Writer's Notes: And because my week has been absolutely miserable, and I needed something light, continuing . . .
Law Firm of Eliot, Brown & Montgomery
London, England
June 18, 2017
“I do appreciate your coming in on a Sunday, Ms. Matthews,” said Alastair Wexford-Smythe, who’d introduced himself as her nearest subordinate in the branch Topanga had found herself running. “Particularly as you are, I imagine, barely moved-in, and with children, no less.”
Topanga registered the subtle dig at her gender and traditional family role and counted to five in her head—it might not have been intentional, after all. It might even have been genuinely meant . . . Or it could’ve been simply sour grapes over her being appointed over him, as opposed to actual chauvinism. It was just the first day (technically, not even that—she didn’t start until Monday), and there was no point in making a scene just yet.
. . . Besides, if she gave him enough rope, he would hang himself.
“Work never really stops, in my experience,” she answered aloud. “Besides, justice is too often slow in coming to those who need it as it is—why give it further obstacles?”
“An excellent attitude,” Wexford-Smythe said approvingly. “I can see why the senior partners appointed you.”
“That, and my record,” Topanga said, grinning—and if it deliberately called to mind her reputation as a killer shark among litigators, well . . .
“Are you all right, Wexford-Smythe?” she asked mildly (and inwardly thanking the book of British etiquette she had listened to on the flight over). “You’re sweating.”
“It’s all the sunlight,” he said diffidently. “Raises the temperature in here.”
“I’ll see about having maintenance look into the thermostat, then,” Topanga said casually.
“Ah!” Wexford-Smythe said suddenly. “There goes someone you’ll want to know—pardon me a moment!”
As he dashed out of the room, Topanga allowed herself to smile, briefly. It was nice to know even “across the pond,” as they said, she still had the magic touch . . .
Wexford-Smythe returned with an even taller man in tow, in a suit of steel-gray with understated red pinstripes which Topanga would bet cost a large chunk of her annual salary, and matched the hues of his eyes and hair, respectively. There was a distinctly Asian slant to his eyes, which made his colouration even more striking, to say nothing of his height and build—but his expression seemed friendly enough, for all that.
“Mister Shirou Einzbern, please be known to Missus Topanga Matthews, the new head of Eliot, Brown and Montgomery’s British operations,” Wexford-Smythe said formally. “Ma’am, this is Shirou Einzbern, a Crown investigator who is not averse, shall we say, to working with other agencies, in cases where the Crown either cannot or will not pursue them . . .?”
“That . . . Doesn’t sound legal,” Topanga said carefully.
“Let me see if I can set your mind at ease,” the man said—and the resonance of his voice made her think that he’d do very well as a radio personality or reading phone books to people. “In those cases where justice cannot be obtained through a criminal trial, for whatever reason, but at least some satisfaction can be gained through a civil one, I am discreetly tasked by my employers to ‘grease the wheels,’ as it were.”
He looked at her firmly. “If I bring you a case, it’s because we figure you’re the best chance we have. And if you’re not getting the level of cooperation you should be, for example—especially on a case I bring you—you call me.” He shrugged. “I won’t break the law for you, but occasionally there are things I can find, or do, that can help you. And as long as you’re trying to get justice, you’ll have my help.”
Topanga was a litigator, by training. Not every lawsuit was big, or even one she personally approved of—but she took the job to make a difference, to help people. And it sounded like whoever was in charge of the government department Mister Einzbern actually worked for wanted that, too. At the very least, she believed that he did.
“I look forward to working with you, Mister Einzbern,” she said, extending a hand. “I hope we both find it rewarding.”
He smiled, and shook it, the movement of taking it revealing the gold glint on his left hand.
“If nothing else,” Wexford-Smythe noted dryly, “you’ve already gotten a house out of this collaboration.”
Topanga blinked. “Excuse me?”
Einzbern looked mildly embarrassed. “Well, I heard they were bringing in a junior partner with a family, so I made a recommendation, and . . .”
“We did our due diligence, of course,” Wexford-Smythe assured her. “There are some minor issues with the reliability of the utilities in that area, but as far as statistics go, it’s the safest neighbourhood in all of London. Zero street crime reports, hardly so much as a noise complaint in the last twenty years. Just the thing, we thought, for a busy couple with young children. And leasing the property itself cost the firm a pittance, all things considered.”
Einzbern shrugged. “My wife and I know the property owners—and land rental isn’t their primary income source.”
“The contract was very generous,” Wexford-Smythe agreed. “Almost ridiculously so.”
“My wife can be very persuasive.”
Wexford-Smythe coughed, going red in the face. “Indeed.”
“In any case,” Shirou said, “as I understand it, you have the option to buy the house outright if you want to—not the firm, by the way, you. If not, they’ll handle maintenance issues, and that kind of thing. You just need to inform them of any problems.”
“All right,” Topanga allowed, with the confidence of someone who spent the last decade-and-a-half living in a Manhattan apartment building. “And those people are whom and where . . .?”
12 Grimmauld Place
London, England
June 18, 2017
“Oh,” came the response as she opened the door—surprised and a little off-guard, caught by the unexpected.
Takara, on the other hand, was not surprised that they were surprised—after all, they’d met Hermione, not her . . . Though admittedly, she hadn’t expected to see them visiting the very next day, either.
Still, putting on her very best hostess expression. “How can I help you, Mister—?”
“Cory Matthews,” the man, barely taller than she, said automatically. “And these are Riley and Auggie.”
“Hello!” the girl nearly barked, visibly nervous.
“Hi!” the curly-haired little boy said. “Is the doggie here?”
“I’m sorry,” Matthews half-spluttered. “We just moved in next door, you see, and there was a young woman yesterday who—”
He’d talked long enough for the owner of four suddenly-racing paws to reach the door, and Takara just snagged the wolfhound’s collar in time to prevent him from charging into their guests.
“Down, Ollie,” she said firmly. “My apologies—he’s friendly, but quite excitable.”
“I know the feeling,” Matthews said earnestly, glancing down to where he restrained his son in a nearly mirrored pose.
The similarity was enough to make her smile (they even made identical whines!), and Takara stepped back, bringing Ollie with her—and unseen by his family, the youngest Matthews’ eyes widened a bit at that.
Takara showed no outward reaction, but noted that the boy was very perceptive, regardless of his age. Most people assumed that Ollie was well-trained—which, admittedly, he was—or too docile to want to hurt her, even by accident (which he definitely was), but almost none ever noted how easily she manhandled a dog that weighed as much as she did and considered how much strength that actually implied.
“Please, come in,” she offered, before turning to Ollie. “Sit.” When he did, she followed up with “Stay,” and rubbed his ears. “Good boy.”
Ollie whined, licking her fingers even as he stared at the new people in the house, tail thumping.
Mister Matthews glanced down at his son. “I don’t suppose that’ll work on you, will it?”
“Maybe?” Auggie offered.
“Now, depending on why you’re here,” Takara said, shaking off the sense of some unseen laugh track accompanying that exchange, “I can offer to take you to the parlour for tea and discussion, direct you to Elise, or—”
“I’m here for him,” the boy said boldly, pointing to Ollie.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing Elise,” the girl said shyly. “. . . But if there’s one around, then a cat is fine, too.” She paused, tilting her head in confusion. “For some reason, I feel dirty for saying that . . .”
Takara agreed, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint why, either—a bit of thought had her suspecting it had something to do with the Matthews’ being “a bit meta,” as Galen had put it, though she was unsure as to how.
“And I’ll take the tea and discussion, if that’s all right,” Mister Matthews said.
She clapped her hands softly. “All right, then. If you’ll wait here a few moments, Messrs. Matthews, I will take Miss Matthews to see my daughter, before we have tea on the veranda, watching you”—she looked down at Auggie—“and Ollie run around the backyard.”
“Oh—you’re Elise’s mother?” Mister Matthews said. “I thought . . .”
“You don’t see the resemblance?” Takara said archly.
It did irk her, somewhat, that her daughter didn’t show much in the way of Japanese traits, taking more after her father—but the hue of her hair, and especially her eyes, was all Takara . . . As were the signs that she was growing into quite a beauty, according to Galen, with equal parts pride and chagrin.
“Well, I . . .” Mister Matthews sighed. “I’m just going to stop talking, now.”
“Well, that will put a damper on the ‘conversation’ aspect of things,” Takara said dryly. “This way, please, Miss Matthews—the rest of you, I’ll be back for.”
“I’m sorry about my dad,” the girl confessed, once they were alone. “He means well.”
“I’m sure,” Takara said gently. “I note that you weren’t surprised.”
“Elise said that Ms. Granger wasn’t her ‘Mum’ when I complimented her on how pretty she was—when I thought that Ms. Granger was her, I mean,” she added in a quick near-babble, “when I thought she was you . . .But Elise said her Mum had much prettier hair, and the most beautiful eyes in the world.”
The Japanese witch felt a spot of warmth bloom in her chest.
“She’s a good girl,” Takara said aloud. “And naturally, you’ll have to disagree with her—every mother is the most beautiful, in their daughter’s eyes.”
The girl—who was nearly as tall as she was—nodded solemnly. “But Elise isn’t wrong, either—your eyes are very beautiful, Missus . . .?”
“Salvatore, Miss Matthews,” Takara replied, belatedly realising that she actually had forgotten to introduce myself. “My name is Takara Salvatore, and you are a very good girl, too.”
The girl smiled shyly. “Thank you, Missus Salvatore.”
“Polite, as well,” Takara said approvingly, smiling back. “And for such kind words and good manners . . .Tell me—Riley, was it . . .? How do you feel about chocolate chunk cookies?”
Between Elise’s compliments and this, she decided, two such good girls deserved her breaking open her stash of Honeydukes’ really good chocolate . . .
1993 Jacobs St., “Topanga’s”
Greenwich Village, New York City
July 7, 2017
Shawn Hunter had worn many proverbial hats in his lifetime. Kid from a broken home, teen rebel, orphan, best friend, brother, boyfriend, roving travelogue writer . . . “Husband” was a new one. So was “father”—even newer, really, because he’d honestly never considered it—but having lived with a not-great example of one, and later with none at all, he was determined to do better for Maya.
And so, he made the move from travel writing to a more local publication—local, in this case, necessitating a physical move from Philadelphia to New York. He didn’t regret it, much; Katy and Maya’s lives were here, and he’d chosen and wanted to share them. And Maya needed to be here, with the rest of her friends—having to give up Riley had been more than enough already . . .
Thank God Cory and Topanga had been willing to sell them their apartment. As painful as the memories undoubtedly were for Maya now that the Matthews family wasn’t there, it was still the place she most identified with “home”; and she could keep The Bay Window (capitals intended) exactly as Riley had left it, instead of being forced to watch from the outside as strangers tore it apart. The fact that “Topanga’s” was in the same building made the commute easier on Katy, too, now that she all but owned it instead of just being employed there—but they both agreed that Maya was the priority . . .
(Shawn occasionally wondered how Cory had managed all this “father” stuff for the last 14-plus years; even with his dad as an example of the right way to do it, and Topanga’s help, it was impressive that he’d managed to cope with all these feelings and situations.)
Still, as new and often confusing as all this domesticity was to him, Shawn found some bright spots to the whole situation (aside from Katy and Maya, that was). One of them was that he could stroll down the steps to “Topanga’s” and find a quiet corner table to write and people-watch while he waited for Katy to finish her shift, having passed off the late shift to other employees—there were some perks to being the boss, after all.
And one of the perks of being the boss’s husband was that the previously mentioned corner table had a “Reserved” sign on it, and a cup of coffee with one of his favourite pastries waiting when he walked in the door, along with trading smiles with his bride as he settled in—pausing briefly as thunder unexpectedly rumbled, but not hearing any more, or seeing rain on the windows.
Shrugging, Shawn thought that if it was something newsworthy—a car crash or explosion—he’d find out later, dismissing all further thought of it.
“Topanga’s” was known as a student hangout, but at this hour, most of them were at home or headed home for dinner. A more adult crowd tended to come in, instead: regulars who either, didn’t feel like cooking or couldn’t, a few who wanted treats to go with the meals they had planned, and passers-through who needed a pick-me-up on their way to somewhere else. It was the last type that Shawn enjoyed watching most, trying to figure out their stories—and as the newest stranger walked in the door, he figured this one would be a good one.
The guy was tall, about a head or so more than Shawn, and a lot broader. Some of that might’ve been the coat, a dark-gray leather duster that looked really out of place in early July (seriously, how was the guy not sweltering in that thing?), but until or unless he took it off, there was no way to know. And it was the coat’s presence, as much as anything else, that set Shawn on edge. It was an expensive-looking piece, sure, but it was unnecessary at this time of year, unless you were looking to conceal a shotgun or something—and while nothing bad had ever happened to his friends here, this was New York . . .
So, Shawn watched the big man in the dangerous-looking leather coat carefully, noting details as he went.
He was slumping where he stood as though bone-weary, for a start. He moved like it, too: slow and almost staggering with a deliberate caution that might’ve tempted Shawn to label him as “drunk”—God knew he had enough experience with that—but he didn’t smell anything that would’ve proven it. Fair skin and dark blue eyes that swept the interior once, before settling on the cashier counter. His hair was brown, with grey highlights that couldn’t have been anything but natural; most men dyed the grey away, after all, and even those that might’ve added a touch of silver to look distinguished wouldn’t have been so uniform in how they did it, or done the neatly trimmed mustache and beard, as well. For all that, though, his face was really not lined enough to match the colouring, making Shawn circle back to “dye job,” regardless.
The stranger reached the counter, and Shawn braced himself, ready to try and tackle the guy if he did pull a gun on Katy—
“Would it be possible to get a cocoa—sorry, hot chocolate, please?” the stranger asked. “And”—a quick scan of the trays to the side followed—“Oooh, is that gingerbread I smell?”
Shawn blinked. Somebody that big should not sound like Cory did when presented with a plate of tater tots. The voice was quieter than he’d expected, too, if just as deep as he’d imagined. And there was an accent to it that caught his ear . . .
Over the years, the writer had done a lot of travelling and spent a lot of downtime watching TV in motels between destinations. The English accent was easy enough to pick out, with how often public television liked to air British programs, but it was just a sprinkling; the core accent reminded him of something else he couldn’t quite place. Shawn watched the man smile at Katy as he ordered basically all the gingerbread scones, and said “thank you,” when it clicked: people he’d met up near Niagara Falls once had talked like that, down to the polite manners . . .
While Katy went to go box up his order, the stranger laid down bills. When his wife came back, she gathered up the cash—and stopped dead when he told her to keep the change.
“I’ve had a long trip,” he said, “and I’m going to sit for a bit before moving on. Besides, if this all tastes as good as it smells, it’s well worth it.”
Canadian, that was it. The guy had to be.
He wandered over to a stool at the other end of the counter with his drink and his plate balanced atop the box of packed gingerbread scones, settling himself in. Katy busied herself with the register for a moment, before wandering over to Shawn with a carafe to refresh his coffee.
“Generous guy,” she muttered. “A twenty-five-dollar tip for thirty-five bucks’ worth of food? I wish everybody paid that well.”
Shawn smiled and remarked, “It could be that you’re just that charming, Missus Hunter.”
Her eyes twinkled impishly, even as she drawled, “It appears you’re not so bad yourself, Mister Hunter . . .”
They shared a promise for later in the form of a brief kiss, and Shawn went back to people-watching. The stranger was making quiet, appreciative sounds as he ate his order, one hand reaching into his coat to withdraw—
Shawn tensed again.
A deck of cards—which he then proceeded to shuffle, one-handed.
He was pretty good to the writer’s admittedly inexpert eye. Shawn had known a few people in high school who pulled card hustles, and had been known to dabble himself, periodically; it was an easy way to scam people for cash, sometimes. It was also an odd habit for a guy who acted so polite and was built like a linebacker . . .
Cory had described the core of Shawn, once, as “reckless spontaneity”—that was his official excuse for getting up and going to talk to the guy.
“You’re pretty good at that,” he offered as an opening remark.
“Not as good as my wife,” the bigger man replied, “but it’s helped keep me nimble enough to at least keep up with her, over the years.” He set the cards down and sipped his hot chocolate. “What can I do for you, Mister—?”
“Shawn Hunter,” he introduced himself, offering a hand. “And honestly, I’m just curious—I pride myself on being able to figure people out, but you . . . You’re a puzzler.”
“Galen Salvatore,” the big man replied back. “And how so, Mister Hunter?”
Shawn flinched involuntarily—something in the way Salvatore said that brought memories of Mister Feeny to the surface, and he wanted to instinctively look for ways to duck the oncoming detention . . .
“I don’t know,” the writer admitted. “But you’re not a regular face around here, you don’t look like the usual tourist, and a guy built like you, in that outfit, doesn’t tend to be so polite . . . Or come around here in the first place.”
“The coat adds twenty pounds,” Salvatore said dryly. “And I’m in town as a favour for a friend—since this place was frequently mentioned, I thought I’d check it out.” He shrugged. “Thus far, it lives up to its reputation—good gingerbread anything is a treat, and these are divine.”
He beamed, and Shawn smiled at the compliment to Katy’s work—before the rest of what Salvatore said settled in his head. The writer’s eyes narrowed, as he put that statement together with the accent in Salvatore’s voice and asked a question, one he thought he already knew the answer to.
“. . . Would that friend be Cory Matthews, by any chance?”
Additional Writer's Notes: Shirou's job is, of course, something of a cover to justify his actual government work (though which government, I leave to your preferences) - but I thought it appropriate for a kid who wanted to be a lawyer . . . And yes, Ilya set some of this up as a private joke, once she realised who Topanga was (to be fair, the name is memorable).
. . . Sadly, I have yet to work in the Halloween scene that keeps bothering me . . . Maybe next time?
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Originally Posted by Arbitrarity
