Grayholme.
Harte
Griff delivered a note from Sister Grace as Harte was sitting in the solar with his breakfast tray.
"Will you eat?" Harte asked.
"I cannot. I'm due at Watch House." Griff handed Harte the note. "From Sister Grace."
Dear Mr. Walford,
I am sorry to inform you that Raf joined our Lord this morning, around four bells. We must turn our efforts towards the living now.
Where is Peli?
Sister Grace
"Shit! You know about this?"
Griff nodded. Harte crumpled the note and threw it on the floor. He pushed his tray away and closed his eyes for a moment. "I suppose he'll be buried in the pauper's field."
"Likely, already has been. The sisters don't wait around when there's no family."
"Oh no, he had a family. He just wasn't telling us about them. Maybe he told Peli."
"She is unrelenting, you know," said Griff.
Harte rubbed his forehead. "I had that impression. Can you get away tonight? It seems we must deliver Peli into ... sanctuary, before we do anything else."
"I can meet you at the Ragged Crow at six bells. How are your social plans coming?"
"We will go to Greer House on Saturday. The solstice party is the following week."
Griff nodded. "Good."
After Griff left, Harte closed his eyes and remembered his grandfather's death the year before. It was like Parliament had convened in Walford's Crossing. Luminaries from the capital and every community of size had visited to pay their respects and follow the funeral train out to the cemetery on Camp Hill. Street vendors sold sausages to the crowd. Raf's burial in the pre-dawn darkness would have been very different. He saw a cloaked and hooded man leaning on a shovel and a pair of sisters pushing a dog cart.
* * *
Harte arrived at the Ragged Crow early that night. He took a place at the bar and motioned to the barkeep for an ale. The place was full with a mixed crowd: a group of woolen merchants, a table of woodworkers powdered with saw dust, a teamster in a wide-brimmed hat, the usual journeymen, some shopkeepers and clerks--many stopping by for a tipple after closing their businesses for the day. He had run into his father on the way out the door. His father had asked where Harte was going.
"The Ragged Crow. I'll be out late tonight."
"I can't see what you find appealing about that place. The people who drink there are not of your station. How can you expect to advance yourself, if you spend more time with them than with your own kind?"
"Father, what do you know about my kind ? Maybe they are my kind. I'd rather spend my time with people who work for a living than spend it scratching the backs of the wrinkled old goats in the council. Anyway, I'm meeting a friend there."
"Those old goats supply your coin--and I'm one of them. You'd do well to remember it."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."
His father had turned and walked into the house without replying. Now, Harte sat watching the men laughing, talking, playing cards, and felt himself removed from the crowd, as if he were watching them through the wrinkling air over a fire.
"Are you going to buy me one, or do I have to part with my own hard-earned coin." Griff settled onto a stool next to Harte.
Harte waived at the barkeep again. "Don't I always?"
"In truth, you do. It's one reason I bide with you."
Harte's halfhearted attempt at a rejoinder was drowned out by a burst of laughter from a card table across the room. A group of men rose and settled their cloaks around them, before heading out into the December evening. One of them was Brin Greer. His cloak did not have a striped, fir collar, but it was fur-lined and warm. Harte noted, however, that Brin was wearing hobnailed boots--as were a number of his companions. They were a popular affectation of wealthy youth that was designed primarily, Harte suspected, to irritate their elders. Harte's own boots were lightweight, pointed at the toe, and highly polished. He stared down at them, thoughtfully.
"Just how many of those have you had?" Griff
Harte
Griff delivered a note from Sister Grace as Harte was sitting in the solar with his breakfast tray.
"Will you eat?" Harte asked.
"I cannot. I'm due at Watch House." Griff handed Harte the note. "From Sister Grace."
Dear Mr. Walford,
I am sorry to inform you that Raf joined our Lord this morning, around four bells. We must turn our efforts towards the living now.
Where is Peli?
Sister Grace
"Shit! You know about this?"
Griff nodded. Harte crumpled the note and threw it on the floor. He pushed his tray away and closed his eyes for a moment. "I suppose he'll be buried in the pauper's field."
"Likely, already has been. The sisters don't wait around when there's no family."
"Oh no, he had a family. He just wasn't telling us about them. Maybe he told Peli."
"She is unrelenting, you know," said Griff.
Harte rubbed his forehead. "I had that impression. Can you get away tonight? It seems we must deliver Peli into ... sanctuary, before we do anything else."
"I can meet you at the Ragged Crow at six bells. How are your social plans coming?"
"We will go to Greer House on Saturday. The solstice party is the following week."
Griff nodded. "Good."
After Griff left, Harte closed his eyes and remembered his grandfather's death the year before. It was like Parliament had convened in Walford's Crossing. Luminaries from the capital and every community of size had visited to pay their respects and follow the funeral train out to the cemetery on Camp Hill. Street vendors sold sausages to the crowd. Raf's burial in the pre-dawn darkness would have been very different. He saw a cloaked and hooded man leaning on a shovel and a pair of sisters pushing a dog cart.
* * *
Harte arrived at the Ragged Crow early that night. He took a place at the bar and motioned to the barkeep for an ale. The place was full with a mixed crowd: a group of woolen merchants, a table of woodworkers powdered with saw dust, a teamster in a wide-brimmed hat, the usual journeymen, some shopkeepers and clerks--many stopping by for a tipple after closing their businesses for the day. He had run into his father on the way out the door. His father had asked where Harte was going.
"The Ragged Crow. I'll be out late tonight."
"I can't see what you find appealing about that place. The people who drink there are not of your station. How can you expect to advance yourself, if you spend more time with them than with your own kind?"
"Father, what do you know about my kind ? Maybe they are my kind. I'd rather spend my time with people who work for a living than spend it scratching the backs of the wrinkled old goats in the council. Anyway, I'm meeting a friend there."
"Those old goats supply your coin--and I'm one of them. You'd do well to remember it."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."
His father had turned and walked into the house without replying. Now, Harte sat watching the men laughing, talking, playing cards, and felt himself removed from the crowd, as if he were watching them through the wrinkling air over a fire.
"Are you going to buy me one, or do I have to part with my own hard-earned coin." Griff settled onto a stool next to Harte.
Harte waived at the barkeep again. "Don't I always?"
"In truth, you do. It's one reason I bide with you."
Harte's halfhearted attempt at a rejoinder was drowned out by a burst of laughter from a card table across the room. A group of men rose and settled their cloaks around them, before heading out into the December evening. One of them was Brin Greer. His cloak did not have a striped, fir collar, but it was fur-lined and warm. Harte noted, however, that Brin was wearing hobnailed boots--as were a number of his companions. They were a popular affectation of wealthy youth that was designed primarily, Harte suspected, to irritate their elders. Harte's own boots were lightweight, pointed at the toe, and highly polished. He stared down at them, thoughtfully.
"Just how many of those have you had?" Griff
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