“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.”