Matt, half-dead on his feet by noon, back sore from long hours standing and selling, almost missed the Craftswoman when she passed his stand. Generally the sixth hour after opening was when his shoulders sagged and thoughts of cold beer filled his mind with the self-sustaining fixedness of a fetish. Claire was likewise drained, and Hannah. Even Ellen had come to the Rafferty booth today, cheerful if quiet as she tended the shrine.
So he almost missed the Craftswoman. When he said, “Ms. Abernathy,” though, she stopped and turned.
“Mr. Adorne.” She shook her head as if to clear cobwebs from it. “No eggs today. I have to pack for a trip.”
“I have a business question I hope you can answer.”
“I need to go. I’m so sorry.” But she did not. “What’s your question?”
“It’s not for me,” he said. “Could you meet us on Cadfael’s rooftop in half an hour? Just a small issue. Won’t take a few minutes of your time. I can pay.”
“Are you in trouble, Matt?”
“I’m not,” he said. “They might be.” He nodded to the girls—to Hannah taking inventory, to Claire frowning at the ledger, to Ellen.
“I have to leave at one,” the Craftswoman said.
“Plenty of time.”
* * *
Matt did not remember the last time he closed his stall early. Claire had left the Rafferty booth in Hannah’s and Ellen’s care—Rafferty and Adorne both closing early might have caused the sky to fall, the seas run red with blood, or locusts boil from the earth. Far as he could tell from his corner seat on the empty roof of Cadfael’s, the sky hadn’t cracked yet. Shame: a crack might have let the heat escape. Condensation collected on his glass. He hadn’t yet drunk.
“She won’t come,” Claire said.
“She will.”
“Even if she does, what can she do?”
“Give answers,” he said.
Tara arrived on the thirtieth minute by his watch. She stepped blinking into sunlight, escorted by a waiter who indicated with outstretched hand a path through empty tables to Matt and Claire. Tara limped. As she lowered herself to her seat, she kept one hand pressed against her side.
“You’re hurt.”
“Rough night.”
“I know the feeling,” Matt said.
“I doubt it.” But she looked more amused than offended, and ordered a beer. “Busy day, too,” she said by way of justification, though he’d asked for none. When the waiter disappeared: “What do you want?”
“You know Claire Rafferty.”
“Not by name.” She held out her hand. Claire hesitated, then clasped it.
The waiter brought beer. Matt ordered a sandwich, Claire a sandwich, and Tara nothing. “I’m just passing through.” When the waiter left: “What’s the problem, Matt?”
When Matt tried to speak, he found his throat dry and his words all twisted. Tara’s expression wasn’t fearsome, exactly, but behind it ground the gears of a great machine.
“Matt wants you to help me take the business from my father,” Claire said.
“Tell me more,” Tara said.
“You know about the argument in the market a few days back. The gargoyles. That was us. My sister dealt with them before, and my father wanted her to show people for—some reason. He got violent.” She held her water glass in both hands. “I do most of the work in the stand already. And he needs help, which he won’t get on his own so long as he works.”
Tara drew a dry circle on the tabletop with her middle finger. “And he leads the family Concern.”
“Yes.”
“If he really has been negligent, you can press him out.” Tara set her beer down on top of the circle she’d been drawing. “One afternoon at the Court of Craft and you’d be done. But the Craft is serious.” She laid her hand on the table, fingers softly curled. The sun dimmed and knelt. A chill wind blew from nowhere. A flame leapt from Tara’s palm to her fingers and danced from tip to tip—but flame was not the right word. Matt didn’t know a word for it, or the not quite glow it cast. “A bond through the Craft is as like, and unlike, a real relationship as this light is like a fire. This burns, but there’s no heat, and it has edges that cut, which a real fire does not. If I do what you ask, it will burn your relationship with your father and replace it with a Craftwork bond. It’s an option.” She closed her fist around the flame. Almost-light ran in rivulets up her arm along tracks like tattoos Matt hadn’t seen before. “But there are others.”
“Like what?”
“Mediation,” she said. “Which requires talking to him—with a Craftswoman present, to ensure your bargains take. It’s hard, but offers more chance of healing. If you care. Either way, the choice is yours.”
Neither Claire nor Tara had looked at Matt. He folded his hands. Sunlight kneaded warmth into his skin.
“I’ll be out of town for a few days. When I’m back, if you still want to go to court, I’ll help.” She looked as if she wanted to say something other than what she said next: “Think it over. Either way, I won’t charge.”
“Thank you,” Claire said.
“For what? I only offered you a hard choice.”
“At least I have one.”
Tara pondered her remaining beer. “I have to go. Flying out of Alt Coulumb this evening. Lots to do before then.”
“You seem worried,” Matt said.
“I am.” She stood. “But I can’t talk about it now. Take care of yourselves in the next few days, okay?”
“We will.”
“Good luck.”
After she left, the waiter brought the sandwiches.