The detective's name is Ruby Gelson, and she's added enough honey to her tea to make my teeth ache.

  She's practically drowning in the chair she's chosen; a chair sized for my father rather than folk that could walk through doors without stooping. Her curly bck hair looks well-kept, and her brown eyes dissect my tea set like it's a particurly strange bug.

  At the least, it doesn't look like Ruby will be a boring woman to spend time with. It’s enough to soothe the apothecary's cauldron of regret swirling in my gut, and oh, Gods, she's adding more honey.

  “So,” I clear my throat, pausing long enough to get my tail back under control. “I'm supposed to help you find this thief, right?”

  Ruby hums, stirring the honey into her tea. “No.”

  Not what I was expecting. I give her time to eborate, but she seems more interested in her honey with a side of tea.

  “Then why are you here?” I say finally, crossing my legs. Drumming my fingers on an armrest, I take a sip of my own tea.

  “I was thinking.” Her voice is distant and her words are pin, as if she's too occupied to spare anything else. “You’ll help me prove that you weren't the thief.”

  “...by catching the thief. You know, with detective-y work. Because I didn't do it, and couldn't have.” I counter her thought with my own, dropping my voice until the drake-like rasp cuts in. “So who are the actual suspects?”

  She has the audacity to hum, whatever that means. My tail curls on itself, and I take a sip of my tea. People are annoyingly complicated sometimes.

  “That’s true,” she concedes, then sets down an empty teacup. “I’m being a bit picky with my words, aren't I. May I have another cup?”

  First she picks at my words, then gives ground without answering my questions. I can't really follow her logic, but... well, she's being direct. I guess I can respect that. But the moment she tries to push me around, I'm putting my foot down. No more Helenas.

  “Picky is a word for it. Are you going to need more honey, since you used,” I gesture at the near-empty jar with a raised eyebrow, “Nearly all of it?”

  That finally gets a reaction out of her; a vigorous nod. “Yes please, Dame Crawford. It's delicious.”

  Guess sarcasm isn't her thing. Venting my frustration with a long, low growl, I move along to something more useful.

  I catch Benny's gaze and give them a nod. “So are you done running me in circles?”

  She shakes her head, and frankly, the audacity is impressive. It's enough to make me like her, just a little.

  “I need to figure you out before I can trust you, Dame Crawford. I make no guarantees.”

  “Ivy, then.”

  “Ivy... what?” Ruby blinks, frowning without a hint of humor. ‘“I don't follow.”

  “No.” I pause, just long enough to be awkward. “Call me Ivy. Amelia isn't me anymore, and Dame Crawford is too stuffy.”

  The honey arrives, and Ruby promptly adds half of the tiny jar to her tea. Conversation is repced with clinking porcein and my growing arm— Benny's too, from how they're looking at the scene. The broom and dustpan, physical markers of the Manor's eccentric cleaning enchantments, are the only things unfazed by Ruby.

  Shouldn't Ruby be the fazed one? Shouldn't she be curious about this pce? It's a thought that rises like the steam from my tea. Crawford Manor rarely has guests, after all, and the lobby area is easily the nicest looking part of the pce. Deep red curtains, plush carpet, hardwood everywhere... and, of course, the Manor's magic.

  But she isn't, or isn't showing it. Steam twists in a flex of my Wind, a perfect mirror to the curiosity building inside me. My tail curls, held back from its need to scrape along the ground.

  “Amelia isn't you?” Ruby repeats finally, breaking the silence. Her eyes track the twirling vapors between us. “It would be unprofessional, and inappropriate, for me to refer to you casually. If we need a shortening, would Dame work?”

  I should respect her more for her discipline, yes. But I'm bothered anyway.

  “Dame is fine,” I grumble, and I take a sip of Benny's wonderful tea. “And you? Gelson? Ruby? Detective?”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Detective is... no. I would prefer to be called Gelson at work.”

  “Ruby outside of it?” I guess, tilting my head. “I can get that. I'm Crawford to most of the Delvers out there. Ivy is for people I like.”

  “I see.” Gelson nods.

  Silence reigns again. I run out of tea, she does too; I refill both. She uses less honey this time, and picks at a biscuit when Benny brings them on.

  They're really good sweet biscuits, actually. Really good, enough for my tail twitch against the carpet. Pastries aren't really Benny's thing, amazing as they are, and these biscuits taste awfully familiar—

  “Are these from the Sharrow Avenue Bakery?” Gelson finishes my thought before it even forms, and before she's finished chewing. She hesitates, swallows, and continues, “They're excellent.”

  “They are,” I agree readily, once I've finished my biscuit. “Benny?”

  “Not quite on the mark, Detective Gelson, but it's a near thing.” There’s humor in Benny's voice, as if they're sharing a secret. “Dame Crawford's love of the establishment has led me to arrange a regur delivery schedule... though it hasn't yet begun, sadly. Tonight's biscuits were made from dough I purchased this morning.”

  “You're the best, Benny,” I conclude, stating the obvious with a smile.

  Benny just inclines their head. “It is my pleasure to serve, Madam.”

  My smile widens before I finally hide my teeth, turning back to Gelson. Despite her clinical exterior, she doesn't seem that bad. Working with her shouldn't be a chore, hopefully. Speaking of...

  “So.” I start, gesturing towards the door. “What's the pn, Gelson? How do we catch this thief?”

  Gelson’s lips quirk into a frown, and her eyes flicker away. She follows the dustpan as it drifts up from behind with a brush, collecting stray crumbs.

  “We aren't catching any thieves. We're finding them, and reporting them to the constables. The guards as well, if needed.”

  My tail drags across the carpet, basking in the softness without pushing hard enough to damage anything. “Are we really going to go in circles again?”

  Gelson inclines her head. “A fair point. Tonight, I will write a report confirming I visited, and that I found nothing suspicious in your behavior. Tomorrow morning, at the tenth hour by the clock—”

  “We'll begin our investigation by visiting the scene. You'll analyze the wards, and I'll speak to the guards as you do.”

  Detective Gelson's words hang in the foggy air, weaving between birdsong and morning chatter. A train whistles in the distance, and my tail curls up and away from the ground.

  We'd picked a park not too far from Church to meet— Gelson had insisted. Given it's a shorter walk than going to the Station and then the Church, I readily agreed.

  “Good morning to you too, Gelson,” I reply drily, finishing off the puff pastry I'd picked up. With the hum of nature surrounding me, I can't help but twirl my finger, spooling misty Wind around my hand like thread. “And yes, I remember what you said st night. Ready to get going?”

  She nods, rising from her wrought-metal chair. “And you know what you're looking for?”

  “Didn't you just say it?” I arch an eyebrow as Gelson walks past. The Wind on my hand is discarded, poured into a nearby Oak.

  Gelson hums. Gods, she walks fast for someone so short— I actually have to speed up a bit to keep up.

  “No,” my government-issued shadow says, in a way that's rapidly becoming familiar. “You can't assume anything going into an investigation. Dame, how many different ways could they have gotten into the vault without triggering the arm?”

  “Huh.” Can't assume anything, indeed. Tapping my tail against the cobbled road, I dredge up old university lessons on wards and wardbreaking. The tter isn't far off of sealing Delves, actually.

  We step onto a main street and dodge a crowd while I turn the answer over in my head. “Well, you could cut, disable, avoid, or overwhelm them, I guess?”

  “And?”

  I growl in response. Leading questions are annoying enough when I can follow them. “And what, Gelson? Don't waste my time.”

  Gelson puts a finger to her chin. “Would the differences show us anything, Dame? Does... hm. Does avoiding wards take time and observation, or is it easy with some sort of spell?”

  Ugh. “Why didn't you just say that?”

  “Hadn't figured out how to phrase it.” Her shoulders roll in a nguid shrug. “So. What are the differences?”

  I sigh. Remember, Ivy, you agreed to this. I raise my hands and count off, letting scale and cw overtake skin and nail.

  “So, cutting the wards takes skill, special tools, and practice. Disabling them means you know the key or can... uh, pick the lock, is the best analogy I can think of.” I swish my tail from side to side, thinking. She asks good questions, irritatingly enough, and I can see where she's going. “Avoiding them means going through another door or a window, I guess. Overwhelming them is like punching through physically.”

  I personally like to overwhelm wards. There's nothing more satisfying than punching abstract concepts hard enough that they break, and I have plenty of power to throw around.

  “The nature of the break-in will inform our investigation,” Gelson nods, confirming that we're on the same path of thought for once. “And you're prepared to work with the Church?”

  Am I?

  I just shrug. “I won't bite.”

  “Isn't the saying... I don't bite?” Gelson crifies, peering up at me.

  I resist the urge to grin. “No idea, and I'd rather not lie.”

  And it's funny. Mostly because it's funny.

  At sixty-odd marches tall, this oversized, orangey brick-and-mortar chapel is... well, it's entirely decent. Little swoops and curves, pretty windows, ornate doors; everything gives it a gently welcoming air. Nothing screams of the wealth my parents had poured into the pce.

  Really, the Church of the Restoration should be prettier. Or uglier. There's no accounting for taste.

  But that's already too much time wasted on them. I'm not even going into the damned thing; we're headed to the rectory across the street, a much more sensible stone-and-brick construction that houses the vault. Two constables are waiting at the door, looking decidedly bored.

  “Detective Tracer will join us shortly.” Gelson pushes open the door without knocking, stepping inside. “More constables should already be there keeping the scene clear.”

  “Good to know?” I shrug, catching the door before it can swing into my face. “And the suspects are there too, right?”

  “Yes. Two church members, two guards, and the priest.” She pauses, lips twitching, as we step into the reception area.

  “What’re their names?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Left hallway.”

  I'm not getting more out of her, am I. It's frustrating to say the least— having broken in, oh, ten or twelve times, I'd say the right hallway is better. Less activity, and the left side has a side entrance that workers use at odd hours. Not information I should really share, given I’m trying to clear suspicion.

  Well, from the faint prickling at my ears, there's a lot of activity waiting for us. Nothing I care to vocalize, really. Less bothersome than that acrid smell of ink, parchment, and... is that herbal teas? Gods, they always make a mess of the air when there's several about.

  At least the building isn't unpleasant to look at. Sunlight pours through windows, scattering across off-white pstered walls and drawing strange shadows in the subtle texture of it.

  We walk through reception, down the left hallway, round the bend and through the door, which of course I have to duck through—

  Noise, no matter how prepared I am for it. Chaos. A mess. Purple robes arguing with guards. Dongbaek is here, standing tall with eyes crinkled, speaking too softly to be heard over the din. The sound bounces around the room and amplifies, a wave that shoves Gelson behind me.

  “Ahem.” I clear my throat, tapping my foot. The Church being a mess is no surprise, but as usual it's wasting my time.

  No response.

  “And you were in there, Tavers! I don't care why—”

  Oh, Gods. That's Ain shouting at a guard while some very amused constables watch. It's not their job, after all, the constables are just guarding the big vault in the back. No doubt Ain’ll be the bane of my patience once more... or he'll run terrified when he sees me. Hopefully the tter.

  Okay, they're not quieting down. Fine. I'll do it properly.

  Wind blows from my soul as a greenish shimmer, curling around my hand, curving into shape. Scales coat my arm as I direct my magic, coaxing it into a structure I mostly use for distractions. My cws cck against each other.

  I snap. Words drown in a roar of Wind, loud enough for everyone to flinch.

  “Eyes on me.” I growl into the silence, thumb resting against my palm. Gazes turn to focus on me, a blend of emotions id bare: arm, confusion, and a touch of fear. “Can we get on with it, please? Gelson, do your thing.”

  I finish my words by stepping away, curling my tail to the side so Gelson can walk past.

  “Mm. Good morning.” Gelson says into the silence, her voice ftter than ever before. Her back is straight, a sheaf of parchment is in her hands, and her boots click as they snap together. “I will need testimonials from everyone involved. The vault guards from st night are first. Everyone else is dismissed, but may not leave the premises.”

  And after a pause, she adds, “Craumont's w enforcement apologizes for the inconvenience.”

  I snort, biting down a chuckle. No, they aren't sorry, and Gods, did Gelson memorize that? Sure sounds like it.

  Priest Dongbaek's beard bobs with his jaw, eyes resting solely on me. I can't read the gleam in his eyes, nor do I care to try. “The blues as well, Detective?”

  Blues?

  “Yes,” Gelson nods, gncing at the back of the room. The constables nod back—

  Oh, blue on the uniforms. Blues. Got it. Why am I only hearing this term now?

  “Oh, who cares about the blues, why is she here?" Ain's voice cuts through, jabbing a finger at me. “Need I remind anyone here of Dame Crawford's animosity towards the Restoration?”

  All eyes are on me again. Ain's got a point, and honestly I was impressed he waited this long. I bare my teeth at him, not wavering when he flinches. He'll dig his own grave, with how Priest Dongbaek is looking at him.

  “She has agreed to be our Mage on this investigation.” Gelson replies curtly, stepping forward into the room. “You are all dismissed.”

  If Ain was a serpent, he would hiss. Instead, he narrows his eyes. “With all due respect, she does not have the Restoration's best interests in mind. Nor Craumont as a—”

  “Ain!” Dongbaek's voice is loud and sharp. There's a joy in watching Ain’s mouth sm shut with a click. “We’re going now. My apologies, Dame Crawford.”

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “Do you really expect me to take that?”

  “No point in being diplomatic with her now,” Ain grumbles. Still, he follows the priest out, metaphorical tail between his legs... well, aside for some mumbling. “She hates us, Detective. Be careful.”

  And then he’s gone, followed by the constables. I give them a nod, though, meeting their curious stares with my own gaze. “Blues, huh?”

  “Blues. Better than leathers.” Gelson wrinkles her nose. “Now, I can finally—”

  And then I lose focus on her, turning my attention towards the vault itself. Big steel door with alchemical brass rivets— no, the whole thing is alchemical metal. I can feel the faintest pulse of magic within it. Breaking through this door would be a chore, even for me.

  I cough, flushing a little. No, Ivy, we aren't robbing the pce. No ripping doors off hinges, no punching through them, even if it's satisfying. I'm digging into the wards, plunging into abstraction to see how the cogs fit together, if they haven't been broken altogether. This could be fun!

  “Misters Tavers and Uther. Could you tell me what you saw the night of the theft? Tavers, you first. Please point towards where you saw or heard things.

  Gelson's voice cuts through, dragging me away from my thoughts. Ugh, fine, but it might be interesting to listen in on. I'll keep my attention on the wards, though, on reaching out until I find whatever abstract space they occupy. No, not there, not there either...

  Someone clears their throat. “O-of course, detective. And Dame Crawford, she's h-here to help?”

  “I am, actually, and I can speak for myself.” I reply steadily, wincing when my metaphorical hand gets pinched in a metaphorical cog. Gods, who made these? They're a tangled mess, nothing like the beautiful Imperial wards beneath the city, and a far cry from the humming warmth of my own Manor. After a pause to chew on my words, I continue speaking.

  “Chief Flint needs a Mage to look at the wards, and asked me to do it.”

  I decide to omit that there's nothing left that I'd take back from the Church. No point in taking what isn't mine— that's vengeance and theft, not Justice.

  “Isn't Ei— Helena a Mage?” Another person asks, frown audible in their voice. My tail shes, scraping across the carpeted floor. “Well, trying, I mean.”

  “Well, yes, but she's one of us. Wouldn't that be more biased, or something?”

  “It would, and Helena is not known as a Mage to Craumont's w enforcement.” Gelson says loudly. “May we resume?”

  As if pnned by a trickster Goddess, the door sms open, thudding against the stone and stinging my ears. A little “eep!” and a “sorry, sorry” follows, all in a voice I'd rather not hear again.

  And, seriously? We'd just talked about Helena.

  “Sorry I'm te! Marie's hat was torn, a-and, ah, sorry,” says Helena Harkness, looking more like a frazzled cat than a member of the Church.

  Because of course she's part of this, why wouldn't she be?

  Origami_Narwhal