She arrived ten minutes early, which told Rowan something about her. People who arrived early to meetings were either anxious or organised. Given the tone of her letter, he suspected the latter.
Sirona had set aside a table near the back of the pub, far enough from the bar that conversation wouldn't carry. The evening crowd was thin. A few regulars nursing ales and a pair of witches playing Exploding Snap by the window.
Clara Goode was a small woman, slight in build, with brown hair going grey at the temples and hands that bore the roughness of someone who worked with them for a living. Her robes were clean and pressed but worn at the cuffs and collar. Careful maintenance that spoke to limited means and considerable pride. She catalogued the room as she entered.
Rowan stood when she approached the table. "Mrs. Goode. Thank you for coming."
"Mr. Ashcroft." Her handshake was firm and brief. She sat across from him and folded her hands on the table, and for a moment they assessed each other in silence.
"Lawrence described you well," she said. "Though I'll admit I was expecting someone who looked a bit more like the dueling finalist the Prophet wrote about and a bit less like a boy who should still be in school."
"I am a boy who should still be in school. That part Lawrence got right."
Something in her expression eased, fractionally. "My son wants to spend his summer working with you on a business venture he won't describe in detail. I'm sure you can appreciate why I wanted to meet you before I agreed to anything."
"Completely. And I'd rather you heard it from me than pieced it together from Lawrence." Rowan had prepared for this. He'd spent the afternoon thinking about what a responsible mother would need to hear, and he'd decided that the only approach worth trying was complete honesty. "I'll tell you everything. The business, the products, what I'm asking of Lawrence, and the risks."
He told her. The magical luminaires, their design, function, and market potential. The shop he intended to purchase in Diagon Alley. The production process, which required the alchemical expertise he would provide and the artificing talent Lawrence had spent two years developing. The financial projections, summarised without revealing specific figures. The Prophet coverage he planned. The timeline: open before summer's end, generate enough revenue to sustain operations through the school year.
Clara listened without interrupting. Her expression grew increasingly complex as he spoke. The look of someone hearing something far more ambitious than she'd anticipated and recalibrating accordingly.
When he finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
"You've thought this through," she said.
"Every angle I can think of, and a few I'm probably still missing."
"And the risks?"
"The product could fail to find a market. Suppliers could refuse to deal with a Muggleborn competitor. The Ministry could find a reason to shut me down." He listed them evenly. "I've accounted for setbacks but I can't eliminate them."
"And Lawrence's role?"
"He designs and builds the devices based on my specifications. He's genuinely talented, Mrs. Goode. The artificing work he did at Hogwarts this year was exceptional. I need his skills."
Clara absorbed this. The protective rigidity she'd carried into the room had eased during his presentation, though her eyes remained watchful.
"Here's my difficulty," she said. "Lawrence is thirteen. You're younger than him. I'm worried about two children alone in Diagon Alley without an adult present. I trust your competence. Lawrence has given me no reason to doubt it. But the arrangement itself concerns me."
"You're right to be concerned. I'd feel the same way."
That surprised her. "You would?"
"I'd like you to be there with us."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Come to Diagon Alley. Stay for the summer while we establish the shop. You'd be there to supervise Lawrence, and I wouldn't be operating without an adult, which satisfies Professor Weasley's conditions."
Clara shook her head. "I can't. I work at Slug & Jiggers, Monday through Saturday, half seven to six. If I leave, I lose the position, and positions for Muggleborn witches aren't exactly abundant."
"What do they pay you?"
The question landed oddly. Clara's expression shifted, a flicker of something that might have been embarrassment or anger or both. "That's not really your concern."
"It is if I'm about to offer you something better."