Chapter 7

MARCH 11TH IN WHITBY

"W here did you want to start, sir?" Charlus was perched on the chair in the sitting room. Their sitting room, at least for the duration. "I have the map. Would that be a help?"

"Please." Griffin stretched a little, considering the options. They'd arrived ninety minutes ago, before luncheon. Charlus had arranged for the basic groceries - bread, eggs, makings for sandwiches. They'd brought a hamper with them, and a keep-cold box besides, so there were some other things as well. Better yet, there were pubs and such along Church Street for an evening meal, and they could sort out options from those. "How far are the two shops you thought we might start with?"

Charlus set the map out on the low table in front of the sofa. He glanced around and grabbed two small decorative metal objects, likely related to fishing somehow, on the two ends. "We're here, of course." He tapped the courtyard on the map, tucked into the maze of courtyards and alleys east of Church Street. "One shop is here, one shop is there. The main inn is here, if you wanted to try it for supper and perhaps a little local gossip."

Griffin considered it. He was doing the maths on two different parts, of course, he always had to. One was the strategy of the project, and the other was on how far his legs might reasonably carry him. He'd been sensible, anticipating the demands of this trip, and he'd done his best to rest in advance. However, it was always a coin toss whether portal travel would make things a bit more wobbly. So far, that toss seemed to be on his side, and the two shops seemed to be close, with the hotel - and this cottage - between them. "Any thoughts on which to try first, from what you heard on your earlier visits?"

"No, sir. Both are well-established, both do magical work, but there wasn't much to decide between them without asking more detailed questions than you wanted me to. One does a fair bit with, what's the word? Ammonites, too. Polishing them up. There was a bit of a fad for them a couple of years ago for certain kinds of simple talisman work, and apparently it's still a steady trade."

"Huh. I remember that." Griffin nodded. "I'll use the crutches, we'll start there, and see how I feel after. I'd like to see how bad the chair will be overall." It would, no matter what, be easier on crutches than in the chair. Coming up from the portal had been tedious enough, the paving stones led to bump after bump.

"Of course." Then he hesitated. "May I ask, sir, about the crutches? They're not a type I've seen as often."

"Ah." Griffin considered. "This form is fairly new. 1917, I think, at least in terms of being available for sale. I find them more comfortable and more stable. My forearm goes down between the curved pieces, it's a straight line to my hand, I can use all the strength of my arms. The more common kind, it puts all the weight under the arm, and I find it makes me ache much faster. The forearm crutches are also a titch more flexible, if I need to adjust what's taking the most pressure. And magically, the wood's chosen to work best with my magic, it has some charms that help with comfort and such."

"Being able to adjust would be the same sort of things you keep mentioning about the ritual work, sir. Leaving space where we can to adapt to the needs of the day or the space." Griffin nodded, delighted that Charlus had put that together himself. Now Charlus straightened up. "What manner do you want me to take in public?"

"In magical conversation, let me take the lead. Otherwise, let's see. If I am a solicitor, that implies some sort of case, and I don't want that sort of gossip. Such a bother to deal with, both for us and whoever we end up talking to. Are you willing to be my assistant, up here while I take the air, getting out of the city fogs? Something, something business unspecified."

"Implying London, then." Charlus was quick. Griffin was grateful for that all over again. "Sure, I can do that. From near the family townhouse in Bedford Square, if that works?"

"That would suit nicely. I'll come up with something tediously boring before we need it. You just need to nod tolerantly. It will explain your presence, and if there is some reason for you to be away, also explain that. And hopefully no one will bother us with legal questions. You don't mind?"

"Of course not, sir." Charlus considered. "Let me go adjust my tie, perhaps. I'll just be a minute." Griffin nodded. By the time Charlus came back, Griffin was ready to go. He was wearing the narrow striped teal and black tie that signalled his own Seal House in school, just as Griffin's gold stripes on black signalled Salmon House. Both of them were in suitable suits for the afternoon, neither too formal nor too casual. Men of means.

Getting to the first shop was not terribly difficult. Griffin didn't rush. There was no reason to, and every reason to take it steadily. For one thing, he wanted to measure out his stamina today. And for the other, being seen would help their long-term goals, or so he very much hoped. Charlus got the door for him - having someone to do that was a considerable help - and Griffin went up the two steps into the shop. He could feel the magic here immediately, though it wasn't terribly strong in the space, more an echo from some pieces.

There was a woman behind the counter, trays of carved jet pieces out. She opened her mouth, then caught the ties, and more visibly, the meaning of the ties. Griffin nodded, pleasantly. "Good afternoon, ma'am. I was wondering about a conversation with the carver here, about a private commission. I'd like to know if he might be capable of what I have in mind." He leaned just a hair on the ‘capable', with the slight pulse of magic that would make it clear he meant he was also magical.

"Oh, pardon, yes, sir. Let me see, sir." She fluttered away, first turning the sign in the door to show the shop was closed, then into the back room. They heard her going up the stairs, a pause, and then two sets of steps coming down. A larger man, bulky around the shoulders and through the stomach, came through, then pulled himself up straight. "Sirs. We're quite private, if you wish to confirm."

That was an interesting reaction, indeed. Griffin let his magic reach out, to get a feel for the space, and there were well-set wards there. Not the man's own, Griffin thought, though it would be rude to press enough to make certain of that. But someone skilled had done the work, and they'd been reliably maintained. That wasn't what he'd expected. After a moment, he heard the woman ask, "Should I bring out a chair, sir?"

Griffin could sit, but sitting when others stood did such odd things to the balance of power. Griffin could, if he had to, play that off as a man who made everyone else stand, waiting to jump to his commands. Something like a king of old or magnate or something of the kind. But he did not care for that mode, nor for how it made him feel. Now he shook his head. "I'm fine, but thank you for the thought, Mistress. Your shop has an excellent reputation, sir. I am from the Halls of Justice in Trellech, and we are looking for someone for a particular commission."

"Courts, eh?" The man nodded. "I'm Robert Carey. M'wife, Bess." He looked neither awed nor surprised that someone from the courts had turned up here. "Something the matter there, then?"

"We're looking to refurbish the inheritance court entirely. It's worn down. We believe it needs thorough renewal, possibly entire replacement."

"Well, I'm not your man. Booked solid, I am, for two years out. Nah, three." His wife had been about to say something. "Even for the courts."

Griffin blinked, suddenly entirely grateful he was balanced on four points and not two. "Beg pardon?"

"Man can't sit around waiting for Trellech to take notice, can he? No way to make a living. I make the pieces here. I do work for a number of the Great Families. Protections, mostly, not that I'm the one setting them, just the stonework and medallions and all. I disappear, all of them up and down the street think I've gone off on some boat for the fishing. All tidy." Robert shrugged. "Them's pay a sight better than the courts, too."

That, well, Griffin couldn't entirely argue with. He took a breath, sorting through the options. "You're the senior crafter of that type, I gather?" Griffin made a small nod at Charlus. "My apprentice made some initial inquiries."

"These days, aye." Robert shrugged. "You can ask down at Cliff Hudson's. He's a decent carver, wife's a bit of a muchness. Don't know what he's busy with these days. We don't talk, so you'd say."

Any solicitor worth a few pence could read between those lines, some standing feud, but a personal one. Not the sort of professional one that would lead to no kind of recommendation at all. "That's the shop at the other end of Church Street, where it turns up the steps."

"Aye." Robert shrugged. "Bloody bright blue storefront. That be all, then?"

It made Griffin suddenly certain Robert - and perhaps his wife, she'd slunk behind him - was hiding something. But he certainly wasn't the man to try to get it out, not without a great deal more cause. "Thank you for your time. And the pointer. We'll be off, then." He nodded politely, rather than fumble to lift his hat to Bess. Charlus got the door with no commentary, and Griffin made his way out.

Charlus waited until they were going back past the alley to their cottage, the sidewalk beginning to climb up a bit before the street twisted up the hill. "Not the reception I expected, sir."

"Nor I. Wonder if we can find out who he's doing work for. What did you find out about this Hudson?"

"Younger - up and coming, or at least middle-aged, to Carey's seniority. The shop was closed up when I was here, though." Charlus gestured at the awning. The whole wood frame of the shop was indeed a striking blue, the shade that would echo the sea on a clear sunny day. Whenever Whitby got those, and Griffin wasn't sure of that sort of weather, actually. It seemed more cheerful overall than Carey's shop. Again, Charlus got the door, but this time, there were no steps. The entire thing was flush with the path outside.

They went through the process again, the woman behind the counter recognising the ties, the ‘capable' that indicated magical awareness, and absolutely the slight pulse of magic. She was younger than Bess Carey had been, by perhaps two decades. This was the sort of woman who'd likely started out stunningly beautiful and was ageing into a distinct form of attractiveness.

She also offered the chair first, two easy chairs near the window, to take advantage of the light. Because there were two - with stools nearby and a low wood bench - Griffin took the offer, along with her explicit request to test the warding. He settled into the chair, leaning the crutches between his knee and the arm of the chair so they wouldn't topple. It took her slightly longer to come back than Bess Carey, though he thought the two women had gone up two flights each, possibly to some attic workspace. It would be a practical arrangement for this sort of work. There would be the shop on the ground floor, living space above, and the workshop on the second floor, where the light might be most direct.

When she came back, her husband let her come through first. He was a striking man, rather Heathcliff in his looks and manner, with dark hair waving down past his collar. He was in shirtsleeves and braces, though if he'd been at work, he must have worn some sort of smock, because his clothing was impeccably clean. Griffin looked up and nodded. "Cliff Hudson, I presume?"

"Aye, and my wife Maud. I gather you're needing something of magic, then?"

Griffin nodded. "We've spoken to Robert Carey. His name and yours were the ones we had. He can't take on the work, and it was clear he didn't want to consider it." Then he laid out what they needed again, in a bit more detail this time. He was intrigued to realise it was Maud who was tracking all the details. Hudson had pulled the bench over, and she was on a stool, just beside him.

"Aye, we could do the work, but not for a good while. A year, at least. I'm committed elsewhere, aye? Talisman work. Someone had a big commission, I'm doing the carving. Bigger than the Courts, even, and steadier work. You all only need us every so often."

"I'm a shopkeeper's son," Griffin said, amiably. "I do understand that. Steady client base wins out over the flash. Is there anyone at all you could recommend we consider? A former apprentice, someone who's had some training? We'd pay for your consulting time, if it came to that sort of arrangement."

The couple hmmed and murmured back and forth several times, falling into a Yorkshire brogue thick enough Griffin couldn't follow it easily. After a good minute, Maud said, far more clearly. "It's a pity Jack Chapman isn't still alive. He'd have done the work, and done it well."

Hudson glanced at his wife. "There's a tradition, strong one, here, that women don't work the jet. But he's got a granddaughter, still living. Shop around the corner, up the hill just a hair. She might know someone, at the least."

Griffin was fairly sure there were several things they weren't telling him, but again, he was in no position to press. "That's a place to start. Is there a good time to catch her at home or whatever?"

"Oh, she keeps the shop open a fair bit." Maud flicked through something mentally. Griffin knew that expression very well. "Not today or tomorrow, probably, but try in two days. Or if it rains ‘nough to make the pavement shine."

That was an elliptical sort of comment, but it was at least one Griffin could follow as a guide. "I appreciate your time, then. Perhaps I might look at a few pieces while we're here?" He had relatives to buy presents for, he always did. And he knew Charlus did, though Charlus's relatives were the sort who wouldn't consider jet fashionable these days.

The half-hour that took solidified his impression of the two. Cliff Hudson had a creative spark to him that Griffin rather liked, both in his carving and how he went about deciding what he was going to make. His wife, though, seemed to be the business mind of the bunch, and she was the one who'd guided Hudson into working with ammonites and a few other local specimens as well as jet.

None of it had even begun to solve their actual need, but at the very least, they had weeded out two possibilities.