Sophronia Inkwood arrived at ten minutes to ten with her photographer already scouting angles from the square.
She stood outside the window studying the shopfront for a full minute before she knocked, which was a different woman from the one who had walked into Hecat's classroom on his schedule a year ago. This time she was on the hunt, and she wanted to see the territory before the subject had time to arrange it.
She looked much the same, with wire-rimmed glasses, dark blue robes, and her hair pinned back in a tight twist. The Quick-Quotes Quill was absent again, replaced by an ordinary quill and a leather notebook that she held like weapons. The photographer was a thin young wizard lugging a box camera on a wooden tripod, the kind with a black cloth hood and glass plate negatives. He was already setting up near the display cases before Inkwood finished shaking Rowan's hand.
"Mr. Ashcroft," she said, with the same firm grip he remembered. "You've come up in the world since we last spoke."
She was already looking past him at the luminaires. The row of nine silver disks in their glass housings, glowing with that clean white light that looked nothing like anything else in the room. Candles on the mantelpiece, daylight through the window, and then this row of steady white points that didn't flicker or waver.
"May I?" She didn't wait for an answer, already moving toward the nearest display case. She studied it for a long moment, then leaned closer and examined the runic inscription through the glass housing. "Who did the metalwork? This is finer than anything I've seen outside of Gringotts."
"My partner, Lawrence Goode. He's an artificer."
"Another twelve-year-old?"
"Thirteen now, and better at fine inscription work than most adults twice his age. He designed the method that produces these as well."
She wrote something in her notebook, then turned and looked at the shop as a whole, taking in Clara's display cards, the copper prototypes on the demonstration shelf, the contrast between them and the silver units. Her eyes missed nothing. Rowan could see her composing the article already, choosing which details to include.
"Walk me through it," she said. "I want to understand what this is and why it works."
So Rowan told her. He explained the five-rune array with Kenaz at the core for controlled energy release and Jera cycling to draw from ambient magical energy so the luminaire never needed recharging or recasting. He explained why silver mattered as a substrate, how its natural conductivity amplified the array's output to produce light that matched daylight rather than the amber warmth of the copper prototypes. He showed her one of the silver disks up close, pointing out the rune positions and the connecting channels.
Inkwood listened with her quill moving steadily, and when he finished she tapped it against the notebook. "You're remarkably open about the technical details. Most inventors I've interviewed would sooner hex me than explain how their product works."
"The runic architecture is inscribed on the surface for anyone to study. A competent artificer could work out the array given enough time. I'd rather explain it well than have someone describe it badly."
"And you're not worried about competitors?"
"If other artificers start making luminaires, or improving on the design, then the wizarding world benefits. I'm not trying to hold a monopoly on light."
She raised an eyebrow at that but didn't challenge it. "You said the runes draw from ambient magical energy. What happens if someone takes one of these into a Muggle home?"
It was a sharper question than he'd expected. "It wouldn't activate. The luminaire needs to be in a space where magic exists in the environment, which means any wizarding home or business, Hogwarts, Diagon Alley. Anywhere a witch or wizard lives and works, the ambient field is strong enough to sustain it indefinitely."
"So it's useless to Muggles."
"Muggles have gas lamps and arc lights. They don't need this. Wizarding homes are the ones still lit by candles and torches, and they don't have to be."
She wrote quickly. "And the price?"
"Three Galleons."
Inkwood's quill stopped. She looked at him over her glasses. "That little? For permanent lighting?"
"The whole point was to make it affordable. Silver costs eleven Sickles an ounce on the open market, with each disk needing four ounces. Add everything else and the luminaire would cost more than most families could justify. The production process I've developed brings the cost down to a fraction of that, and I've set the price to reflect it. Three Galleons is less than an average wizarding household spends on candles in a year."
Inkwood underlined something in her notebook twice. "Less than candles. That's the line you should lead with, Mr. Ashcroft. The lighting is impressive, yes, but the price is what will get people through the door."
She asked about his knowledge next, and he credited private tutors who valued their anonymity. She asked about future plans and he said the luminaire was the first product but not the last, without elaborating. She asked about the challenges of being Muggleborn in Diagon Alley and he gave her a version of what he'd said in their first interview, that he'd rather be judged by the product than by who made it.
Then she closed her notebook with a snap and looked at him directly. "I'll be honest with you because you were honest with me last year and I think you've earned it. This is a strong story. My editor will want it prominently placed."
Rowan thought about that. The last time Barnabas Flint had placed a story about him prominently, it had been designed to do as much damage as possible. "Your editor wasn't particularly generous the last time he ran a piece about me."
"No," Inkwood said, and something shifted behind her professional composure. "He wasn't. But I've learned over six years at the Prophet that the placement and the headline are my editor's domain, and the words beneath them are mine. I write what I see, Mr. Ashcroft. What gets built around it is beyond my control." She paused. "The article runs in tomorrow's morning edition. I'd brace myself if I were you."
The photographer finished his exposures, packed the glass plates into a padded case, and followed Inkwood out into the square.
Clara emerged from the back room. "She's sharper than she lets on."
"She's the best journalist they have. Which is why I offered her the exclusive."
The article arrived with the morning post. Clara had the Prophet spread on the counter before Rowan came downstairs, and Lawrence was reading over her shoulder with his breakfast toast forgotten in one hand.