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 Iwatch 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 beenserving 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.
CHAPTER 9
CALLA
My stomach growls audibly as Mrs. Dalloway's wagon rattles to a stop outside the Whistle's office. The sound echoes in the evening air like a protest against the long day we've endured, and I press a hand to my abdomen in embarrassment.
