BRAKKOR
The enchanted press hums with residual magic as I approach, its bronze gears still warm from the day's work. Jamie hunches over a stack of proofs near the typesetting station, his ink-stained fingers sorting through festival announcements.
"Torres."
He jumps, nearly knocking over a bottle of correction fluid that glows faintly blue in the lamplight.
"Not quite." I lean against the press, feeling the gentle vibration of dormant enchantments through my shoulder. "Earlier today, you mentioned something about connections. Missing honey, missing cargo. What exactly did you mean?"
Jamie's eyes dart toward Calla's closed office door, then back to me. His hands fidget with the proof sheets.
"I shouldn't have said anything. Calla was right—it's just speculation without proof."
"Forget what Calla thinks for a minute." I keep my voice low, conversational. "Tell me what you observed."
He shifts his weight, clearly torn between curiosity and loyalty.
"Mrs. Dalloway came by yesterday morning, before you arrived. She was upset about a cargo delivery that never showed up—marked complete on the transport records but never actually delivered to her store."
"What kind of cargo?"
"Nothing special. Oils, glass, maybe a couple other things. Nothing particularly valuable, but items people count on this time of year."
I nod, filing away the details. The pattern grows clearer with each piece.
"And then this morning, Calla mentioned Maddie's honey delivery going missing. Same transport company, same discrepancy in the records."
Jamie's voice drops to barely above a whisper.
"It's probably nothing. Supply chains get complicated during festival season. Calla's handled situations like this before—she knows how to manage community concerns without creating panic."
"Patterns don't wait for permission, Torres."
His blonde eyebrows furrow.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean when you see smoke, you don't wait for someone in authority to tell you there might be fire." I straighten, decision crystallizing. "I'm going to follow this lead."
"But Calla assigned you to write about festival decorations."
A grin tugs at my mouth.
"Perfect cover story. Can't write about autumn decor without understanding the full festival preparation process. Transportation, vendor coordination, supply logistics—it's all connected."
I move toward the break area where Calla left the bakery box, my stomach reminding me I skipped lunch.
The croissants sit in neat rows, their golden surfaces still radiating warmth despite hours away from Maddie's ovens.
The residual magic from her enchanted baking equipment keeps them fresh, a clever bit of practical spellwork.
I grab one, surprised when heat seeps through the flaky pastry into my palm. The first bite releases layers of buttery flavor enhanced by whatever preservation charms Maddie weaves into her work. Rich, complex, infinitely better than the stale bread and questionable stew at the Copper Kettle Inn.
"Damn," I mutter around the pastry. "This is actually incredible."
Jamie watches me with a mixture of admiration and concern.
"You're really going to dig into this, aren't you? Even after Calla told you to drop it?"
"Especially after she told me to drop it." I finish the croissant, brushing crumbs from my jacket. "In my experience, when people get defensive about questions, it usually means the questions are worth asking."
The raven perches on Mrs. Dalloway's outstretched arm, its black feathers ruffled with agitation as it pecks at the scroll tied to its leg. The older woman's face flushes red beneath her graying hair.
"I don't care what your enchanted ledgers say—I never received those supplies!"
The raven caws once, a harsh sound that echoes off the stone walls of her modest shop. Its eyes gleam with an intelligence that suggests it understands every word but lacks the authority to do anything about them.
"Ma'am." I approach slowly, hands visible. Ravens can sense hostility, and an angry bird with magical messaging capabilities isn't something I want to deal with. "Sorry to interrupt."
Mrs. Dalloway turns, her weathered features pinched with frustration. She takes in my orcish appearance with the practiced assessment of someone who's dealt with all kinds of folk.
"If you're here about placing an order, I'm afraid my shelves are running a bit bare at the moment."
"Actually, I'm here about that." I nod toward the raven, which eyes me with suspicious intelligence. "Brakkor Vane, from the Whistle. I heard you've been having delivery troubles."
Her shoulders stiffen.
"The Whistle? I already told that young Torres boy everything. Just seasonal delays, happens sometimes."
The raven shifts on her arm, talons gripping tighter. Its head tilts as if listening to our conversation with more than casual interest.
"Right. Except you don't look like someone dealing with routine delays." I keep my voice calm, non-confrontational. "You look like someone who's been told her concerns don't matter."
Mrs. Dalloway's eyes narrow, studying my face for signs of mockery or dismissal. Finding neither, some of the tension leaves her posture.
"You really want to know? Fine." She gestures sharply at the raven. "Tell Harvest Valley Transport that Linda Dalloway disputes their delivery records. Again."
The bird caws once and launches itself skyward, disappearing over the rooftops with powerful wingbeats. Mrs. Dalloway watches it go with obvious frustration.
"Third time this month I've sent that message. Each time they send back the same response—delivery confirmed, case closed."
"What exactly went missing?"
She turns toward her shop, motioning for me to follow. The interior smells of dried herbs and old wood, with shelves that should be packed with goods standing conspicuously sparse.
"Glass bottles for the apothecary. Lamp oil for the autumn nights. Basic provisions people count on." Her voice grows bitter. "Nothing fancy, nothing that would catch a thief's eye. Just everyday supplies that keep this community running."
I scan the empty shelves, noting the gaps where merchandise should sit.
"When was the delivery supposed to arrive?"
"Two weeks ago." She moves behind her counter, rifling through a wooden box filled with papers. "But according to Harvest Valley Transport, it was delivered right on schedule."
Mrs. Dalloway pulls out a crumpled receipt, its edges worn from handling. The parchment bears official seals and stamps, all appearing legitimate at first glance.
"They even have my signature on file, saying I received everything in perfect condition."
I take the receipt, holding it up to the lamp light. The ink flows smoothly across most of the document, but something feels off about the signature line. The pressure varies inconsistently, and the magical seal shows subtle variations in color saturation.
"This signature—you're certain you didn't sign this?"
"I'd remember signing for supplies I never received." Her laugh holds no humor. "Especially when half my regular customers have been asking when I'll restock items that should have been here weeks ago."
I study the seal more closely. Most transport companies use standardized magical imprints that are nearly impossible to forge, but this one shows minute irregularities in the spell-binding that suggest replication rather than original casting.
"What did Harvest Valley Transport say when you contacted them directly?"
"That their records are magically verified and therefore accurate. That if I have concerns about my own memory or record-keeping, perhaps I should consult a healer about age-related confusion."
The condescension in her voice makes it clear she's repeating their exact words.
"Charming customer service."
"They suggested I was either mistaken or attempting fraud." Mrs. Dalloway's hands clench into fists. "Forty years I've run this shop, and they think I can't tell the difference between receiving a delivery and not receiving one."
I fold the receipt carefully, slipping it into my jacket pocket.
"Mind if I hold onto this for a while?"
"Keep it. Maybe fresh eyes will see something I've missed." She pauses, studying my face. "Though I'm not sure what a journalist can do that the transport company won't."
"Sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to ask the right questions of the wrong people."