Istep back from Brakkor, smoothing my blouse and trying to regain some semblance of professional composure. My lips still tingle from his kiss, but the threatening letter on my desk serves as a stark reminder of what we're dealing with.
"Jamie!" I call through the door, my voice carrying more authority than I feel.
The sound of a chair scraping against wooden floors filters through the door, followed by Jamie's hurried footsteps.
"Close the door behind you," I instruct, moving to clear space on the large oak table that dominates one corner of my office. "And bring whatever notes you've been keeping on the supply issues."
Jamie's bright eyes dart between Brakkor and me, clearly sensing the shift in dynamics but wise enough not to comment. He retrieves a leather satchel from his desk and returns, shutting the door with a soft click.
"What's going on?" Jamie asks, settling into one of the chairs I've arranged around the table.
"You're officially part of this investigation now." I take my seat, folding my hands on the polished surface. "So, let's get to it."
Brakkor pulls out the remaining chair, his presence somehow both reassuring and unsettling. "Someone's been orchestrating all of this. The supply disruptions, the missing shipments, the land purchases—it's connected."
Jamie's eyes widen as he opens his satchel and withdraws several sheets of parchment covered in his careful script. He spreads the papers across the table, his ink-stained fingers pointing to different sections. "I compiled a list of every business that's reported problems."
He slides the top sheet toward me. "Maddie's bakery is missing her lavender honey, cherries, berry jams, and flour. But it's not just random shortages—these are specific ingredients she needs for her festival specialties."
"What else?" Brakkor asks, his voice tight with focus.
"Liora's apothecary." Jamie flips to another page. "She's missing critical herbs and elixirs. Not the common remedies anyone can brew, but the rare components she uses for healing potions during festival season when people travel from other towns."
I study the list, my stomach sinking as the scope becomes clear. "Mrs. Dalloway?"
"The general store's been hit hard. No grain, no oil, no glass. The glass shortage is particularly strange—she can't replace broken bottles or jars, which means other businesses can't store their goods properly. And Xander?" Jamie says, pausing for effect. "No grain for the livestock. Which means the horses and oxen that pull the festival carts and transport goods are going to be weakened just when they're needed most."
"And Alma's tailoring shop? I know something was mentioned about dyes," I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
"Missing dyes," Jamie says grimly. "The specific colors used for festival banners and ceremonial clothing."
Brakkor shifts forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Add Thornak's logging operation to that list."
Jamie's quill hovers over his parchment. "What's happening there?"
"Someone's been poaching his trees. Clean cuts, professional work, but unauthorized." Brakkor's jaw tightens. "It may not be a delivery, but I know it's connected somehow."
I watch Jamie scribble notes, his handwriting becoming increasingly urgent. The weight of what we're seeing settles over me like a heavy cloak.
Jamie sets down his quill and looks between us. "But who would want to sabotage Harvest Hollow? And why?"
Before either Brakkor or I can answer, I stand and move to the window overlooking the town square. Market stalls are already being set up for the day, vendors arranging their wares with the careful precision that speaks of generations of practice.
"There are going to be more," I say quietly. "More businesses affected, more shortages we haven't discovered yet."
"Almost certainly," Brakkor agrees. "This level of coordination doesn't happen overnight."
I turn back to face them, my mind already racing through the implications. "Jamie, I need you to expand that list. Visit every business owner in town if you have to."
I gather my satchel and wrap my cloak around my shoulders, the familiar weight of responsibility settling across my back. "Jonathan, Sarah—we're heading out to work on our articles."
Jonathan barely glances up from his meticulous notes about the upcoming guild elections. "Mind the weather. Clouds are building."
Sarah flutters her iridescent wings once, hovering near her desk. "Don't forget the lifestyle piece on festival preparations is due tomorrow."
"Already drafted," I reply, though the irony isn't lost on me—writing about festival preparations while investigating their potential sabotage.
The three of us step into the crisp morning air, cobblestones still damp with dew beneath our feet. The market square bustles with its usual energy, but I notice the subtle tension Jamie identified earlier. The produce stall displays fewer varieties than usual. The blacksmith's apprentice argues quietly with a supplier about delayed iron shipments.
