"Actually, I'm here about that." I nod toward the raven, which eyes me with suspicious intelligence. "Brakkor Vane, from the Whistle. I heard you've been having delivery troubles."
Her shoulders stiffen.
"The Whistle? I already told that young Torres boy everything. Just seasonal delays, happens sometimes."
The raven shifts on her arm, talons gripping tighter. Its head tilts as if listening to our conversation with more than casual interest.
"Right. Except you don't look like someone dealing with routine delays." I keep my voice calm, non-confrontational. "You look like someone who's been told her concerns don't matter."
Mrs. Dalloway's eyes narrow, studying my face for signs of mockery or dismissal. Finding neither, some of the tension leaves her posture.
"You really want to know? Fine." She gestures sharply at the raven. "Tell Harvest Valley Transport that Linda Dalloway disputes their delivery records. Again."
The bird caws once and launches itself skyward, disappearing over the rooftops with powerful wingbeats. Mrs. Dalloway watches it go with obvious frustration.
"Third time this month I've sent that message. Each time they send back the same response—delivery confirmed, case closed."
"What exactly went missing?"
She turns toward her shop, motioning for me to follow. The interior smells of dried herbs and old wood, with shelves that should be packed with goods standing conspicuously sparse.
"Glass bottles for the apothecary. Lamp oil for the autumn nights. Basic provisions people count on." Her voice grows bitter. "Nothing fancy, nothing that would catch a thief's eye. Just everyday supplies that keep this community running."
I scan the empty shelves, noting the gaps where merchandise should sit.
"When was the delivery supposed to arrive?"
"Two weeks ago." She moves behind her counter, rifling through a wooden box filled with papers. "But according to Harvest Valley Transport, it was delivered right on schedule."
Mrs. Dalloway pulls out a crumpled receipt, its edges worn from handling. The parchment bears official seals and stamps, all appearing legitimate at first glance.
"They even have my signature on file, saying I received everything in perfect condition."
I take the receipt, holding it up to the lamp light. The ink flows smoothly across most of the document, but something feels off about the signature line. The pressure varies inconsistently, and the magical seal shows subtle variations in color saturation.
"This signature—you're certain you didn't sign this?"
"I'd remember signing for supplies I never received." Her laugh holds no humor. "Especially when half my regular customers have been asking when I'll restock items that should have been here weeks ago."
I study the seal more closely. Most transport companies use standardized magical imprints that are nearly impossible to forge, but this one shows minute irregularities in the spell-binding that suggest replication rather than original casting.
"What did Harvest Valley Transport say when you contacted them directly?"
"That their records are magically verified and therefore accurate. That if I have concerns about my own memory or record-keeping, perhaps I should consult a healer about age-related confusion."
The condescension in her voice makes it clear she's repeating their exact words.
"Charming customer service."
"They suggested I was either mistaken or attempting fraud." Mrs. Dalloway's hands clench into fists. "Forty years I've run this shop, and they think I can't tell the difference between receiving a delivery and not receiving one."
I fold the receipt carefully, slipping it into my jacket pocket.
"Mind if I hold onto this for a while?"
"Keep it. Maybe fresh eyes will see something I've missed." She pauses, studying my face. "Though I'm not sure what a journalist can do that the transport company won't."
"Sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to ask the right questions of the wrong people."
