Chapter 9

MARCH 15TH

I t had taken several days to find Mistress Matthewman in, and the shop open. That had given Griffin and Charlus plenty of time to ask around at every other jet worker they could find, but they'd got the same answer everywhere. Or rather, it had been two variations.

Either the shops weren't magical, or if they were, they wouldn't do that sort of work. Half the magical folk had the sort of reaction that made Griffin suspect they were neck deep in smuggling. It was no use trying to explain he didn't care about that if the crafter could do the work, the two were distinct. But he also didn't blame someone in the midst of smuggling from wanting to avoid anything to do with the Halls of Justice. Or especially anyone familiar with the truth magics. That was neither fair nor sensible.

Fortunately, one part of it had gone smoothly enough. It had been a long time since Griffin had shared living space with anyone - not since he'd been at the Gospatrick Home in the last stages of his rehabilitation healing. He'd hoped it would be all right, from how Charlus was in the office, and he'd been correct.

His apprentice had been agreeable. He didn't talk too much in the morning before either of them had properly woken up. And most importantly, he was careful about whether he moved furniture. The cottage they were renting had some narrow pathways to navigate with a chair, but as long as the sitting room chairs were in their particular best places, it was manageable.

And Charlus had been quite willing to go pick up takeaway, or scout ahead for which of their options for an evening meal would be the easiest to manage. And which would work even if Griffin used his crutches instead of the chair because of a handful of stairs up or down. It meant this trip was exhausting - Griffin was sleeping fairly well every night, even though he also had some aches from an unfamiliar bed and a decided lack of pillows. But it was not overwhelmingly so.

Finally, though, the shop had been open. And there were no stairs to get inside, or so Griffin had thought. Instead, when Charlus opened the door, he stopped. "There's a ledge, sir, and two steps up." Some oddity of the buildings, then, or how to get a flat floor at that level, built into a hill.

"Beg pardon?" The voice inside was a pleasant soprano, a mezzo, but with that trill of pitch that Griffin had come to enjoy. His apprentice mistress, whose voice he'd heard often in all its many forms, had been a mezzo.

"Good afternoon, ma'am." Charlus flung himself into full polite mode. "I'm assisting Mister Pelson, here, but he's in a wheeled chair. We could come back..."

"Oh." There was a silence through the open door. "Come round the back, the path at the right. There's a ramp." Not something Griffin had expected, but not something he was going to turn down. The tiny path through a creaky door in a wood fence turned out into a non-existent lot. But there was a small ramp, as if someone had intended to wheel heavy loads up to the house. The voice - or rather the person attached to the voice - was opening the door, peering at both of them out of the shadow of the interior.

Griffin touched the brim of his hat. "Ma'am. More than one person suggested we speak to you. We're looking for someone capable of a particular commission. I'm Griffin Pelson, based in Trellech." That would give him away as magical, absolutely.

The woman stepped forward, a bit more into the light. She was near enough Griffin's age, perhaps a little younger, with dark hair pulled back from her face. A bit of a wave and whatever one called the poufiness, so it wasn't a severe effect. And she wore a grey frock with an apron around her waist. "I'm not sure what I can do for you, but come in." She stepped back to hold the door, and Charlus went ahead. Griffin backed up a hair to give himself a little more movement to work with to get up the incline, but the charms on the chair made that much easier.

They made a little procession in through a hallway just wide enough that Griffin wasn't in fear of bruising his knuckles. A small storage room stood at the right with back stairs going up beyond that. Griffin's attention was immediately taken by the shop. There was a feeling of magic here, but not the wards and protections of the other magical shops they'd been in. Or rather, not just those. Once fully into the shop, Griffin slowed himself to a stop and nodded. "We appreciate your time, Mistress."

"You're awfully forward, sir." She turned around to face him, then considered and pulled up a chair for Charlus, then one for herself, perching on it, rather than ask Griffin to move. "Who recommended me, please?" Then she seemed to remember that she hadn't actually confirmed her name directly. "I am Annice Matthewman. But I suspect you wanted my grandad, and he's - he died several months ago."

"My condolences, Mistress." Griffin kept his voice gentle. "It was Master Cliff Hudson and his wife who mentioned your name - and your recent loss." Something in what he said - or perhaps how he said it - made her stiffen up, and Griffin wasn't sure where he'd gone wrong. "I gather this isn't your usual sort of inquiry. The pieces here are lovely, though. I'd like to look for something for my mother, whatever other business we may or may not manage."

The second half of that got her breathing again, at least, something more normal. She looked up, meeting Griffin's gaze frankly, and that wasn't something Griffin was terribly used to. For one thing, most of the time, people were at the wrong height to make it simple, relative to him. And the rest of the time, they were nervous about what he might see. She didn't have that reason, at least not that he knew about.

"Surely they told you, someone has by now, it's bad luck for a woman to be carving jet." Now there was a different tightness. Three kinds, in as many sentences, and Griffin wasn't entirely sure how to interpret any of them.

Griffin nodded. "And if that's a custom you keep to, I won't argue with you about it. May I lay out what we're looking for, and see if you can offer any suggestions? We're glad to pay for your time, by way of consulting, too."

"Ah, well." Mistress Matthewman leaned back a little. "I wouldn't turn that down. All right. Go ahead." The way she was responding continued to fascinate Griffin, half like a barrister in court, half something else, a mix of insistent defensiveness and refusal to engage, all at once.

"To begin, I and my apprentice - this is Charlus Edwards - work for the Halls of Justice in Trellech. Formally speaking, Magister Griffin Pelson, Esquire, Senior Solicitor and Keeper of the Courts, Yew Chair Primus. Which is all mostly a lot of nonsense outside our usual environs where everyone already knows it. Please do call me Griffin, or Master Pelson, if you'd rather be more formal."

Mistress Matthewman considered. "Annice. I suppose. Can't be bothered with all those words. We'll be forever. What do I call you, sir?"

That was to Charlus, who promptly replied. "Charlus. Or Master Edwards. I'm still earning my eventual title."

Annice - interesting name, that, and not one Griffin had heard much in his usual work - nodded. "You work for the Courts. Are you here investigating something? You said solicitor in there."

"I am a fully chartered solicitor - so is Charlus - but my key role is helping to maintain the judicial magics of the courts. The part of my title that talks about Yew Chair Primus means I'm the senior member of the staff responsible for cases involving inheritance, though not the only one focused on them."

"Senior? You're my age. That's not senior at anything." It was the first personal comment he'd heard out of her, and it made him snort.

"I'm very good at what I do." He shrugged, palms up, leaving his wrists resting on the arms of the chair. "We are here because I believe the jet in the courtroom dedicated to inheritance cases is wearing out. Our working theory is tricky to test, we don't have a proper control. But we believe that the difficulty of a number of the cases since the War has weakened the magical resonances significantly faster than expected."

"And you're here why?" Annice frowned then looked around the shop. "The jet? I don't do that kind of work. You want Cliff Hudson or maybe Rob Carey."

"Both of them are booked up for years, they say. So are the other people we've asked, while we were finding a time your shop was open." Griffin said it as neutrally as he could, and it wasn't enough. She stiffened up again. "And I admit, while I've studied the records of the previous stonework, I do not fully understand the process."

"Well, no." Annice frowned. "Do you do anything with your hands? Make anything?" She gestured, vaguely.

"Someone taught me knitting, but I'm not very good at it," Griffin said amiably. "I was in hospital for rather a long time, the end of the War. Mostly, I enjoy reading and organising things, but I've done a bit of miniature making. I've nieces with an extravagant sort of dollhouse, my sister's children." And he'd watched Seth work on his chair for probably days worth of time. Griffin would hand over tools on request, but that wasn't something he was prepared to discuss at the moment.

It visibly wasn't what she'd expected, but she gathered herself up. "The process, from what Grandad told me, is much the same. You need to carve the jet to fit the spaces in the stonework, for a permanent installation for that. It's delicate work, and jet can go brittle." She obviously thought of something, then some other thought caught her eye. "The courts."

"Yes?" Griffin wasn't sure what she'd thought, but it made her visibly skittish.

"That means the truth magics. How do I know you're not, I mean? Right now."

It was an entirely common sort of fear, and no matter how ridiculous Griffin found it, people would have it. Of course, he knew what the truth was, and they didn't, and that was part of the point of the problem. "I can call the truth magics, but only when I'm in Trellech or a properly prepared courtroom - which would also be in Trellech. Or potentially, I haven't actually tried this one for years - in a soc-and-sac court established by the local Lord or Lady of the land. I'm not actually on best speaking terms with Lord and Lady Hutton, so not likely I'd be doing it in this part of Yorkshire."

Several things in that apparently seemed implausible to her. Her eyebrows went up and kept going. Griffin was increasingly fascinated by her expressiveness, far beyond what he was used to in Trellech where everyone - him included - guarded that sort of thing. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?"

"Q.E.D., I can't call the truth magics on myself. Not here. I'll make oath on my magic, if it pleases you. I'm quite competent for that, as well. It's a regular part of our work."

She stood, suddenly, the sort of abrupt movement that Griffin appreciated all the more now that it was largely beyond him. She turned away, looking out the window to the street beyond. "I don't know what to think about your asking. Would you like to look at something for your mother now and come back in a few days?"

"I can do that." Griffin would like to have a nice tidy solution for his problem, but it had already become clear that wasn't on offer. There were no cases in the Courts right now, since they were on the Equinox break. Then it'd be another two weeks before anything actually came to trial or needed the courtroom magics. And he'd been told in the strongest possible terms that finding some solution was his focus for the time being. "Should I call again in a few days, or would you prefer to send a message round?"

"I can send a message." Annice crossed her arms, turning back. Griffin nodded at Charlus, who produced a notecard from his pocket and a pen, writing out their current address. Griffin didn't offer the journals by way of contact. He was fairly sure this woman wouldn't have one, given what he'd seen of the building. Nothing was in horrible repair, but nothing was new, either, and that meant the cost of a journal was likely beyond her.

"Excellent. We'll find something to amuse ourselves, I'm sure. I brought books. Now, my mother's got an eye for the unusual, not the staid Victorian drops. Something with a natural feel to it, that might do nicely. She has a sometimes excessive fondness for the Arts and Crafts style."

As he hoped, it startled Annice out of her protective stance. "Excessive, sir?"

"I don't know about you, but I find a bath tiled in beautiful ceramics of disapproving maidens processing along the opposite wall to be a little disarming. Beautiful, the colours are very striking, but they seem to see right through one."

She made a noise that Griffin couldn't begin to interpret at all. It might have been anything from amusement to annoyance. Then she brought out several pieces. After a brief consideration, he picked up one of an unfurling rose, which had a delicacy to the petals Griffin found quite charming. He suspected there were at least three different makers of the pieces, but he wasn't enough of a craftsman to know for sure. That settled, he paid up for both the piece and her time, using the higher end of the acceptable scale as the Courts' accountants had it.

Then they were led back out through the faded hallway, to the outside, and left to their own devices again.