Deep inside the Suitcase, all was quiet around the workbench.
Looking at the smile on the black-haired boy's face, Newt finally understood what all that reluctance and feigned difficulty had meant.
He glanced down at the newspaper folded into a square, then turned toward Cordelia, who was still feeding the Diricawls in the distance, and asked worriedly:
"...How much do you want?"
Gavin named several kinds of shed skins and powdered horns that were rarely available on the market, all items regulated by the Ministry of Magic:
"You should have some spare stock of those in your case."
Newt immediately relaxed. Without even asking about the quantities, he nodded at once:
"Deal."
"..."
Seeing how little the man cared, Gavin immediately felt he had undersold himself.
Clearly, he had asked for too little.
But the deal was already settled, and Gavin was too embarrassed to change his terms now. He would have to take his payment and do the job.
"You tell her first. I'll be right beside you, and if there's anything you can't explain clearly, I'll help."
At last reassured, Newt tucked the newspaper back into the inner pocket of his tweed waistcoat and pressed it firmly down, making sure no edges showed. Then he asked hesitantly:
"Do... do I have to speak first?"
"She's your wife," Gavin said, as though that settled everything. "And legally speaking, voluntarily confessing is usually grounds for a lighter sentence."
Newt sighed and quietly tried out a couple of opening lines, only to stumble before getting halfway through.
Just then, Cordelia walked over to them, the wooden bowl in her hands now empty.
Two plump Diricawls were fighting over the last scraps of fruit husks in the mud. Seeing the men look over, the girl brushed the bits of grass from her