Brenda's Price for a Stair

Brenda Hale set a wet boot on the edge of Celia’s survey case.

“You’ve been looking at that stair for twenty minutes,” she said. “It hasn’t moved.”

“It changed by four inches between tides.” Celia closed her notebook before the spray could reach it. “That is why I’m looking.”

Beyond the rail, Warden Ash’s barricade cut across the exposed steps. His notice faced the quay, where anyone might read it without going near the water. Below the notice, the sixth salt page rested on a shelf of stone. Each wash of the tide lifted one corner and put it down again.

Brenda followed Celia’s gaze. “Want it?”

“Yes.”

“And your chain?”

Celia kept one hand on the latch of her case. Ash had taken the brass measuring chain the evening before and carried it into the warden’s shed. Its sixty-six feet of links, stamped with mainland guild marks, would be hard to replace here. She would not have expected Brenda to know it was there.

“What are you offering?” Celia asked.

“Salvage. Page, chain, and a way down that doesn’t require asking the warden’s leave.”

“The page is inside his barrier.”

“That’s where I’d expect to find a thing he’s guarding.”

A gull landed on the rail behind Brenda. She waved it off without turning. Her coat cuffs were stiff with dried salt, and a length of narrow rope showed beneath one sleeve.

“What is your price?”

Brenda tipped her head toward the lighthouse. Its lamp was pale in the daylight, but it still turned. “You’ve got a commission. People with commissions sometimes have a memory to spare.”

“No.”

“A small one. An afternoon you don’t need.”

“No memory.” Celia opened her case and took out her coin purse. “State a price in money.”

Brenda looked at the purse, then at Celia. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“You can save time by not finishing.”

For an instant Brenda’s mouth tightened. “Six shillings for the page. Four for the chain. Two for the route.”

“That is twelve shillings for property you do not own.”

“Ten of it is for getting caught with property I don’t own.”

Celia counted the coins inside the purse with her thumb. She had money for lodging and meals, provided neither grew more expensive. The chain was worth far more than ten shillings, but Ash had given her a receipt for its seizure, not a date for its return.

“I won’t pay for a route I haven’t seen,” she said. “Four shillings when you bring the chain and page here. Four more when you show me an entrance below the quay. Nothing for memories, mine or anyone else’s.”

“Eight?”

“And you leave the page dry enough to handle safely.”

“It’s coming out of the sea.”

“Then give it something dry to lie on. Don’t wrap it against your skin.”

Brenda glanced toward the barricade. Ash was at the far end, speaking to two harbor men. “You’re making the job slower.”

“Yes.”

“Eight shillings,” Brenda said. “Half on delivery, half when you can put a foot on my stair. Wait here.”

She lifted her boot from the case and went down the quay, away from the guarded steps. Celia watched until Brenda disappeared behind a stack of empty fish crates. Then there was nothing to do but wait, and the tide was not waiting with her.

Celia took bearings from the rail while she could. She wrote the position of the exposed shelf and checked the tide against yesterday’s marks. The figures agreed. None of them would let her reach the page.

Ash crossed to his shed and remained inside. Celia kept her eyes on the stair. A wash of water slid over the salt sheet. It held to the stone by one narrow edge. The next wave might pull it free.

Something knocked twice beneath the planks at her feet.

Celia stepped back. Between two warped boards, the head of a rope hook appeared and vanished. A few seconds later, the page lifted from the shelf. It moved low over the water, caught against a post, and stopped. Celia set her pencil between her teeth. The hook rose again, pushed from below. This time the page passed behind the post and out of sight.

She took the pencil from her mouth. Ash came out of the shed carrying a cup and looked toward the shelf.

Celia bent over her notebook. Her pencil made a meaningless mark across the margin. By the time Ash turned away, the page was gone.

Brenda returned along the quay with a canvas sack on her shoulder. She set it down beside the survey case.

“Four shillings first,” she said.

“Contents first.”

Brenda opened the sack. Inside lay Celia’s brass chain, coiled around a flat parcel between two thin boards. She lifted the chain out by its cloth strap. One link near the end still bore the nick Celia used when checking the full length.

Celia took it and ran the first few feet through her fingers. Cold brass pressed into the old groove across her palm. She counted the end links, found both terminals, then checked the guild stamps. No cuts. No new joins.

“How did you get it from the shed?”

“Carefully.”

“That is not an account of your method.”

“It’s the one included in the price.”

Celia let the chain settle in its coil. “The page.”

Brenda placed the parcel on top of the closed survey case and pulled the upper board free. A strip of dry sailcloth lay beneath it. On the cloth rested a translucent sheet, its edges crusted white, with lines visible inside the salt. Water darkened one corner of the cloth but had not reached Celia’s hands.

She kept them clear. The page held a run of script along one side and a narrow set of marks that might be steps. It would have to dry before she made anything of it.

“Four shillings,” Celia said.

Brenda held out her palm. Celia counted the coins into it. Brenda closed her fingers, then looked toward the warehouses.

“The entrance is this way.”

They went past the fish crates to a stretch of quay where a shuttered store stood over the water. Brenda crouched beside a pile of broken slats and pulled two aside. Under them was a gap between the stone quay and a timber support. At first Celia could see only dark water. Then Brenda reached in, drew out a loose board, and showed her an iron rung set into the inner wall.

“Not dry at high tide,” Brenda said. “Nor safe when the current turns. You go down with a rope, keep your weight against the wall, and take the lower landing to the right. It comes up behind the warden’s rail.”

Celia crouched and tested the rung with one hand. It held. The stone beside it was worn smooth where a rope had passed many times. Farther down, another rung caught a little light.

“Does Ash know?”

“He knows boats go missing from his sight. You can ask him what he thinks happens to them.”

Celia replaced the loose board. The opening vanished beneath the slats once Brenda shoved them back into place. From the quay, it looked like a poor corner for storing wood. Celia made a small mark in her notebook, fixing the gap to the warehouse wall and the nearest mooring ring.

Brenda watched the pencil. “You putting me on an official chart?”

“No.”

“Good. That costs extra.”

Celia paid the remaining four shillings. Brenda counted them once, dropped them into her pocket, and picked a splinter from her thumb.

“If you want the lower landing again, ask for me at the boats,” she said. “Bring coin. Leave your head clear.”

Celia lifted the chain into her case, then slid the page between its boards where it could dry without touching the brass. The case was heavier when she closed it. Brenda had already turned toward the water, and Celia let her go. She took one more bearing from the mooring ring and wrote it down before the tide covered the steps.