Between a rock and a hard pce. Helena Harkness, still rustling through her bag and running a hand through her hair. Gelson, and the obligations I’d let myself get wrapped up in for some reason. I can’t bme the detective— I think I’m done with this, too.

  Oh, for the love of Adamantine— the time I’d actually been stuck between two hard objects was better! The Imperial Temple wall was at least comfortable, and the boulder could be punched out. The bat-monster-thing throwing the boulders was also very punchable.

  Here, I don’t want to punch anything. Wouldn’t solve much.

  "Don't tell me, you're a suspect too?" There's a tinge of humor to my voice as I pull my tail up, inspecting it for dirt and debris. "Should've guessed. Anyways, you missed your friends on the way in."

  Helena jerks like a startled cat, hands flying free as her green eyes try and fail to meet my own. "Sorry to, um, bother you, but I was hoping to get here before Ain and, ah... talk about some things. I can, um. Get going, unless?"

  I wave her off, regret and exhaustion stirring in equal measure.. "Detective Gelson is trying to do an interview.”

  Gelson’s contribution to the conversation is a curt nod. “Please stay on-premises, madam, but you are not required for this event.”

  “Right.” The word sounds so small, and I don’t think anyone else could’ve heard Helena speak. “Sorry.”

  She leaves, closing the door without a sound.

  Gelson coughs, drawing my eyes away from the closed door and back towards our actual objective. “Dame, if you could inspect the wards? And as before, I’d like to speak to both of you one at a time. Could I get your names?”

  I exhale, nostrils fring, air hissing across my tongue and teeth. Yes, the wards. Diving into the abstract is a nice way to distract myself. Not quite as good as Delving, but it'll do.

  Anything is better than putting up with this nonsense— for the pursuit of a thief, right. Justice, since nobody else here could poke at wards safely. Winston's got too much on his pte to count.

  That’s when I start to push out any details of the world around me, with only words seeping through. I’ll have to plunge into the abstract to inspect the wards in detail... and to make sure they won’t go off again if I touch them.

  “Um. I’m John Tavers, and that’s Regin Rickmond. We’re the guards from the first— no, it’s called the morning cycle, right Regs?”

  A scratch of pen nib on parchment. “Thank you, John and Regin. Could you crify your duties with me?”

  With my wits gathered, I dive. My mind and power swirl, a shape of scales and teeth and storms; down, down, down through the skein of the World. With nobody to guide me as Winston had, I swim with my soul as a compass, listening for the hum of magic. I can hear Gelson’s voice, I can hear the guards respond, but the meaning is lost.

  The hum comes from above, when I finally feel it. I’d gone too deep, plunged beyond what a lesser Mageblood could touch. So I rise in Wind’s embrace, my tail a rudder in the current, and behold my target.

  Wards. I “see” them as brassy clockwork, a system of cogs, pinions, and spirals, hung on shafts of glimmering Wind.

  There's an inexplicable pang of loss as I take in the wards... and how different they are, from the ones I used to break through. That scrawny woman wouldn't have had a chance against these new wards, I can already tell.

  The central shaft isn't there, and it doesn't have that poorly-fitted flywheel that drives the arm too hard. I gave the old priest more than a few headaches that way... heh.

  There’s an upside, I guess; I get to inspect new wards. To prod, and categorize— maybe I’ll learn something, or remember old lessons from the university. Who was the warding teacher again? Professor Promelia? Professor Torin?

  Focus, Ivy. It’s hard to keep on task when everything requires concentration; the abstract must be interpreted to be “seen”.

  Right. I weave my way between the gears, drinking everything in, and the first thing I notice is the silence. The wards have been stilled, or perhaps they ck the power to keep moving. It’s hard to tell, just yet.

  So, had they been cut? Disabled? Avoided, overwhelmed?

  I can’t see any real damage to the mechanisms— no shattered clockwork or obviously missing gears. Confirming it would take time, but unless the wards are more abstract than expected, some of the gears should be moving if something’s missing, right?

  Right.

  And I won’t see anything if they were avoided. Disabled, it depends on how they were disabled. Overwhelmed, well, they definitely weren’t, nobody here has the strength to do that. I’d see some sort of bypass, not that I know where the end and beginning of the ward are, or...

  I don’t know, actually! Wardbreaking is interesting, and I enjoyed the university lectures, but bypassing can be beautifully subtle if the person’s had enough time to study the wards. Outside of Winston, I doubt anyone around here has the skills for a subtle bypass, so I’ll just push that aside and focus. I’ve been getting off-path again.

  So I float in the abstraction, suspended in the gap at the center of the mechanism, and keep on looking for details. The cogs gleam in the false-light, a sheen of cleanliness that speaks of regur maintenance... but they aren’t that complicated, now that I’m really looking. There’s a bell— the arm, I suppose— and a string of equally abstract mechanisms I can best describe as tripwires. No doubt these are the actual “triggers” for the ward.

  So, could it have been a bypass? I keep coming back to that idea. With time, I could devise some combination of spell structures to skip the arm. Or perhaps the triggers aren’t sensitive enough, and...

  I shake my head. The thought of recommending improvements to the wards just bubbled to the surface, and it's enough to snap me out of it. This is for the Church, and I don't like the idea of helping them more than necessary.

  That, and I'm not a ward-maker.

  No point in staying longer, not right now. As far as I can tell, the wards were bypassed or disabled in some way that leaves them intact after.

  Beckoning the Wind, I rise up through the abstract, joining mind and soul with flesh and scale. My senses return: the chill of metal against flesh, a rivet pressing into my palm; Gelson’s voice, even and measured.

  “...And that’s when you discovered the theft?” Oh, good timing on my part.

  “Yes, ma’am. Opened up the vault door with the key and the box wasn’t there no more.”

  A Caliburn accent— those Rs are in danger of vanishing completely. I can only assume it’s the guard that didn’t speak earlier, that Regs guy. No, Regin, not Regs.

  In the pause, I can hear the skritch of pen on parchment. “I see. So Miss Harkness went to contact the constables?”

  “She sure did, said Dongbaek got all worried ‘bout it and sent her down. The blues came right quick!”

  “I see,” Gelson repeats, humming. “And you can open the vault. When did you st see the item?”

  “Yeah, we got a key to open the door from the priest. Can’t go in though. The priest said we’d trigger the wards. I saw it...” It’s the other guard, now. Tavers? “Uh, saw it two nights ago, when the priest opened the vault to check everything.”

  Skritch, scratch. “That is all. Misters Tavers and Rickmond, on behalf of Craumont w enforcement, I thank you for your time. Dame Crawford, are you done with your inspection?”

  All eyes are on me. Well, most are on my tail, but Gelson at least is looking me in the eyes.

  “Not a lot for me to see,” I say, pausing to think. Should I say more here, in front of the guards? Probably not. “But we can talk about it ter.”

  “Didn’t know you were a Mage too, uh, my dy.” One of the guards pipes up, giving me an awkward quarter-bow. I think it's Regin, from the accent? “Aren't you one of those Delver types?”

  A cssic question! I give him a smile, which wavers when both the guards wince. “And damned proud of it. Can't imagine living without a tail. But Delving is a profession, while Magecraft is a skill. Lots of skills actually...”

  I trail off, debating what to say and tapping my chin with a cw. “So, lots of Delvers are Mages. Myself included.”

  “Huh.” Eloquent, this man is not.

  Gelson coughs, and in the same moment the other guard elbows Regin.

  “While fascinating, we have—”

  “Oh, uh, thank you for the information, my dy!”

  Gelson's lips twist into a frown. The other guard, Tavers? John? Just looks exasperated.

  Snorting, I gesture towards the door. “You're welcome. Gelson, lead the way.”

  “We have much to do. Thank you, Misters Tavers and Rickmond.” She nods, and we leave the guards to their work... which is, well, guarding. Must be boring actually.

  The door closes with a click, and we're back in the hallway. The guards come out behind us, stationed at either side of the door.

  Once they're around the bend, we stop. It’s enough for my thoughts to catch up, gathering into something resembling sense.

  “To summarize—”

  “So.”

  I smirk. “You first, Gelson.”

  “Thank you.” She sighs, massaging her brow. “The timeline as it stands raises more questions than answers. Three people went in and out of the room— Harkness, Hendrick, and Dongbaek.”

  “Of course she's involved,” I snort, crossing my arms and leaning against a wall. It's not easy with a tail, but I've had plenty of practice.

  I can't help but be curious, though. I can't see why any of them would steal a puzzle box from themselves. Helena is clueless and rude, not stupid, after all. Ain, maybe? No, unless he's trying to pin it on me...

  “You observed as much earlier, Dame. I gather there is a particur history between you two?” Gelson has her pen and parchment at the ready, and I roll my eyes.

  “Nothing that's worth mentioning.” I pause, gring. I'd have better luck scowling at a wall. “She was reckless, and I lost my trust in her. There.”

  “I see.” Skrtch scratch, ink on parchment.

  The silence hangs, the ink dries. My tail curls around my boots, rubbing against the enchanted leather.

  “The guards report that Mister Hendrick instructed them to keep closer watch today, with permission to open the door and check.” A pause, and Gelson nods. “The box was still here halfway into the tenth hour. Miss Harkness asked them to check again roughly an hour ter, and the box was missing.”

  She taps her parchment for emphasis, making the sheet wobble and bend away from her.

  “And they didn't check between those times?” That's a bit odd, to me. Watching closely usually involves some amount of... watching closely. Sounds circur now that I've thought of it.

  Gelson nods, though. “It's strange. Given the ck of a clock in the room, I assume they were only estimating, or checking the clock outside.”

  She gestures to the Elm clock in the hallway, humming, and leans in. “I will have to check how aligned all the clocks are.”

  “Hm.” I nod along. Gods, that sounds so boring. And, unfortunately, it's necessary. Hard to build a proper timeline without time, I imagine.

  Speaking of time, I should probably say my part and leave, right? That'd be fantastic. I could visit the Sharrow Ave bakery again, check out that theater I spotted a few days ago, or... hm. Some third thing?

  My tail uncurls, my arms unfold, and I push myself off the wall. “Do you want to hear about the wards now? Everything's fresh in my mind.”

  I tap my head for emphasis, careful to dismiss the cw first. That's a mistake I've only made once.

  “Ah! Yes.” Gelson leans back from the Elm clock, reaching into her bag and removing a thin board to brace her parchment against. Her eyes bore into mine, gleaming with an odd fire. “Did you determine a method of entry or bypass?”

  “Somewhat.” Maybe I should've thought a bit more before opening my mouth. I'd decided... nothing, but I'd seen enough to make some assumptions. “The wards are in really good condition. Nobody broke through, and it looked complete— I could probably hit the triggers and set off the arm just fine.”

  She nods, scribbling onto the parchment. Are those even Imperial Common words? I barely see any vowels. “So they were bypassed or disabled?”

  “Or avoided altogether,” I add, resting a hand on my hip. “I could've figured out a bypass, so yeah, a bypass could've happened.”

  Wait no— I'm making myself a bigger suspect. Or maybe clearing myself of suspicion, by giving up this information? Adamantine, grant me sense, because I ck it today... though your padins would probably encourage honesty over self-service.

  And they'd be right. Ugh.

  “So it was a Mage or Mageblood, most likely...” Gelson frowns, pen frozen above the parchment. “I'll have to request records. The Church of the Restoration doesn't have any practicing Mages, by my memory.”

  So Helena doesn't count? Heh, that must aggravate her to no end. What does she do for work then? Tailoring, maybe. Hm.

  “Was there anything else?” Her brown eyes dodge my own, gleaming with thoughts unvoiced. “Otherwise, we shall proceed to Ain Hendrick's interview.”

  We.

  Me, in a room with a detective and a man I loathe. A rumble in my throat becomes a soft growl; I'd sooner choke than swallow the sound.

  So I speak over it, voice rendered faintly coarse. “Someone changed the wards in the st five years. There's more triggers now.”

  If Gelson notices, she doesn't care or comment. “And that's all?”

  “That's all.” I punctuate my words with a flex of my tail, curving it away. “I won't go to the testimony. Interview. Unless you're scared they'll hurt you—”

  “They won't, and I agree. Unless you want to be here, you would hinder the case... and you have done your job. We will need to reconvene before dinner to satisfy my duties, however.” Gelson cuts me off, and she doesn't sound presumptuous or even mad. No, her lips curve into a smile. “Good day to you, Dame Crawford. If you think of anything else, tell me then.”

  That's good enough for me. We say our goodbyes, sort out a meeting spot, and we go our separate ways.

  I don't even run into Helena on the way out.

  As I close the door though, stepping out of a crime and into the thinning mist, a thought wriggles its way in:

  Who stole the box, and why? Was it important? Was it something my parents wanted to hide? Or was Father just being his difficult self?

  ...who made the new wards?

  I shake my head, and the growl in my throat twists into a single snarl.

  “Not your problem, Ivy. Just focus on... maybe lunch, from the bakery.” I say aloud, tail shing along the cobbled stone with a click click click. “Or the theater, or... bah.”

  Bah, indeed.

  Origami_Narwhal