Calla
Jonathan's article sprawls across my desk—three pages of meandering prose about the upcoming apple harvest that somehow manages to avoid mentioning apples for the first two paragraphs.
I grip my editing quill tighter than necessary, scratching through another flowery description of "autumn's golden embrace. "
The morning light streams through the Whistle's tall windows, casting geometric patterns across the parchment. I focus on each word with deliberate intensity, as if Jonathan's overwrought metaphors might somehow drown out the persistent ache in my chest.
Brakkor hasn't appeared this morning. His desk remains untouched, yesterday's notes still scattered exactly where he left them. The coffee I brewed sits cooling in his usual mug—a foolish gesture I refuse to acknowledge.
"The orchards whisper secrets of harvest abundance," I read aloud, my voice dripping with disdain. "Jonathan, for the love of—"
A sharp rap against the window interrupts my editorial massacre.
A large raven perches on the sill, its obsidian feathers gleaming in the sunlight.
Ravens deliver messages throughout the valley, but they usually go to the courier station.
This one taps the glass with its beak, fixing me with an intelligent stare that suggests it won't be ignored.
I cross to the window and push it open. The raven hops onto my desk without invitation, scattering Jonathan's pages with an imperious flutter of wings. A sealed letter is tied to its leg with crimson ribbon—expensive parchment, the kind used for formal correspondence.
"Well, aren't you particular about your delivery methods."
The raven cocks its head, watching as I untie the ribbon. The moment the letter comes free, the bird settles onto my inkwell like a feathered gargoyle, clearly intending to wait until I read whatever message it's carried.
The parchment crackles as I break the wax seal. No identifying mark, no family crest or business sigil. Just smooth red wax pressed with what looks like a leaf pattern.
Inside, a single line of text written in careful script:
Call it off, or any chance of a harvest will fail with you.
My blood turns to winter water. The letter trembles in my grip as I read it again, hoping the words might rearrange themselves into something less threatening. They don't.
The raven caws once, sharp and grating, before launching itself through the window and disappearing into the morning sky.
I sink into my chair, the letter still clutched in my hand. This isn't about missing shipments anymore, or even the systematic financial pressure we've been tracking. Someone knows about our investigation—and they're threatening the harvest festival itself.
The festival that employs half the town's seasonal workers. That brings in merchants and visitors from across the valley. That provides the economic foundation for Harvest Hollow's entire autumn season.
Without the festival, businesses like Maddie's bakery won't just struggle—they'll collapse entirely. The vendors who've spent months preparing their wares will lose everything. The community bonds that strengthen during our most sacred celebration will fracture.
My father's voice echoes in my memory: The paper is the town's shield, Calla. Never forget that.
But how do I shield against something I can barely see? How do I protect a town from enemies who hide behind shell companies and stolen supplies?
The letter's parchment feels expensive between my fingers, too fine for random threats. This came from someone with resources, someone who understands exactly how much damage they can inflict.
I fold the letter with deliberate precision, tucking it into my desk drawer. My hands remain steady, but my pulse hammers against my throat. The crimson ribbon curls like a serpent around my finger before I drop it into the same drawer.
"Jamie!"
My voice carries across the room with enough authority to make Sarah gasp and Jonathan's pointed ears twitch. Jamie's chair scrapes against the wooden floor as he springs up from his desk, nearly knocking over his coffee mug in his haste.
"Yes, Calla?"
He appears in my doorway, blonde hair askew and ink stains decorating his fingers like badges of dedication. His bright eyes dart between my face and the open drawer, clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere.
"Close the door behind you."
Jamie's expression sharpens. He's not so green to know that closed-door conversations mean something significant. The latch clicks with finality.
"Remember those supply inconsistencies you mentioned Mrs. Dalloway having? The ones I told you to let rest?"
"The rumors about missing deliveries?" Jamie leans forward, his journalistic instincts awakening. "You said they were too vague to pursue."
"I was wrong." I slide the letter across my desk. "Brakkor took the liberty of looking into the lead, and, well, your original instincts were correct. This isn't random disruption—it's coordinated."
Jamie pulls out his notebook, the same battered leather journal he's carried since his first day. His fingers flip through pages covered in his cramped handwriting, pausing at sections marked with urgent asterisks.
"I've been tracking it quietly," he admits, a flush creeping up his neck. "Even after you told me to drop it. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong."
"Show me."
He spreads several pages across my desk, pointing to lists written in different colored inks.
"Nearly every shopkeeper I've talked to mentions problems. Mrs. Rindle only received half her dye shipment—marked as complete delivery, but missing the deep crimsons and golds essential for festival banners. "
My stomach tightens. "What else?"
"Xander's grain delivery arrived three days late, and when it did come, two sacks were torn open. He assumed rough handling, but the tears looked deliberate—clean cuts, not accident damage." Jamie flips to another page. "There's a few more, too."
I study his notes, recognizing the methodical approach that mirrors my own investigative style. "These aren't random mishaps."
Jamie's voice gains momentum as he connects the dots aloud. "Someone's systematically sabotaging festival preparations while maintaining plausible deniability."
The scope crystallizes before me like frost forming on glass. Grain for the livestock, dyes, decorations—things traditionally needed to transform Harvest Hollow into the vibrant celebration that draws visitors from across the valley.
"If the festival fails, the town's economy collapses." The words taste bitter. "Seasonal workers lose their income. Vendors lose their investments. The reputation we've built over generations crumbles."
Jamie nods grimly. "And whoever sent this letter knows exactly what they're doing."
I settle back in my chair, feeling the weight of my father's legacy pressing against my shoulders. For years, I've managed problems quietly, contained threats before they could spread. But this reaches beyond my ability to control through careful editing and diplomatic conversations.
The letter's message echoes in my mind: Call it off, or your harvest fails.
Call what off? Our investigation? Our attempts to uncover the truth?
I open the drawer again, staring at the crimson ribbon.
The weight of everything settles on my shoulders like a stone cloak. This investigation has grown beyond my ability to manage alone, sprouting tentacles that reach into every corner of Harvest Hollow's foundation. The threatening letter proves we've struck something vital—and dangerous.
My chest tightens at the obvious solution.
Brakkor would know exactly how to handle this.
He'd probably already mapped out a dozen angles of attack, ready to charge forward with that relentless intensity that both infuriates and impresses me.
But the thought of approaching him now feels like swallowing glass.
I can still feel the phantom weight of his hands on my skin, the way his voice softened when we were alone in my kitchen. The memory burns alongside the ache of his sudden retreat, his careful distance that cuts deeper than any harsh word.
No. I won't chase him. I won't beg for his professional expertise while he pretends nothing happened between us.
Jamie watches me with the patience of someone who recognizes internal struggle, his notebook still open on my desk. His eager expression reminds me that I'm not as alone as I feel.
"Jamie." I straighten in my chair, decision crystallizing. "I'm bringing you in on this properly. Full partnership."
His eyes widen, the notebook nearly slipping from his grip. "You mean—?"
"I mean this is real journalism now. Not festival coverage or market reports." I lean forward, meeting his gaze directly. "Whoever's behind this knows we're investigating. They're threatening the harvest festival itself—the economic heart of this town."
Jamie's hand trembles slightly as he grips his quill. "What do you need me to do?"
"You've already proven you have good instincts." I gesture to his scattered notes. "Your work here is solid foundation."
The flush spreads across his cheekbones, but his voice remains steady. "I won't let you down."
"I know you won't." I stand, pacing to the window where the raven delivered its unwelcome message. "We need to talk to Maddie and Thornak. They've both experienced the supply disruptions firsthand."
Jamie flips to a fresh page, quill poised. "What are we looking for specifically?"
"Patterns. Details about what's missing versus what's being delivered. Timing, quantities, any unusual requests or changes in routine." I turn to face him.
Jamie scribbles notes with renewed energy, his earlier hesitation replaced by focused determination. "When do we start?"
"Now." I gather my cloak from its hook, the familiar weight settling around my shoulders.
"This feels different," Jamie says as he closes his notebook. "Important."
"It is." I pause. "And Jamie? This stays between us for now. No casual mentions to Sarah or Jonathan. We don't know who else might be watching."
His expression sharpens with understanding. "Understood."