Accustomed as I was to swords, they weren’t my favorite weapon. In a battle, I preferred to use a gun, but these streets held a different sort of danger, and I swiftly thought of how I could best arm myself against it, and of what I could afford. “I am in need,” I told him, “of a whinger.”

I remembered once attempting to describe a whinger to our blacksmith in New York, who’d never seen one, but had only seen the name writ down on paper. “No,” I had corrected his attempt to say the word, “it’s not like ‘ginger’ but like ‘finger.’ WHIN-ger. And it’s like a Highland dirk, except it’s also like a sword. About this long.” I’d held my hands a foot apart. The blacksmith had suggested I should draw it for him, and when I had done that, he’d said, “So, it is a hunting sword. A hanger.”

I had shrugged. “It is a whinger. Where I’m from, it’s not used much for hunting that I know of. You can use it at the table, though,” I’d told him, “or for fighting.”

Mr. Bell, being a Scotsman and a swordslipper, not only knew exactly what a whinger was, he had a few examples in his shop.

His apprentice, returned now from his errand, fetched three for me to look at. They were all well made and handsome, but one caught my eye immediately. The hilt was of the simple form that suited me, the woven design of the carved wooden grip repeated on the handles of the smaller matching knife and fork made to slip perfectly into their slots on the smooth leather scabbard, and at the scabbard’s back a sturdy mounting that allowed it to be hung from any belt to keep it always at the ready.

Mr. Bell approved my taste. “That is a German blade. You will not find one better.” He drew it from its sheath to show the maker’s mark and workmanship, and turned the blade to show me the inscriptions on each side that, although short and clearly marked, were in what I took to be Latin, which I could not read.

“It’s perfect,” I said with a nod, as though I’d understood the meaning of those inscribed words. “I’ll have it.”

Thus we struck our bargain and were shaking hands when from the room behind, a woman stepped out bearing on a tray the cups of ale the swordslipper had ordered.

She was near my own age, though her black hair betrayed some early strands of white. Around her eyes and cheekbones she was like enough the swordslipper to make me think she was perhaps his kin, which he confirmed by introducing her as, “Marion, my daughter.”

When she’d handed round the ale, he turned and offered her a smile. “You make a very pretty job of wrapping things, my dear. Could you please finish off this purchase for the gentleman?”

Obliging him, she set the tray down, chose a square of soft buff leather from a nearby workbench and began to wrap the whinger, neatly and with care.