BRAKKOR
The morning air predicts the crisp bite of autumn as I lean against the brick wall beside the Whistle's front door, watching Calla approach with her usual measured stride.
Her heels click against the cobblestones in a rhythm precise as a metronome, each step calculated and purposeful.
The brass key catches the early sunlight as she withdraws it from her leather satchel, and I find myself studying the graceful movement of her fingers as she slides it into the lock.
"Good morning," I say, pushing off from the wall. My eyes trail the elegant line of her navy blazer, the way it hugs her waist before falling in clean lines over her hips. No point pretending I'm not looking—we're past that kind of polite fiction now. "Ready to crack this thing wide open?"
She glances over her shoulder, one dark eyebrow arched in that way that's becoming familiar. The morning light catches the severe angles of her face, highlighting the intelligence in those dark eyes.
"This article isn't my only responsibility here, you know.
" She pushes the door open and steps inside, her voice carrying that crisp authority I'm beginning to find more attractive than annoying.
"I can't simply abandon everything else just because you've decided we should focus exclusively on this investigation. "
I follow her inside, crossing my arms as I lean against the doorframe. The scent of coffee and old paper fills the office, mixing with something distinctly her—something clean and sophisticated that makes me want to step closer.
"Still mad that I'm right," I tease, watching as she settles into her chair. Every movement is controlled, deliberate, like she's choreographed her entire existence.
Her fingers pause on the stack of morning mail, and when she looks up at me, there's fire in her eyes.
"Right now you're not anything but an insubordinate writer whom I have to babysit."
The words should sting, but instead they pull a genuine grin from me.
There's something intoxicating about the way she fights back now, the steel beneath that polished exterior.
My annoyance has waned in favor of something softer.
Most people either cower or try to charm their way around conflict.
Calla meets it head-on with the kind of sharp wit that could cut glass.
"Our first step should be talking to the transport company directly," I say, straightening. "Get answers from the source instead of dancing around the records."
She opens the first envelope, not looking up. "That would require a full day's trip. The main depot is three hours north."
"I did mention we'd be spending time together." I let my voice drop lower, watching for her reaction. "Don't think you can handle it?"
Her hand stills on the letter opener. For a moment, the only sound is the distant rattle of wheels and hooves on cobblestone and the soft tick of the old clock on the wall. When she finally lifts her chin to meet my gaze, there's something fierce and determined blazing in her expression.
"I can handle anything."
The challenge in her voice sends heat coursing through my veins. This woman—all sharp edges and controlled fire—is going to be the death of me. And I'm starting to think I wouldn't mind it one bit.
"Great," I say, pushing off from the doorframe. "Let's get going."
When she meets my eyes again, something in my chest constricts—a tightness that has nothing to do with the investigation and everything to do with the way morning light catches the amber flecks in her dark irises. I ignore the strange and foreign feeling, focusing instead on the task ahead.
She closes the envelope and sets it aside with deliberate precision. "We'll need to get a wagon."
"Mrs. Dalloway is already heading to the transport company to inquire about her missed delivery," I say, the pieces falling together with satisfying efficiency. "Her letters were never answered either."
Calla rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath, "How convenient."
She stands and smooths her blazer, every movement controlled despite the slight edge in her voice. "Well, we shouldn't keep Mrs. Dalloway waiting then."
Ten minutes later, we're bouncing in the wooden bed of a wagon while Mrs. Dalloway encourages her stubborn mule to pick up the pace.
The woman hasn't stopped talking since we climbed aboard—something about the baker's new apprentice and whether young Timmy Brightwater is sweet on the blacksmith's daughter.
"And then Granda Oltar says to me, 'Linda, that boy's got more sense than a turnip, but less charm than one too,'" Mrs. Dalloway continues, her voice carrying over the creak of wheels and clip of hooves on packed earth.
I find myself watching the way morning light plays across Calla's face, highlighting the elegant curve of her cheekbone and the subtle fullness of her lower lip. Her skin has that porcelain quality that speaks of careful living and good breeding, smooth and luminous in the golden sunlight.
As the sun climbs higher, I notice pink beginning to bloom across her complexion. Without thinking, I shift my position in the wagon, angling my broader frame to cast her in my shadow.
"Thank you," she murmurs, glancing up at me with something softer than her usual sharp assessment.
She remains quiet for the rest of the ride, content to listen to Mrs. Dalloway's endless stream of gossip while I steal glances at the way her dark hair escapes its careful arrangement in the country breeze.
We reach the transport depot around lunch time—a quaint cottage-like building surrounded by storage sheds and loading docks. I swing down from the wagon first, boots hitting packed dirt with a solid thud.
"I'll sort out whatever delivery issue you've had, Mrs. Dalloway," Calla says, gathering her skirts to climb down.
Her foot catches on the wagon's edge, and she pitches forward with a startled gasp. I catch her against my chest with a grunt, arms wrapping around her waist as her hands press flat against my shoulders for balance.
For a heartbeat, we're frozen like that—her face inches from mine, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes and feel the rapid flutter of her breath against my skin.
Mrs. Dalloway clears her throat pointedly from her perch on the wagon seat.
We spring apart like scalded cats, Calla's cheeks blazing crimson as she straightens her blazer with jerky movements. I ruffle a hand through my hair and clear my throat, avoiding the knowing look Mrs. Dalloway shoots us.
"Right. Inside then."
The depot's interior smells of dust and old wood, with shafts of sunlight streaming through grimy windows. Only one person occupies the space—an elderly elf hunched over a ledger, wire-rimmed spectacles sliding down his aquiline nose as he squints at columns of numbers.
"Good afternoon," Calla says, her professional composure restored. "I'm Calla Mercer. We're from Harvest Hollow."
The elf's pointed ears twitch, and I catch the flash of recognition in his pale eyes—followed immediately by something that looks suspiciously like panic.
"Now see here," he begins, spectacles nearly tumbling off as he straightens. "Those missing deliveries aren't my fault, I'll have you know. The orders were cancelled rightfully, and that confused shopkeeper shouldn't be blaming my office for her mistake."
The elf's defensive outburst hangs in the dusty air like smoke from a poorly tended fire. His pale hands flutter over the ledger, spectacles threatening to slide clean off his nose as he peers at us with obvious distress.
"There's no need to get defensive," Calla says, her voice carrying that smooth diplomatic tone I've heard her use to defuse tension at the office. "We're simply trying to understand what happened."
"Well, I received the letters from Harvest Hollow, certainly," the elf stammers, pushing his spectacles up with a trembling finger. "But I have no answers and nothing to say about it. Nothing at all."
The way his eyes dart toward the door sets my instincts on fire.
This isn't confusion—it's fear dressed up as helplessness.
I step forward, letting my full height and bulk cast a shadow across his desk.
The floorboards creak under my boots, and I watch satisfaction bloom in my chest as he shrinks back in his chair.
"Nothing to say?" I lean forward, bracing my hands on the edge of his desk. The wood groans under the pressure. "Funny how people always have nothing to say when their stories don't add up."
His pointed ears twitch like a rabbit sensing a predator. "I—I don't know what you're implying—"
"I'm not implying anything." I let my voice drop to that low rumble that's made more than one source reconsider their loyalty to whoever's paying them.
"I'm telling you that deliveries are being tampered with, people in Harvest Hollow could lose their livelihoods, and you're sitting here pretending you don't know why. "
The elf's face goes pale as parchment. "Please, I can't—"
"Can't what?" I press closer, watching his breathing quicken. "Can't tell the truth? Can't admit someone's been paying you to redirect shipments?"
"Brakkor." Calla's hand touches my arm, her fingers cool against the heat of my anger. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me, but her voice remains steady. "Please."
I straighten reluctantly, every instinct screaming that I'm letting him slip away. But when I glance at her, there's something in her expression—not disapproval, but strategy.
She moves to stand beside the elf's chair, her posture relaxed and non-threatening. "You've had such a wonderful relationship with Harvest Hollow over the years, haven't you? My father always spoke highly of this your reliability before he passed."
The tension in the elf's shoulders eases slightly. "Mr. Mercer was a good man. Fair in his dealings."
"He was." She perches on the edge of his desk with graceful ease, close enough to be conversational but not invasive. "Which is why this situation is so puzzling. These are people you've been serving faithfully for decades—Mrs. Dalloway, Maddie Quinn from the bakery. They're not troublemakers."
"No, no they're not." The elf's voice wavers with genuine regret. "Good people, all of them."
"So when they started writing you about these problems, you must have been concerned too."
"Well..." He glances toward the door again, then back at her kind expression. "There have been some unusual visitors lately. Wealthy-looking types, asking specific questions about delivery schedules on the road to Harvest Hollow."
My pulse quickens, but I force myself to remain still. Calla's approach is working where my aggression failed.
"What kind of questions?" she asks gently.
"When deliveries were made, which routes the drivers took, how often they stopped." His voice drops to a whisper. "And then two of the orders were cancelled. Signed cancellations, perfectly legal."
"Could we see those documents?" Calla asks. "Just to help us understand the timeline?"
The elf hesitates, then pulls out a thin folder. "I suppose... since you've come all this way..."
He spreads the papers across his desk—cancellation orders bearing the familiar signatures of Mrs. Dalloway and Maddie Quinn.
Forgeries. Damn good ones, but forgeries nonetheless.
We leave the depot with the copied documents tucked safely in Calla's leather satchel, partial confirmation of what we suspected burning like coal in my chest. Someone has been systematically intercepting deliveries using forged cancellation orders, then selling the goods elsewhere while the intended recipients scramble to understand what happened.
As Mrs. Dalloway's wagon jolts over a particularly deep rut, I find myself watching Calla's profile against the afternoon sky. Her diplomatic approach extracted more useful information in ten minutes than my intimidation tactics would have managed in an hour.
"Your way worked better," I admit, the words tasting foreign on my tongue.
She glances at me, one eyebrow arched in that way that's becoming dangerously familiar. "Shocking revelation."
"Don't get smug about it."
"Wouldn't dream of it." But the small smile playing at the corners of her mouth suggests otherwise.