"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."
