A Debt Returned in Crystal

Brenda set a canvas bag on Sable’s desk. Coins struck wood through the cloth. She kept one hand on it while she reached into her coat for a flat tin, then laid that beside the bag.

“Proceeds,” she said. “Less the ferry fare to fetch back what I’d already sold. You can put that fare on my account if the figures offend you.”

Celia stood by the clinic window with her dry impression of the forty-fifth page tucked under her arm. Rain had marked the glass in crooked tracks. On the desk, Brenda’s bag sat where Sable usually laid out clean dressings. It was a poor exchange of uses, though perhaps the right one for today.

Sable opened the tin without touching its contents. A duplicate salt page rested between two panes of glass. The crystal was dry. Its fine marks matched the corner of the page Brenda had sold, down to a short break in one edge. Celia leaned close enough to check the break, then stepped away.

“You recovered it from Pell?” she asked.

“He let me have it.” Brenda rubbed a spot of rust from the tin’s latch. “After I returned his money and told him what his first reading had cost him. He wanted a price for keeping his mouth shut. I told him he was welcome to complain to Ash about the stolen thing he’d bought.”

“That sounds almost like a threat,” Sable said.

“It improved our talk.”

Celia checked the glass seal. No salt showed along its rim. It could remain closed. The dry impression in her arms gave her the route marks she needed; she had no reason to risk another person’s recollection to confirm them.

Sable counted the coins onto a sheet of clinic paper. Brenda watched his hands. She had been quick to name a fare, but she did not reach for any of the money.

“This covers what you received for the page,” he said.

“Yes.”

“It does not cover his care.”

“No.” Brenda pushed a small leather book across the desk. “That’s the other account.”

Its cover had swollen from damp and dried stiff again. Sable did not open it at once.

Celia had asked for buyer records six nights ago. Brenda had argued that Celia could bar her from the loft but could not claim her boat, her debts, or every bargain she had ever made. The argument had ended with Brenda leaving before supper. Now Celia pulled out a chair and sat beside the desk, where she could read the book with Sable.

Inside were dates, amounts, and names written in Brenda’s tight hand. Some sales had an address. Others had a boat berth or the name of a shop where a message could be left. A few buyers had bought dry bits for their shape, but several entries described crystals meant to be read. Celia ran her finger down the margin without touching the ink. More than one reader could be at risk, and a warning sent to an address might reach a family member first.

“Have you contacted any of them?” Sable asked.

“Two. One swore he never opened his tin. The other called me a liar and shut his door.” Brenda glanced at Celia. “You can check the amounts against the cash I’ve brought. I didn’t keep a second set of books.”

Celia turned a page. A name had been crossed out, though the address remained legible beneath it.

“Who is this?”

“Returned the piece before it was wet. I crossed him off the buyers. Shouldn’t have crossed off the address.” Brenda held out her hand. “There’s a blank page at the back. I’ll copy it.”

Sable kept the book in front of him. “Tell me the name. I’ll add it.”

Brenda gave it. He wrote slowly, then read it back to her. Celia checked the letters against the marks left under the crossing-out. They agreed.

“We can warn people what direct contact may do,” Sable said, “and ask whether anyone has had trouble with memory or speech. We cannot assume a purchase means they read it.”

“Or that they’ll tell you if they did,” Brenda said.

“Correct.”

Celia looked at the line of addresses again. She could measure the distance to each door. That would not tell her who ought to knock. “Some may know the name of the person whose memory they bought. Don’t put that in a letter.”

Sable drew a clean sheet toward him. “I intend to request private visits.”

“They may take a visit from you for an arrest,” Brenda said. “Especially with Ash about.”

“Then I’ll say what it is before I ask to come in.”

“And if they refuse?” Celia asked.

“I leave instructions on what to do if a reader becomes confused. I cannot treat someone by forcing my way into a house.”

Brenda’s thumb stopped working at the rust on the latch. “That collector. Pell. Is he still using the other man’s words?”

“He remains on the ward,” Sable said. “Yesterday he held a conversation from start to finish without borrowed speech. This morning he asked for his own coat. He still could not tell me where he had put it.”

“It’s on a hook by his bed,” Brenda said.

“Yes. We’ll tell him again if he asks.”

She shut the tin latch with more force than it needed. “Can he have visitors?”

“He has asked for a day without them.”

Brenda nodded and took her hand away from the tin.

Celia closed the buyer book at the place Sable had marked. The collector could converse; he still needed care. On the clinic paper, the sale price lay in neat rows of coins, too little to pay for the hours that would be spent repeating the location of a coat.

Sable put the money back in the bag. “I’ll keep this for his care and record what it pays for. If he wishes to return any part of it, that will be his decision.”

“Fair,” Brenda said.

Celia picked up the sealed tin. “I’ll take this to the loft with the other pages. I can make an impression without opening it.”

Brenda looked up quickly. “You want me to carry it?”

“No. I want you to help check the list. Some of these berth numbers are out of date.”

For a moment Brenda seemed ready with a joke. None came. “I know which boats moved.”

“Then come by after Sable has copied the names. We’ll check them together.” Celia set the tin down again, out of Brenda’s reach and her own. “The pages at the loft stay there. No private sales, no loans, no one reading them to settle a bet.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“I believe you did.” Celia tucked her dry impression more firmly under her arm. “This is a different time.”

Sable opened the buyer book to its first page. Brenda drew up the other chair, its legs scraping against the clinic floor, and gave him a corrected berth before he had finished reading the first line. Celia took a pencil from the desk. There were addresses to check, warnings to prepare, and a remaining debt no column of returned coins could close.