By eight-thirteen on Monday morning, Clara Bellweather had already committed three minor magical violations, one moderate licensing offense, and what the Department of Enchanted Commerce would later describe as “an emotionally complicated misuse of municipal spellwork.”
In Clara’s defense, the roses had started it.
They were supposed to be decorative.
The window boxes outside Bellweather Brews and Bewitchments had been planted with perfectly ordinary pink roses, the sort tourists liked to photograph before wandering inside to buy lavender scones, bottled moonlight, or one of Clara’s famous anti-nightmare teas. Unfortunately, sometime between Sunday evening and Monday sunrise, the roses had developed opinions.
“Your posture is terrible,” one of them told a passing businessman.
Another leaned over the planter and whispered, “She’s too good for you,” to the businessman’s wife.
By seven forty-five, the flowers had insulted six customers, proposed marriage to a mail carrier, and begun chanting the name of Clara’s former boyfriend.
Clara stood on the sidewalk in front of her shop wearing mismatched boots, a green cardigan covered in flour, and an expression usually associated with people deciding whether arson was worth the paperwork.
“Stop saying Trevor.”
“TREVOR,” sang the roses.
“Trevor was a mistake.”
“A HANDSOME MISTAKE.”
“He sold my cauldron.”
“FOR A MOTORCYCLE.”
Clara pointed a wooden spoon at the flowers. “You are all going into compost.”
The roses gasped.
Every single one.
Then a deep male voice behind her said, “Threatening enchanted flora is a Class Two improper containment response.”
Clara closed her eyes.
There were moments in life when a person knew, before turning around, that the universe had just placed a fresh problem directly behind them.
This was one of those moments.
She turned.
The man standing on the sidewalk looked like rules had become human, bought a charcoal coat, and learned how to disapprove professionally.
He was tall. Unfairly tall. Broad-shouldered without looking bulky, dark-haired, clean-shaven, and dressed in a black suit beneath his coat despite the fact that the weather in Willowwick had been warm enough to melt two enchanted mailboxes the previous afternoon.
He held a leather folder in one hand.
Pinned to his lapel was a silver badge shaped like a key inside a circle.
Clara stared at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the badge.
“No.”
His eyebrows moved slightly.
It was the smallest possible expression of confusion.
“No?”
“You’re an auditor.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“That remains true regardless of your emotional response.”
The roses hummed appreciatively.
One whispered, “He’s handsome.”
Clara whipped around. “Not helping.”
The man glanced toward the planter.
“Are they sentient?”
“Temporarily opinionated.”
“That was not my question.”
Clara looked back at him.
He had gray eyes.
Of course he did.
Gray eyes belonged on men who used phrases like “That was not my question” before breakfast.
“Who are you?”
He opened the leather folder.
“Adrian Vale. Senior Compliance Auditor, Department of Enchanted Commerce, North District.”
Clara’s stomach dropped.
Senior.
Not junior.
Not assistant.
Not harmless trainee who could be bribed with cinnamon buns and mild flirting.
Senior.
Adrian continued.
“Clara Bellweather?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re asking for tax purposes.”
“I am not.”
“Then possibly.”
His gaze moved toward the hand-painted sign above the shop.
BELLWEATHER BREWS & BEWITCHMENTS.
Underneath, in smaller letters:
Tea, Tonics, Charms & Questionable Advice.
Adrian looked back at her.
“I’m here regarding your renewal inspection.”
Clara blinked.
“My what?”
“Your annual magical commerce license renewal.”
“My renewal is in October.”
“It is August.”
“Yes.”
“Your paperwork states August twenty-fifth.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Adrian removed a page from his folder.
“Yes, it does.”
Clara snatched it.
At the bottom of the form was her signature.
Above it, clearly written:
License Expiration: August 25.
Clara stared at the date.
“No.”
Adrian waited.
Clara turned the form sideways as though that might reveal fraud.
“I wrote October.”
“You wrote an eight.”
“I wrote a ten.”
“You wrote an eight with confidence.”
“My handwriting is expressive.”
“Your handwriting is legally binding.”
The roses began laughing.
Clara stuffed the paper against her chest.
“This is ridiculous.”
“The department notified you three times.”
“I never received anything.”
“Notices were sent by enchanted post.”
Clara pointed down the street.
“Our enchanted postbox has been in love with the fountain since May. It keeps redirecting important mail because it believes paperwork is emotionally toxic.”
Adrian wrote something in his folder.
“What are you writing?”
“Unregulated emotional attachment in municipal enchanted infrastructure.”
“That mailbox belongs to the town.”
“You admitted knowledge of the malfunction.”
“I admitted nothing.”
“You did thirty seconds ago.”
Clara hated him.
Not personally.
She had known him for approximately three minutes.
Still, she felt she had gathered sufficient evidence.
She shoved the shop door open.
A brass bell chimed above her.
Then said, “Oh, good. The husband’s here.”
Silence.
Clara stopped.
Adrian stopped.
The roses screamed.
Clara slowly turned toward the bell.
“What did you say?”
The bell swung gently.
“The husband.”
Adrian looked at Clara.
Clara looked at Adrian.
“Ignore it.”
“I intend to.”
“It predicts things sometimes.”
“I assumed it malfunctioned.”
“It does that too.”
Adrian entered the shop behind her.
The bell chimed.
“Lovely shoulders.”
Clara looked up.
“Stop flirting with the auditor.”
“I wasn’t talking about him.”
Clara frowned.
Adrian kept walking.
She hurried after him.
Bellweather Brews and Bewitchments occupied the ground floor of a crooked blue building on Willowwick’s oldest street, where every structure had either historical significance, magical instability, or plumbing from a century nobody wanted to discuss.
Shelves crowded the walls.
Jars of dried herbs glittered beneath handwritten labels.
Bundles of rosemary hung from wooden beams.
Three ceramic teapots argued quietly on a shelf near the register.
A staircase in the back led to Clara’s apartment above the shop.
At the center of the room stood an enormous oak counter scarred by years of potion spills, tea stains, and one memorable incident involving a love charm, a jar of honey, and the mayor’s pet goose.
Clara moved quickly around the counter.
Adrian moved slowly.
Which was worse.
His eyes traveled over everything.
The bottles.
The jars.
The floating display of enchanted bookmarks near the window.
The self-stirring cauldron behind the counter.
The small black cat asleep inside a basket labeled DEFINITELY NOT SHOP PROPERTY.
Clara stepped between Adrian and the cauldron.
“So.”
“So?”
“You’ve seen the shop.”
“I’ve entered the shop.”
“Excellent. Inspection complete.”
“No.”
“Worth trying.”
He opened his folder again.
Clara leaned across the counter.
“How bad is this?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“How many violations I find.”
She smiled.
It was her best customer-service smile.
The one she used when tourists asked whether drinking six bottles of confidence tonic would make them immortal.
“You seem like a reasonable man.”
“I’m an auditor.”
“That isn’t a no.”
“It generally is.”
The cat opened one eye.
Adrian noticed.
“Is that your familiar?”
“No.”
The cat said, “Liar.”
Adrian looked at Clara.
Clara looked at the cat.
“Biscuit.”
“What?”
“You are a cat.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Adrian wrote again.
Clara lunged across the counter.
“Stop writing things!”
“You have an undocumented speaking familiar.”
“He’s documented.”
“Where?”
Clara hesitated.
“Emotionally.”
Adrian looked at her.
She sighed.
“Fine. The paperwork might be slightly behind.”
“How far behind?”
“Define slightly.”
“Less than six months.”
“Oh.”
“How far?”
“Seventeen.”
He stopped writing.
“Months?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Biscuit refuses to sign.”
The cat stretched.
“The government does not need to know my business.”
Adrian studied the animal.
“What kind of familiar is he?”
“Cat.”
“I can see that.”
“Then congratulations on your observational training.”
“What classification?”
Clara glanced at Biscuit.
Biscuit glanced at Clara.
“Domestic?”
Adrian closed his eyes briefly.
Clara saw it.
A tiny crack.
The first sign that somewhere inside the perfectly pressed coat lived a man capable of suffering.
She liked that more than she should have.
Adrian reopened his eyes.
“Ms. Bellweather.”
“Clara.”
“Ms. Bellweather.”