specialist jobs. And the path there isn't very direct, sometimes."

Now, there was a whole steep cliff piled with things he wasn't saying. Some of them were about how what he wanted was to hold the land magic for Trellech, and what that would mean. Others were about how he'd be forever disappointed in himself if he didn't try as long and as much and as well as he could. But that some part of him was bracing for that inevitable loss. "But you can't, um. Disappointment is a fog, not a mirror. You can't argue with it, you can't straighten it out, you can't get a grip on it at all. It slides right off. And that's hard to live with, isn't it?" Then, before he could stop himself, he added, "Especially when I'm disappointed in myself."

Annice was quiet long enough to eat two chips and a bit more of her well-vinegared fish. "They train you how to see things like that?"

"Yes. Though honestly, I was like this as a kid." Griffin spread his hands, making sure not to send his mug flying. "I'd apologise, but I meant to do it. And I can't just turn off the skill. Just like I bet you can't walk down the beach and not look for jet. Or start thinking about what you'd do with it when you got it home."

She snorted, a definite sound of admitting that was also the truth.

"Anyway. You asked how I know you love Whitby, and it's all of that. When people love a place - really love a place, I can hear it. And again, I hear about this in inheritance, who wants a family property because they adore it, and who sees what they could sell it for, sometimes - it comes out in all sorts of ways. And people who love a place know things about it. Not the things in whatever books there are, or the local newspaper..."

He gestured at the paper that had been wrapped around the fish and chips. "Or even the local gossip, though that's a bit closer. But what makes the place itself? The smell that one day, when it's suddenly properly spring. The glimpse you get through buildings, onto something different. The feel of it under your feet. The changes in the air. I could probably navigate Trellech just by smell now, bakery to pub to restaurant to the Ministry canteen or the Guard refractory." He found himself half-smiling. "All right, though these days, it's faster to tell by the ground under the wheels. But the smells are mostly much more fun. Fewer cobblestones in a smell."