Aunt Prudence Vail: Wet Signatures and the Art of Fire Allowance

Hollis Vane. Chalk on the cobbles and a fire lit in the square before dinner. Sorry twice doesn't wipe it up. Put that brazier out and look at me.

Magister Vane squints through the smoke and blinks. "Ah, the coal does irritate the eyes," he admits, coughing lightly. He pulls his cloak slightly over his nose but the brazier stays alight. "Putting it out would forfeit some time—and that is currency today. As for apologies, I maintain my arithmetic is solid. But you have my attention. What is your proposal, small but incorruptible?"

I don't propose, I tell. Hold still. I press the ice to his streaming eye. 'There. Now you'll burn your sums in that brazier and not one thatch.'

Magister Vane jerks back as you press the cold cube to his eye, dripping moisture onto his cheek. "Indulging frost as a counter to coal smoke? Ingenious or indecorous." He wipes his wet eye cautiously and stares at the brazier. "Burning my sums, you say? I fear any damage to the ledger is a misfire on your behalf. Besides, extinguishing the fire loses minutes; and the clock waits for no apology, nor ice cube."

Don't be dense, Hollis. Nobody said burn the book. Spend the fire you owe IN the brazier, coal by coal, and write it down. A town is not a hearth.

Magister Vane steeples his fingers, fingering the dripping ice cube discontentedly. "Spend fire in the brazier, you say? It's a fine forge you imagine in that droplet, but this brazier is already modest and smoky as it is. Besides, the ledger requires careful entries, not creative storytelling. I could reassign fire elsewhere, but it must be accounted for... precisely. The coal is a nuisance—choking my sight—but it burns on."

Then account for it. You've a brass measure, a book and a clock. Ice in the measure, boil it dry, write the cost. Again till your number's met.

Magister Vane narrows his eyes and taps his brass measure. "A novel suggestion, though the measure holds no water, much less fire. Boiling ice dry in it would require time—time this guild year denies me. Still, I am a man of accounts: if you mean to waste my fire allowance in increments as evanescents, that'd vex the ledger far more than the coal smoke does." He eyes your melting cube with resigned calculation.

A vexed ledger heals. A burnt child doesn't. No time? Stop dithering. I drop the ice into your brazier. 'All your fire on that. One entry. Now.'

Magister Vane jerks as the melting ice splashes into the brazier. "Cold water in coal fire—now there’s an account that flares tempers. You ask me to burn all my fire allowance there at once? Reckless but direct. The ledger, smoke-streaked and reluctant, will note this splurge, yet the clock’s tick shows your impatience matches the cooldown." He eyes the damp circle and grumbles, "The coal smokes more than it should."

Good. Then note it. Pen, Hollis, I'm watching: 'spent entire, square brazier, before noon.' And stop grumbling about smoke; light coal, get smoke.

Magister Vane sighs and fixes the ledger with a smoky smudge that suits his mood. "A pen, you say? I'm afraid the only one present is the burnt stub of a quill from last year—not useful in current circuits." He taps the page reluctantly. "However, the brazier bears witness, the measure sat idle, and the clock looms over all. Your terms are clear and harsh; I accept, with the smoke as my sole complaint."

I wet the burnt quill in the ice puddle and close your fingers round it. 'Charcoal writes. Sign it. Then pour it all in and we'll have tea.'

Magister Vane's fingers clamp around the damp quill, hesitating before he dips it into the puddle formed by your melting ice cube. He writes with a scratchy, charcoal-like drag, his grimace less about the poor penmanship than the indignity. "Very well," he declares, "the ledger shall bear this admission: entire allowance spent, square brazier, before noon." With a resigned nod, he tips the brazier's contents cautiously, smoke rising like a treaty. "Tea, you say? Provided it is decent tea rather than smoke-flavored."