Helena lied. An oily, bitter realization— one that I drink down like poisoned wine.

  It's not Helena herself that's a problem, no. Instead, it's that someone lied at all. Another layer to the investigation, another barrier, and another , I'd wager. I swirl those thoughts like a spoiled draught, debating if I want another sip.

  “How'd she lie, Gelson?” I ask as we climb the stairs to the priest's office. She's walking in front, on account of my tail. “Was she somewhere else?”

  “Hm,” Gelson hums, stopping at the top and glancing down the hallway. “Later. Don't want eavesdroppers.”

  Huh. Then why say it aloud at all, making me worry about it for hours at worst?

  “Good point,” I shrug, catching up and standing next to her. I raise a hand and point at the nearest door, which hangs slightly ajar. “Pretty sure that's the priest's office.”

  What does a priest even need an office for? Writing sermons? Doing his taxes, maybe?

  “Thank you, but I was here yesterday.” Gelson says, walking to the door and knocking. “Bitgarm? I am not scheduled, but I have questions.”

  Bitgarm. Is that my first time hearing his given name? ...Maybe. No, wait, he was at the Station. Why am I awful with names?

  “Oh, detective!” The priest's voice is impossibly genial, same as earlier. I hear something close with a and a rustle of fabric. “, yes, come in... who's with you, then?”

  “Dame Crawford,” I reply, clearing my throat. I move to stand behind Gelson, then think better of looming like a hired thug and just shuffle to the side.

  “Ah.” A pause, and then, “please, come in.”

  I can't help but smile at that, lips twitching enough to bare my teeth to the world. His shoddy vault dragged me into this; being a mild inconvenience is the least I can do to return the favor. So, fighting my amusement, I follow Gelson in once she opens the door.

  The office is... unimpressive. I don't know what I expected. What I get, though, is an ornate desk and a rather pretentious tapestry of the Restoration sowing food from desert— with a swathe of purple-robed figures doing the same behind them. The rest is plain and humble, no doubt markers of his charitability or some such.

  Why do they always depict the Restoration as a nearly nude man? It seems a bit tasteless if you ask me. Then again, the Church of the Restoration is a bit lacking in sense, wearing purple blankets all day. Adamantine’s short white robes and bronze armor are much more pleasing to the eye.

  And there, seated behind the desk, framed by the tapestry, is the purple-blanket shepherd of Craumont, Priest Bitgarm Dongbaek. Careworn eyes, faint wrinkles tracing hundreds of smiles, and calloused hands that looked more like a warrior's than a priest's.

  “May the Restoration bless you both, and our meeting.” He inclines his head, then reaches for a heavy bag on his desk and drops it to the ground. Following my eyes to it, he sighs.

  “Paperwork and payment for a hundred services,” he explains, staring at the bag with a strained expression. “Running a church is... intensive, let alone one that offers services of mental and physical healing. But enough of that. I... did not expect either of you.”

  My tail flexes, clipping the door frame with a . I’d never been one for religious formalities, greetings included— and most of Adamantine’s followers that I’ve met are the same way. She attracts a practical sort, what with her only “priests” being wandering Paladins.

  “You sound disappointed, priest. We're just here to ask some questions, nothing more,” I answer coolly, “Shockingly, I’m not here to steal anything.”

  The priest chuckles at that, leaning back into his chair with a creak“No, no. I wasn't expecting you to take an interest in the case, Dame Crawford— ah, would you prefer another name? You may call me Bitgarm here, I insist.”

  I could be spiteful here, draw a line and remind him he stands beneath me. But that doesn't help anything, and hostility serves no purpose here.

  “ is fine,” I say instead, looking for a chair. Ugh, they've all got those rounded arms. Can't sit in them no matter how I spin it, so I guess I'm leaning against the wall. “Why wouldn't I care, Bitgarm? It's something my father entrusted to your Church.”

  Gelson clears her throat, and that woman can vanish into the background. Her eyes carry a warning, plain as day— an easily understood one, too. .

  I snort. Why would I tell this man more than the minimum?

  “As the Dame said, we are here to ask questions about the box,” Gelson begins, taking a seat. Bitgarm's eyes linger on me for a moment longer, flicking back to Gelson when I raise an eyebrow. “And I have some follow up questions about your testimony. Do you have time for that?”

  Bitgarm leans forward, fingers drumming, eyes surveying the kingdom of paperwork before him. A calendar sits to one side, more ink than parchment, and as we watch he sways the battle further in ink's favor.

  Finally, with a genial smile, he says, “Ah, of course. But first, could I interest you in some tea? I had it out, let’s see..”

  He leans over, removing a jar of tea from somewhere in his desk.

  “Is now the time for—”

  The lid cracks, and a washes over me. Bitter and vile, like oversteeped green. I hiss, bringing a hand over my nose to pinch it shut. “I take it you don’t sserve Magebloodss often.”

  Bitgarm looks down at his tea, nose wrinkled, then up at me. His eyebrows shoot up in shock, and he hastily tightens the lid once more. “My apologies, my apologies... and you’d be correct. No tea, then.”

  “No tea,” I agree, venting irritation out through my tail. Should I just stay here, leaned against the wall? It's awkward and inconvenient, but I really can't sit in these chairs without breaking my tail. Yech.

  “If that’s over with,” Gelson says, quite unbothered, “Dame, would you like to go first?”

  I nod and gather my thoughts.

  “I said it before, but the puzzle box was gifted to the Church in my father's will.” I raise a hand, just in case questions arise. “No, I'm not planning to take it back. I just need to know more about what's going on with it. What do you know, Bitgarm?”

  He blinks, brow furrowing. “What do I know?”

  Gelson gives me a . It doesn't say anything, but it doesn't need to. Fine, I'll be more specific. I'm not the detective here.

  After a moment to think, tapping my tail against the base of the wall, I nod. “Were you told the contents of the puzzle box?”

  “No. My predecessor, who, ah,” Bitgarm shakes his head, then pauses. His tone softens as he speaks again, “you are unfortunately familiar with the man, I'm sure. He did not leave much in the way of notes when he was ousted. He emphasized that it was crucial to protect, though.”

  Ugh. Does know the contents, these days? If he wanted it protected, it must be important... no, Ivy, focus. Questions. Protections, hm?

  “And are you allowed to open it?” I rest a hand on my hip and push off a wall, lifting a chair up with the other hand as I pass. “Conditions, warnings, instructions?”

  “Ah,” Bitgarm says, and I'm beginning to realize where Helena gets her from. He visibly thinks, brow furrowed and eyes distant, one hand on his peppery stubble. “He did specifically warn me against you taking it, and to only open it with a Mage present.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Irritation sparks, igniting into a crackling snarl. It's one thing to deduce that am the threat my father wanted to protect the box from, and another for it to be confirmed. Well, he wasn't wrong— I am a threat. A Mageblood of scales, fangs, and thunder.

  Bitgarm barely flinches, though, and the sympathy glittering in his eyes just bothers me more.

  “Of course,” I say slowly, voice still rumbling as I rest both arms on the back of a chair, “It's something a Mage would need to handle.”

  “And the Church of the Restoration does not typically train or include Mages,” Gelson finishes. Another baffling twist, indeed. What's her plan?

  “Yes and no,” Bitgarm says in answer, spreading his hands wide. His voice takes on a rich, earthy timbre as he continues, “Our Service to our God and his vision asks that we serve the common good. Cooks, clothesmakers, stoneworkers, herbalists...”

  He gestures broadly, first to himself, then to the tapestry behind him. “Magecraft rarely fits into this vision of the banal and essential. We had no Mages then, and I have no Mages now.”

  Except for Helena, I want to add. Despite everything, my heart twinges— “And without Magecraft, we wouldn't have enchanted clothes or water purification. There's plenty of to be found.”

  “” Gelson says loudly, cutting through what would've been a very fun debate, “We can agree it is suspicious that a needs to be present for the box to be opened, given the Church doesn't have Mages. Dame, do you have any other questions?”

  I’m grateful she didn't specify questions, no matter how plainly she implied it. Arguing with a priest over their beliefs is a bit foolish... even if I would've enjoyed it. My irritation with the man wouldn't just vanish with a snarl, no matter how satisfying that snarl was.

  And of course she was right to steer me away. While I certainly didn't see his guard go up, his shoulders slacken the moment I sigh.

  “Your wards,” I say, clearing my throat. I lean further forward, stepping backward to maintain balance with my tail as a counterweight. “You don't have a Mage. How are they maintained? Who changed them?”

  Bitgarm nods sharply, looking to Gelson. “I plan to hire a Mage every two or three years to perform reinforcement and, ah, maintain the wards. I've asked Magebloods to offer magic to them as well, just as a precaution.”

  “You—”

  “You plan to?”

  Looks like Gelson has the same thought, and we had it at nearly the same time. Bitgarm's got his eyebrows raised, and his lips trace the echo of that careworn smile. “Ah, I should have been more clear, shouldn't I?”

  He chuckles at that, running a hand against his stubble and shaking his head. “I've only been here for four years. I had the wards replaced when I arrived, and I had a Mage in two years ago for maintenance. So, I as I have not yet made it a repeated action. Ah, I was even thinking of having Ulrich in, given their skill with enchantment...”

  He trails off, and I'm tempted to jump into another question. Ulrich, as in—

  “Ulrich Blackwood, the artificer?” Gelson clarifies, and that's exactly why I didn't open my mouth. Same idea, once again. There's an oddly circular path to this, now; two ends linked, linked in turn to the artificer.

  My tail flicks, gliding just above the carpeted floor. Bitgarm's answers ring strangely in my head, but like a distant bell I can't truly place the meaning or direction.

  “You're familiar?” Bitgarm smiles at that, tugging me from my thoughts. “They're an odd one and a touch expensive, but incredibly reliable even as a woodworker.”

  He taps the desk with one finger. . “Ah, they made this desk, even. Enchanted to repel ink stains, and a breeze wouldn't scatter my paperwork.”

  “May I?” Deflecting Wind isn't much of a challenge, but I'm still curious. I might even learn something, truthfully.

  Bitgarm raises an eyebrow, glancing to Gelson and then gesturing to his desk. “You may.”

  There's nothing for it but to call on Wind, and it answers with glee. The tapestry flutters, tugged forward then pushed away. Gelson's hair swirls, just a tad, but the paperwork? The breeze skitters off the desk without a whisper, toying with Bitgarm's purple robe before fading to nothing.

  “Huh,” I say, a little bit impressed. “Clever way of scattering the structure— didn't even lose control of the Wind. I can see why you'd have them look at your wards.”

  Gelson hums, as she often does. “Interesting. Informative. Bitgarm, I have some clarifications to make to your testimony. May I begin?”

  “Of course!” Bitgarm nods, clasping his hands together and smiling. “I have the afternoon services to lead, but as I said before, I have plenty of time. Please, go on?”

  And so the stage shifts from me to the detective, and I can turn my attention elsewhere. To the odd feeling that began with Helena lying, that worsens like an open wound.

  Well, my wounds stitch themselves together with magic, but the point is made. Something smells and something stings. It just bothers me that I can't pin down the source.

  “...and the wards didn't go off?” Gelson says, and my mind latches on to them. This seems interesting.

  Bitgarm shakes his head quite emphatically, lips tight. “Not even a tingle. A bell's meant to ring when something is taken out of the vault, too, but I never heard one.”

  Not new information, save for the bell. So none of the mechanisms were tripped, huh? And the wards seemed so clean— granted, the cleanliness of abstractions is up to the viewer to interpret, as most things are. Not a hint of failure, not a whisper of bypass.

  Still, my tail sways behind me, curling around my boot before swinging in the other direction. Frustration bleeds away in every tense and flex, wearing down at an already fading feeling.

  “I see. And when you notice, just to confirm? Where were you?” Gelson nods along, scribbling furiously with handwriting that puts my own to shame.

  Bitgarm rubs his head, glancing away and sighing. “Ah, I was upstairs resting after a heavy pastry. Celine from Sharrow Bakery delivers us snacks for the afternoon service, you see...”

  The urge to snort is snuffed out quickly, but the humor remains. Maybe the bell go off, and the old man was just too deep in a food nap to hear it! Heh.

  He shakes his head, grimacing. “It couldn't have happened on a worse day, may the Restoration forgive my negligence. Still, I came downstairs to see what all the noise was about, and bumped into Helena, who was on her way to get .”

  Connections are being made, slowly, far too slowly— it's infuriating. This something, my gut knows, but what? There's no instant swirl of instinct and practice like when I fight, just the steady march of a .

  Adamantine rules over justice and protection, and her power is the light that banishes falsehood. So, surely, Adamantine can grant me the ability to be less bad at detective work?

  “Hm,” I say instead, frowning. Bitgarm's gaze flicks my way, but it doesn't linger.

  “And who sent Helena to get you?” Gelson continues, tapping her parchment twice. Helena had said Alain, right? Was that the lie?

  Bitgarm frowns, brow furrowed. “You know, I don't... hm. I it was Alain that sent her. He was the one to contact the constables, was he not?”

  “Correct,” Gelson nods, “After which, you were called down to the Station, along with Dame Tousavon and Dame Crawford.”

  “Ah, it's not my place—” and it probably isn't, from his guarded expression, “but I don't understand Elizabeth's involvement. Ah, Dame Tousavon.”

  I look to Gelson, too. How she factor into the theft?

  “The Dame of Tousavon is a known Mage and Mageblood. She was at the Church and...”

  Gelson pauses, and makes a noise. Long, breathy— she's “She demanded to be considered as a suspect, stating she's entirely capable of having stolen it.”

  Bitgarm sputters out a chuckle, looking as surprised as I feel. “Ah, of course she would! Another one of her ploys, maybe, or just boredom?”

  “Knowing Lizzie?” I drawl, raising an eyebrow. “Both.”

  And now both the priest and the detective are staring at me with strange, lopsided expressions.

  “She's my cousin. We used to play together when we were kids?” I offer with a shrug. I remember when I was too scrawny for my shape to matter, and she taught me how to pick locks. Winston would come in, trying to reason with us, but Olivia would easily sway him to our side.

  Those were the days, heh.

  “So Elizabeth isn't involved at all. Ah, is there anything else I can help with, detective?” Bitgarm clasps his hands together, smiling. “I am glad to assist.”

  And the answer, after Gelson very thoroughly goes through Bitgarm's story once again, is no. There's nothing new, I just get to sit here awkwardly.

  Finally, Bitgarm excuses himself to pay for the pastries the bakery delivers and perform his sermon, grabbing a heavy bag seated next to the door. He seems quite eager to get away from us, though I suppose the feeling is mutual. With that, we’re free to move on to the next (hopefully final) person before Ulrich.

  "Why is here?" Alain's distaste oozes from everything— posture, tone, the twitch of his brow. Because of course he's the last one.

  Is everything going to be preceded by dramatics, today? Yes, I've played a significant role in them, but that stops now.

  “To help find your box.” I cross my arms, drumming fingers against my forearm. “We don't have to like each other.”

  Gelson coughs. “Yes, please hate each other after the investigation is closed. Dame Crawford is here because she has a vested interest in the item's return."

  My lips twitch, and Alain glowers.

  "Fine," he grits out, jaw clenched and shoulders rolled. “But you're undermining the case, having a suspect help.”

  I stare at Alain, boring into him without a care as I mull over the thought. I could sit and listen and bicker with a man I loathe.

  “Nah,” I say, turning away. “Gelson, I'll meet you at the artificer's place.”

  I find Helena seated on the stairs outside, book tilted to catch the dry light of noon while she stays in the shallow shade.

  “Helena,” I say, because I can't think of anything else just yet. The bitter taste of disappointment clings to my tongue, choking out even my best attempts.

  I pause next to her instead, tail curled to the side so we're not blocking the entire stairway.

  She squeaks, leaping halfway off the step, and her book goes flying. I'm able to catch it— and her— with one hand each. A palm against her back, to slow her descent, and two fingers between the pages so she doesn't lose her place.

  “Oh! Restoration protect, I'm sorry, Ivy. You, um—”

  “I startled you,” I shrug. Just say it, Ivy. Let the knot of anger go taut, let it snap and fray.

  She settles down again, cheeks tinged red, and slides a bookmark in before setting her book aside. “Ah, okay. So, how's the investigation? If you're allowed to talk about it.”

  Her smile fades the moment she meets my eyes. It's not a pleasant thing to witness.

  “Oh,” she says, and Gods if that isn't an understatement.

  “I don't like being lied to, Helena,” I say softly, voice rumbling as I pitch it down. “I know you’re loyal to the Church, and I know we’re on strained terms. But we need to find this box, and soon.”

  I pause and sigh. “I’d appreciate if you helped.”

  This is twice, now, that I've walked away from Helena.

  Only, this time, a promise carries on the wind, soft and gentle and : “I will.”

  At least this time, I have something to look forward to.