Clementine was walking on very thin ice, but of course she had no reason to suspect so. Ford wished they'd been well-situated financially and he could afford to just send off for whatever book she'd decided she wanted on a whim, but they just couldn't manage it — so he was taking steps to ensure it didn't happen again. His mother was hopelessly untrustworthy, and no amount of talking to her, he had realized, would make her understand the severity of the situation, so he was taking drastic measures, sending owls to all her typical retailers and asking them, very politely, to limit her credit. He didn't know if this was a thing people did, but if he forewarned them that Mrs. Greengrass was only allowed a galleon a month, for instance, and then they let her walk out with three galleons' worth of product all the same, he could refuse to pay the difference, couldn't he? He felt within his rights to do so — but would probably need to run this by Noble at least half a dozen times before he actually went through with it. Hopefully it didn't come to that point.

He had half a dozen letters in his hand, but only one owl at home, so he'd walked down to the post office after work to dispatch them all more quickly. Once he saw who was inside, though, he nearly turned around and went straight back home. He still didn't know what to think of the conversation he'd had with Mr. Fisk at the Sonata, and he certainly had no intention to carry on another conversation with him until he'd worked it out.

But Fisk had seen him, so leaving would be conspicuous, to say the least. "I can see that," he said, a little uneasily. "I didn't realize you'd taken up a second job at the post office."