“I think you remember meeting Ella.” He straightened and reached across the counter, sliding a worn ledger over the surface. Flipping the booklet open to the marked page, he read the items. I knew what he’d find there, and I burned from humiliation, caught in my lie. He tapped the paper with his index finger. “Your sales record from yesterday has two entries. One in the morning, and one in the afternoon. That’s not a lot to remember.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “If you’d rather have this conversation in my office while I have my men conduct a thorough search of your shop, it’s up to you. Who knows what they’ll uncover? A witch must have secrets.”
A direct hit. I had plenty of secrets, not to mention an underground crawlspace containing what some might consider a morally gray area of potions. My gaze darted to the hatch in the floor. Derrick caught me in the act and smirked. He took a step toward the hatch, then another. Each thud of his boots sounded like a cell door slamming closed. Witches really weren’t suited for prison.
“All right, fine!” I grabbed his sleeve, pulling on the material until he stopped heading for the crawlspace. “Ella was here. It was late, and I tried to turn her away, but she was insistent I help her.”
“I’m listening.”
Slumping into the chair, I continued. “She offered to trade a family heirloom for a dress and a pair of shoes. I cast an illusion spell. It was an innocent—and legal, I might add—transaction.”
Derrick studied my face as if the action alone could unearth the smallest lie. Maybe it could. I felt thoroughly exposed beneath his stare.
“So, you used your magic and sent her off to the ball?”
I inclined my head, imitating his sarcastic demeanor from before. “I’m a witch, Detective. It’s whatIdo.”
The corner of his mouth hitched, and a tiny thrill shot through my veins. One point to the witch. He hadn’t expected me to throw his words back in his face. My victory dimmed when he made another notation in his book, this one longer. I struggled to contain my curiosity. What was he writing about me? Probably nothing good.
He snapped the journal closed, making it impossible to find out, and eyed me warily. “Mind explaining why you were in your shop last night and not at the ball? The royal family invited every eligible woman in the kingdom. You’re the right age, unmarried. It begs the question.”
“Not every eligible woman is interested in marrying a prince. Especially not when it’s based on a single encounter in the presence of hundreds of competitors. There are better ways to find a wife, Detective.”
“Is that so?” His gaze traveled over the shabby carpet, a broken shelf I hadn’t gotten around to fixing, and lastly, over my wrinkled gown. I resisted the urge to smooth the fabric. My clothes might not be the latest fashion or ironed, but that didn’t make me a leech looking to climb to the top of the social ladder.
“Not even if it could improve your circumstances?” he asked.
His insinuation made my back straighten, and a swell of anger hid the prick of hurt from his demeaning remark. “My circumstances are fine, Detective.” They were far from it, but I’d drink my worst potion before I revealed that nugget of truth.
Hearing my indignant tone, Derrick retrieved his notebook. If he made another notation, I swore…
“Did you two discuss anything personal? How would you describe her state of mind?”
Thrown by his change of topic, I stumbled over my answer. Was he purposely trying to confuse me? I gathered my thoughts, thinking back to Ella’s demeanor.
“Well, she was desperate after I refused to help her. That’s why I reconsidered. She seemed happy when I cast the spell but it only lasted a moment. It felt like she wanted to tell me something but changed her mind. I’d say she was upset when she left, almost resigned. I had a bad feeling.”
“A bad feeling?”
“Yes, an omen. As a witch, there are times I feel negative energy on a physical level. There are crystals that amplify emotion. I planned on using one to pinpoint—”
He sighed and pushed away from the counter. Irritation rolled off him in waves. His thumb and forefinger rubbed the bridge of his nose as if a headache beat behind his eyelids.
“That’s all for now. If you remember anything else, you can contact me at the agency.”
His dismissal stung. I’d gone from character witness to crackpot in seconds. “You think I’m mad, don’t you? All of this,”—I waved my hand around the shop—“the spells, the supernatural, you don’t believe it’s worth your time.”
Derrick’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “I believe in facts. Evidence. Potions and spells don’t catch killers. You dabble in illusion and feed on people’s weaknesses.”
I pushed out of the chair, my face hot. “That’s not fair!”
His eyes darkened in challenge. “Is that so?” He strode across the wooden beams, his boots echoing with each step until he came to a stop at the hatch in the floor. The air crackled with tension. “Prove it. You say you have nothing to hide? Let’s see why you’re determined to keep me out of your cellar.”
My mouth opened and closed in protest. How had our conversation shifted so quickly? Why had I baited him? His beliefs didn’t matter. He wasn’t the only one in the kingdom who found supernatural abilities to be a waste of time. Over the years, people relied on magic less and less, yet his indifference hurt.
“It’s mostly cobwebs and broken furniture.”
“Open it, or my men conduct a search.”
I swallowed my denial and lifted the hatch. Derrick lit a lantern and disappeared down the steps, leaving me to hover on the landing, biting my thumbnail and praying he wouldn’t look too close.
