Sunday mornings were for scrying.

 

Tilda loved to start her day off with her crystal ball, a strong cup of Earl Grey (or English Breakfast if she was running low), and the Sunday morning crossword, taking a look-see of the coming week. Sure, the future wasn’t always clear, but it was nice to have at least a hazy idea of what was in store. But this particular overcast Sunday morning, something had gone terribly, horribly, wrong with the universe.

 

Tilda’s crystal ball was missing.

 

After rummaging through the chest where she kept her magical items, Tilda turned to her panicked attentions to her closet, her pantry, and, in a fit of desperation, her refrigerator. Still, the crystal ball stubbornly refused to be found.

 

She sighed. If she had her crystal ball, she could try to scry to find out where it was. Then again, if she had it, there would be no need to scry anymore. She thought back to one of last week’s visions, where she’d seen herself desperately combing through her apartment, clearly searching for something.

 

Damnations. If only she had known what was going to go missing.

 

After an unfruitful morning of turning her apartment inside-out, Tilda finally came to a conclusion. The crystal ball hadn’t gone missing. It had been stolen.

 

She sighed again. There was no helping it. She would have to see Constable Brinsdale.

 

~ * ~

 

Thirty minutes later, Tilda was still sighing. Chief Constable Brinsdale, head of Miralys law enforcement, sat across from her, his legs resting on the large oak desk that was between them. He seemed altogether far too at ease for a person charged with keeping order, and he almost certainly wasn’t taking her seriously.

 

Perhaps it was Tilda’s youth. Most people didn’t take her seriously. They were used to wizened wizards and witches stooped with age, not a baby-faced apothecary fresh out of the University of Arcane Arts.

 

“Are you sure you haven’t forgotten it somewhere?” Brinsdale stroked his chin. There were a few wisps of scraggly hair there. If someone were to close one eye and squint really hard, perhaps they could fool themselves into thinking it was a beard.

 

 “I’m sure,” Tilda replied wearily.

 

“You’re sure?” Brinsdale raised a bushy eyebrow. It was almost as though all the hair from his chin had decided to take up residence above his eyes, Tilda thought uncharitably.

 

“I’ve looked everywhere,” Tilda said. “Besides, I always put it back in the same spot after I use it. I don’t see why it would be anywhere else.”

 

“Oh, you might think that,” Brinsdale waggled a finger at her. “But I do it all the time. You get home after a long day, you put down your briefcase, take off your coat, and pour yourself a nice glass of brandy. Your keys get lost in the shuffle, and the next time you need to go out, you can’t find the blasted buggers anywhere!” Brinsdale guffawed.

 

Tilda wasn’t quite sure what the joke was, but to humor him, she tittered. “To be fair, constable, I’m not you.”

 

“Oh, all right.” Brinsdale gave up the joking demeanor and pulled out a form. “Here. Fill this out, and I’ll look into it. Have there been signs of a recent break-in at your place?”

 

“No.” Tilda grabbed the proffered pencil and scribbled furiously, filling in all the details. It was round. It was made of crystal. It was about the size of a basketball. No, wait, a soccer ball. Or a volleyball? She’d never been much good at sports.

 

“Can you think of why someone would steal a crystal ball from you?”

 

“Not really,” Tilda replied. “They’re not all that valuable. And in the hands of someone who doesn’t know the right incantations, a crystal ball is nothing more than a pretty paperweight.”

 

“Oh, is that so? Interesting,” Brinsdale said, in a tone that suggested he thought it was anything but. “Either way, I’ll keep my eyes peeled. Just drop the form in the Missing Items Reports tray on Secretary Linda’s desk. She’ll handle it.”

 

Tilda didn’t need a crystal ball to know it—the tray may as well be a recycling bin. Still, she handed Linda the report after leaving Brinsdale’s office.

 

“If it’s any consolation, you’re the second one this week,” Linda remarked after giving the form a quick once-over. “Nico the Enchanter came in on Tuesday, wanted us to file a report for his missing tea. Silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Thornberry’s is down the street, and they’ve got looseleaf for less than fifty cents an ounce.”

 

~ * ~

 

“So, someone’s been nicking things from you too, eh?” Nico didn’t waste any time with preamble. Tilda liked that about him. The enchanter was nearly a whole head taller than her, with piercing blue eyes and graying hair that fell to his shoulders.

 

She didn’t know him very well. He had been in Miralys for a long time; far longer than her scant two years. While she’d seen him from time to time, they had never had an extended conversation.

 

She had always meant to see him at one point or another, but had never quite found the time. Some of her potions required so much stirring that her arms ached for days afterward. An enchanted stirring spoon would have made all the difference.

 

“‘Bout time we had a chat. Come on in.”

 

The first thing Tilda noticed was that Nico’s living quarters were crammed to the brim. His shelves spilled over with books, spell components were scattered across the countertops, and today’s newspaper lay on a beat-up dining table. Nico nodded at the table, and Tilda took it as a cue to sit.

 

“Coffee or tea?” he asked.

 

“It’s five o’clock in the evening,” she said. “I’ll never fall asleep if I have caffeine now.”

 

“Coffee for me and hibiscus tea for you, then,” Nico said, pulling out two mugs. “So, what’d they take?”

 

“My crystal ball,” she said. “And Brinsdale wasn’t much help. He went through all the motions, but I can tell that he thinks I’ve just misplaced it somewhere.”

 

“It was the same for me,” Nico harrumphed. “He didn’t even bother to ask me for a description, just pointed me towards Thornberry’s and told me to buy some more if I needed it so badly. Never you mind that it takes several spell components and two days’ worth of time to properly enchant a new set of leaves.”

 

Nico slid into the chair across from Tilda, handing her a steaming cup. Tilda wrapped her hands around it, savoring the pleasant warmth that seeped into her skin.

 

“This all is suspicious,” Nico said. “Very suspicious indeed. Though I shouldn’t be so surprised. The last time I did a reading, the leaves told me something bad would happen to the magicians of Miralys. I would’ve warned you, but ‘something bad’ is so generic it’s damn near useless. Anyways. You know what reading the future is like.”

 

He set his mug down. It was already empty, and as Tilda took a sip from her own cup, she idly wondered how much caffeine he subjected his body to every day.

 

An idea had been steeping in the back of her mind ever since Linda’s comment. She debated whether to bring it up, or if she was simply jumping to conclusions. Growing up, she’d always been told she had an overactive imagination, and she didn’t want Nico to think poorly of her.

 

“Well, what is it?” Nico exclaimed. Tilda flinched at the unexpected sound, nearly dropping her drink.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Nico chuckled. “I can tell something’s cooking in that head of yours. Care to enlighten me?”

 

“I’m wondering if someone doesn’t want us to know what’s coming,” Tilda said hesitantly. “If someone is planning something bad. Why else would they want to prevent us from seeing the future?”

 

“Now that’s an idea,” Nico said, drumming his fingers on the table. “We’re the only two magicians in town. If they take away our divining tools, we have no way to see what they’re planning.”

 

“But who could it be?” Tilda mused, warming to her theme. “I can’t think of anyone in Miralys who would start trouble. The most I’ve ever seen Constable Brinsdale do is break up a bar fight.”

 

“I was thinking the same thing,” Nico replied, his brow furrowed. “It’s a quiet town. Has been for as long as I’ve lived here. And for someone to pilfer all the divining tools in town…” he trailed off. “Well, I’ll bet my Uncle Joe’s lucky duck they’re not planning a surprise birthday party for me. If only we knew who it was, or what they have in mind.”

 

The two of them fell silent. Tilda stared deeply into her cup, contemplating the possibilities. It was too bad the tea hadn’t been made with Nico’s divining leaves; otherwise, the answer might have stared back at her.

 

As it was, both tea and future looked the same: murky.

 

~ * ~

 

The overhead bell gave a cheery tinkle as Tilda pushed open the door to Jenny Larkin’s bookshop.

 

Together, Tilda and Nico had come up with a plan. He would try to enchant a new set of divining leaves, and Tilda would gather information in town. After making a list of people who had been to both of their abodes, Tilda had headed off to question the potential suspects.

 

Unfortunately, every time Tilda knocked on anyone’s front door, saying she just wanted to ask a few questions about her missing crystal ball and oh, it wouldn’t take up more than five minutes of their time, thank you very much, people tended to clam up. She hadn’t gotten any useful information yet, and she hoped Nico was making more progress than she was.

 

Jenny was the last person on her list. The shop smelled of parchment and springtime, and Tilda inhaled deeply, relishing the scent.

 

“Tilda!” Jenny emerged from a door behind the counter, smiling warmly. “Thanks so much for the other day. Little Linda’s back to climbing trees and enacting battles on the playground. Fit as a fiddle.”

 

“Glad to hear it,” Tilda replied. She took a deep breath. Best to get it over with quickly. “I’m not here to buy a book,” she confessed. “My crystal ball’s gone missing, and I was wondering if you saw it when you were over. I’m trying to figure out when exactly it disappeared.”

 

Jenny tapped a finger absentmindedly against her chin. “Where would it have been?”

 

“On the mantel over the fireplace. That’s where it’s always been,” Tilda paused, reconsidering. “That is, until it wasn’t.”

 

“Then no, I don’t think I remember seeing it, “Jenny said. “Though now that you mention it, I had a copy of ‘Magic for Beginners’ that was stolen today.”

 

“Stolen?” Tilda snapped to attention, alarmed. “Did you report it?”

 

“Well, you know how Brinsdale is,” Jenny said, a scowl marring her face. “He never takes any of us seriously. Why waste my time filling out a report he won’t even read? I just count myself lucky it wasn’t worth too much. I’ll be more careful about minding the front of the shop in the future.”

 

Tilda chewed on her lip. She made small talk with Jenny for a few more minutes, but her mind was elsewhere. She was sure of it: somewhere out there, someone was brewing a nice hot cup of trouble.

 

~ * ~

 

The sun was setting, and as Tilda headed home, her shadow stretched long in the rays of dying light. She kicked a pebble and watched it skid off into the distance. She had remarkably little to show for her days’ efforts, and more questions than answers.

 

Who had stolen the divination tools? Were they the same person who had taken the book? And could multiple people be involved? When making their list of suspects, she and Nico had assumed the person who’d taken her crystal ball was the same as the one who had taken his tea leaves. But it was entirely possible that multiple culprits were working together.

 

Tilda was nearly halfway home when suddenly, she stopped in her tracks. Something wasn’t right. She frowned, sniffing the air.

 

There.

 

The sweet summer air carried the faint scent of something bitter. Something burnt. The blood in Tilda’s veins turned to ice. She knew that smell.

 

Brimstone.

 

Following her nose, she made her way to Scribe Adams’s little cottage. The smell was stronger here, and it was absolutely unmistakable. Ugly black smoke seeped out from one of the windows.

 

Demons.

 

Tilda’s mind raced. Only someone very foolish or very powerful would be reckless enough to summon a demon, and the fact the summoner couldn’t mask the sulfurous smell made her suspect it was the former.

 

But why would Scribe Adams be summoning a demon? He had always been nice to her, and she had never heard any ill gossip about him.

 

Regardless of his reasons, she was ill-equipped to deal with a demon on her own. The constabulary closed an hour before curfew, and if she ran, she would be able to get there in time. Brinsdale had to believe her once he saw the evidence with his own eyes.

 

~ * ~

 

After running at full speed for several minutes, Tilda managed to catch Constable Brinsdale right as he was locking up the constabulary. Her calves screamed at her in protest; she hadn’t done such vigorous exercise in quite some time.

 

“Tilda? What’s wrong?” Brinsdale’s eyebrows shot upwards as he took in her disheveled appearance.

 

“Scribe Adams is summoning a demon,” Tilda gasped, trying to catch her breath.

 

“Summoning a demon?” Brinsdale’s look of alarm faded to a scowl. “That’s a pretty serious accusation. Do you have any evidence?”

 

“I smelled brimstone coming from his cottage,” Tilda answered.

 

Brinsdale’s scowl deepened. “Look, I can’t just burst into someone’s house and arrest them just because you think something smells funny.”

 

Tilda bit back a sharp retort. “Well, maybe we could do a neighborly check on him? There was an awful lot of smoke coming out of his windows.”

 

“Can’t you go yourself? It’s been a long day. After you stopped by, I had to rescue the Woods’s runaway cat that was stuck up a tree. Then Farmer Jacobs’s sheep got loose, and I spent all afternoon rounding them up. I’m ready to go home.”

 

Ready to go home and drink brandy, no doubt, Tilda thought sourly. But if she said that, he would only get more defensive and give her a harder time.

 

“Constable Brinsdale,” Tilda said. “Someone has stolen all the divining tools in town so we magicians cannot see the future. At the same time, a thief pilfered a book on how to do magic from Jenna. To add to that, it sounds like many of the animals in town are acting up. And Scribe Adams’s house smells of brimstone.” She raised a finger with each point, emphasizing the preponderance of evidence. “Don’t you see? All of these clues are pointing in the same direction; Adams is messing around with demonic powers beyond his control.”

 

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Brinsdale replied wearily. “First of all, why didn’t Jenna report the stolen book? Even then, no ‘How-To’ book is going to have instructions on forbidden magic. Also, animals are always acting up. If you had a familiar, you would know it’s nothing out of the ordinary for a cat to find trouble.”

 

He had a point. But still. Tilda felt like she was onto something, and she certainly didn’t want to confront a demon on her own.

 

“If nothing comes out of it, I promise I’ll stop bothering you,” Tilda pleaded. “And isn’t Scribe Adams’s place close to where you live? It won’t be any trouble at all. And if I’m wrong, I’ll get a new crystal ball and you won’t hear from me again, I promise.”

 

“Fine,” Constable Brinsdale grudgingly acquiesced. “But only because it’s on my way home.”

 

~ * ~

 

The candles were lit.

 

Scribe Adams wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. The smell of rosemary hung heavy in the air. He had opened the windows and aired out the smoke from his previous failure, and everything was ready. Everything was perfect. Well, at least as perfect as he could get it. He was new to these sorts of things.

 

All that was left was to wait for his visitor. Filled with nervous anticipation, Scribe Adams paced back and forth on his kitchen floor.

 

And then came a knock on the door.

 

~ * ~

 

“Tilda? Constable Brinsdale?” Scribe Adams looked back and forth between the two of them. “What the devil are you doing here?”

 

“We just wanted to check on you. To make sure everything was alright.” Tilda fidgeted. “And, well, there was an awful lot of smoke earlier, and something didn’t smell quite right.” The stink of brimstone was lighter now, masked by a fresh herbal scent. Tilda inhaled deeply. Rosemary, to purify and cleanse evil energies. At least Adams was taking some precautions.

 

“Everything is fine, and as you can see, I’ve got it all under control,” Scribe Adams replied snappily. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you could all leave. I’m busy tonight.”

 

“Wait!” Tilda interjected. “Adams. Smoke was spilling out of your windows half an hour ago. Your cottage reeked of brimstone, and I’ll bet you’re trying to hide the smell with rosemary. Tell us the truth. What are you planning?”

 

Scribe Adams’s pale face colored. “Who gave you the right to question me? This isn’t any of your business. And you,” Adams continued, turning towards Brinsdale. “Just because you’re a constable doesn’t mean you can go barging into people’s homes. Don’t you have actual work to do?”

 

Brinsdale’s face turned an embarrassed red, but before he could say anything, Tilda hastily cut in. “Come on. You’re clearly very nervous about something and want us out of here as quickly as possible.”

 

“Oh, all right!” Like a kettle violently bubbling over, Adams erupted. “If you really must know, I’m making dinner for Betty Williams.” He strode towards the kitchen and came back with a large tray.

 

“I burned some brussels sprouts, and yes, I’m trying to cover up the smell, and yes, I’m nervous, and you two need to leave right now because she’ll be here any minute!” Adams thrust the tray at Tilda, which contained a sorry collection of the blackened vegetables. “Is this proof enough for you?”

 

It was clear the brimstone smell was coming from the tray. In hindsight, it all made sense—cruciferous vegetables contained an overwhelming amount of sulfur.

 

Tilda was thunderstruck. “I—I didn’t—” She stopped, temporarily lost for words.

 

Brinsdale shouldered her aside, stepping between her and Scribe Adams. “I think you’ve done enough for today. Sorry, Adams. Tilda’s crystal ball went missing and Nico can’t find his green tea, and suddenly she thinks there’s a nefarious plot going on. We won’t bother you again.”

 

He pulled the door open, gesturing for Tilda to leave. Shamefaced, she murmured an apology to Adams as she stepped into the brisk night.

 

Once they were outside, Brinsdale turned on Tilda. “Well, all I can say is ‘I told you so’,” he said. “And remember, you said that you’d leave me alone. I don’t want to hear from you about this again.”

 

Too embarrassed to meet Brinsdale’s eyes, Tilda muttered a surrender and quickly headed home. It was a short walk, but she still had time to torment herself with all the what-ifs. How had she made such a muddle of things? She had been so sure Scribe Adams was up to no good. But instead of bringing the culprit to justice, she’d made a fool of herself. And now, both Adams and Brinsdale were angry at her.

 

What was she missing? Tilda felt as though she had all of the pieces of the puzzle, but she couldn’t quite figure out how to put them together.

 

That night, after many hours of tossing and turning in bed, Tilda fell into an uneasy sleep, her dreams filled with burnt brussels sprouts, crystal balls, and tea leaves.

 

The next morning brought clarity. She leapt out of bed, blood boiling. The pieces had finally fallen into place. Everything was crystal-clear, and she knew who was behind it all. Grabbing her bag, Tilda stormed off with single-minded intent, set on bringing the culprit to justice.

 

~ * ~

 

“Oh, Tilda! Did you find your ball?”

 

Tilda ignored Linda’s query. The door to Brinsdale’s office was open, and she marched in, stopping directly in front of the man.

 

“You.”

 

Brinsdale looked up at Tilda. “It’s you again. What do you want? I thought you said you’d leave me alone.” He groaned, massaging his temples with his fingers.

 

Tilda kept her eyes trained on Brinsdale, watching his body language. Beneath his false exterior of exasperation, she saw the telltale signs of a lie in the making—a quickening of the breath, a reddening of the ears, and an unwillingness to meet her eyes.

 

“It was you all along. You stole Nico’s leaves. You took my crystal ball. Nico told me you didn’t ask for a description, and yet, yesterday, you remarked that Nico couldn’t find his green tea. There are hundreds of varieties of tea. How did you know it was green?”

 

“Now, Tilda,” Brinsdale said, furtively glancing at the open door. “Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions again?”

 

Could she be? She’d certainly come to the wrong conclusion last night. Tilda crossed her arms, trying to ignore the little voice in her head telling her that she was wrong, always wrong, and that she should stop while she was ahead before she embarrassed herself any further.

 

“No,” she said. “There’s something else that seemed odd to me. Last night, you were completely sure of Scribe Adam’s innocence, even before we went to investigate. In fact, you were so convinced that it almost seemed as though you knew who the true culprit was.”

 

Taking a shaky breath, Tilda decided to play her trump card. “Now,” she said. “Enchanter Nico’s new divining leaves will be ready by the end of the day. You can confess right now, return our divination tools, and tell us what you’re planning.” She waited a beat before continuing. “Or, we can expose you to the entire town. Which do you prefer?”

 

Brinsdale sent another worried look towards the door. “Can we talk about this in private?”

 

Tilda hesitated. If Brinsdale was planning heinous misdeeds, it could be dangerous to be alone in a room with him. Then again, now that she knew Brinsdale was responsible, she doubted he was capable enough to pull off anything truly nefarious.

 

“They’re soundproof, but Linda will be able to see us through the windows,” Brinsdale said, noticing her hesitation. “Please.”

 

“Fine,” Tilda said. She eased the door closed, then sat in the chair opposite Brinsdale’s desk. “There. Now spill.”

 

Once the door was shut, Brinsdale’s calm facade dissolved like cubed sugar in hot tea. “You’re right, it was me. I took Nico’s tea leaves when I asked him to enchant a few things two weeks ago. I spent days trying to figure them out, but when it was clear I wasn’t making any progress, I snuck in through your window and nabbed the ball.”

 

“You weren’t trying to prevent us from seeing the future,” Tilda said, realization dawning. “You were trying to—scry.”

 

Brinsdale finally met Tilda’s gaze, a look of wild desperation in his eyes. “I was going to give them back, I swear! I just wanted to know one little thing. But the tea leaves didn’t look like anything to me—just a soggy mess. And the ball showed nothing but fog.”

 

Tilda chewed on her lip. “Why didn’t you just ask one of us? We don’t typically prophecy for others, but if you had such a burning question, Nico or I could have easily divined for you.”

 

Brinsdale’s cheeks turned a splotchy red. “It’s a bit personal,” he admitted. “Look, I’ll just give everything back and we can call it a day. How does that sound?”

 

Tilda faltered. Was she making a big deal out of nothing again? She hated confrontation, and if Brinsdale was going to return everything either way, did it really matter why he had done it?

 

Then, she thought of the way she had been treated. No. She deserved an answer.

 

“Constable Brinsdale. You stole one of my treasured belongings, gaslit me about it going missing, and then chastised me for trying to do an investigation when it was clear you weren’t going to do jack about it. I deserve to know why.”

 

Like a growing puddle of spilled tea, Brinsdale’s blush of shame continued to spread across his face. Tilda had to lean forward to hear his next words.

 

“I wanted to know if people will ever respect me.”

 

Tilda stared at him, agog.

 

“What?” Brinsdale said defensively. “I know what you think of me. I know what everyone in this town thinks of me. I’m the laughingstock of Miralys. I don’t do anything important. All I do is break up brawls between people who can’t stand up straight, fish cats out of trees, and chase down sheep.”

 

His shoulders slumped in defeat. “I just wanted to know if it would ever get better. If people would ever look up to me, rather than my life being a joke.”

 

Tilda winced at the hurt in Brinsdale’s voice, but she couldn’t protest, because it was true. She didn’t respect Constable Brinsdale. He was dismissive and lazy, and she knew many others felt the same way about him.

 

But still, if he wanted to change his life around…Tilda decided to throw him a bone.

 

“The future isn’t set in stone, Brinsdale,” Tilda said. “Only about two-thirds of the prophecies I make for the week come true. Your chances drop even lower when you look further into the future. Say you’d looked and seen yourself as a respected Chief Constable? You’d probably sit back and wait for it to happen. And that complacency would kill any chance of that future ever coming to fruition. Just because something is prophesied doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. It still takes work. It still takes effort.”

 

“Then what do I do?” Brinsdale pleaded, eyes desperate.

 

“If you want to be respected, start by respecting us,” Tilda continued ruthlessly. “You don’t listen to us. You dismiss our concerns. And when you do help people out, you act like it’s a huge inconvenience. How can we respect someone who clearly doesn’t give one whit about our problems? Just because herding sheep and tracking down missing items won’t make headlines, doesn’t mean they’re not worth doing.”

 

Brinsdale’s eyes widened, and Tilda resisted the urge to sigh. Apparently, he really was that oblivious.

 

“Long story short? If you want respect, you need to start by earning it.” Tilda swiped her crystal ball off of the desk and marched out, leaving behind a stunned Constable Brinsdale.

 

~ * ~

 

Sunday mornings were for scrying.

 

Tilda settled into her dining room chair with a contented sigh. Her Earl Grey was steeping, the day’s crossword lay before her, and her crystal ball was ready for action. All was right with the world.

 

From what Tilda had heard over the past week, Constable Brinsdale was truly trying to turn over a new leaf. According to Nico, Brinsdale had returned the divining tea and taken full responsibility for his misdeeds. Jenny had confided to Tilda that Brinsdale had paid for the book in full, along with a generous tip for her trouble. And Farmer Jacobs had remarked Constable Brinsdale no longer grumbled when helping him wrangle his ever-misbehaving animals.

 

Tilda waved a hand over her ball, and spoke the incantations that would afford her a glimpse into the future. Images began to form in the misty haze, and she narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the figures.

 

The first vision she saw was of a child falling out of a tree. Tilda couldn’t quite make out who it was, but she scribbled down a reminder to collect some comfrey and to put together a splint.

 

The second scene began in darkness. Suddenly, a bright burst of light illuminated the room. The spindly figure in front of the door was instantly recognizable as Nico, and a small group of people were gathered around a cake on the dining table. Having completely forgotten about his birthday, Tilda was grateful for the reminder. She’d send a card later that day.

 

The third set of images took place in a candlelit room. In the flickering light, Tilda saw a figure sitting at a distinctive oak desk. It was Constable Brinsdale, no doubt. But what was he doing? She could tell he was intently focused on reading something, occasionally pausing to jot down notes. As the person picked up another sheet of paper from a nearby tray, Tilda had a revelation.

 

Constable Brinsdale was going through the missing item reports.

 

Leaning back in her chair, Tilda took a satisfied sip of tea. It would take time and sustained effort for the constable to turn around his reputation.

 

But this?

 

This was a good start.

​