“Thank you.” Daffi smiled politely as the three of them filed into The Office.
Old Wanker stared down at her from his painting over the mantelpiece with an identical expression of distaste to the one his great-great-something granddaughter wore. Witches lived a long time, but even as sour as Whipsnide was, Daffi didn’t think she was more than a century old. Her bet was the living, breathing Whipsnide in front of her hand been born in the last half-century at the most. The absolute outside bet was under two hundred years. She could be utterly wrong, and Whipsnide could be the same age as she was, just pickled with self-righteousness and hatred for anyone who didn’t meet her exacting standards. Like Sybil, she appeared to believe that unless a family appeared in Hare’s Magical Peerage, they weren’t really witches.
Settling herself in the seat in front of the desk, Daffi pulled out her notebook and flicked to a new, clean page.
“Could you recall your movements on the day of the murder for us please?” she asked politely, ignoring Garlick as he leaped up onto the windowsill and pressed his nose against the glass. She’d long since stopped trying to work out what went on in his mad little feline brain. She just hoped he didn’t start hurling obscenities at the pigeons again. The last time that happened, she’d had to explain to the mother of a magically sensitive four-year-old that the bird had not, in fact, said, “Fuck off, you fat, furry little wanker!”
“I left the museum at half-five—”
Daffi held her hand up, cutting the woman off. That earned her an irritated look but she didn’t care. Not like Whipsnide could sack her. Was it?
“Start at lunchtime please, Ms. Whipsnide.”
“Why? Sybil was killed at half-past six. How could what I had for lunch possibly be relevant?”
Daffi looked up from her notes. “Humor me. We need to build up a picture of where everyone was on the day in question. The smallest detail might lead to a breakthrough.”
Whipsnide leaned back in her chair, her gaze dismissive as she steepled her fingers. “And you really think a second-rate witch like you could possibly solve a murder when the watch cannot?”
Next to Daffi, Oberon stiffened. Daffi put a hand on his arm to keep him quiet. Or at the least ensure he didn’t go off like some kind of blue-winged grenade at the insult sideloaded into Whipsnide’s comment.
“Ad hominem argument, ma’am,” Garlick chided. “Attacking the person when you can’t find fault with their statement or argument…” he tsked. “I really thought you were more intelligent than that.”
Daffi kept her smile sweeter than the cakes already under the glass dome on the sideboard for Whipsnide’s afternoon tea later.
“Besides, you never know… perhaps I’ll turn out to be a better detective than a witch.”
“I highly doubt that.” Whipsnide sniffed, her expression belligerent.
Garlick jumped from the windowsill onto the desk, his tail swishing in irritation. On the other side of the desk, her lizard familiar opened one eye and then closed it, going right back to sleep.
“May I remind you,” the cat said, his tone precise. “That you are legally required to cooperate with an MPI investigation under section fourteen fifty-seven of the city’s provision for Magical Law Enforcement. Any prevarication or… attitude could be considered hostile or obstruction, which carries a fifteen-day mandatory sentence in Bedlam.”
Whipsnide blanched. Bedlam wasn’t a place anyone wanted to end up—not a norm and definitely not a witch. It had a bad reputation as a norm mental hospital, but the site also housed an underground magical prison. An insane asylum above had been excellent cover for any weird and wonderful noises that might escape.
Quickly, the older witch opened her diary and muttered a quick copy, scroll spell to note down all her movements that day. Lips pursed like she was sucking a lemon, she thrust the scrap of parchment out toward Daffi.
“Here. If you need anything else, you’ll have to make an appointment. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a museum to run.”
Daffi reached out to pluck the parchment from Whipsnide’s bony fingers. Quickly, she folded it away in her notebook. Nodding toward the cakes under their dome on the sideboard, she smiled. “Enjoy your afternoon tea,” she commented as the three of them left The Office.
“She’s lying,” Oberon rumbled, surprising her. Given he was fresh out of the fae courts where things were very different—it had been one of her favorite subjects at school—she wasn’t sure how much of their investigation he actually understood. A lot more than she’d previously thought, if the considering look on his face was anything to go by.
“She is?” Daffi blinked in surprise. “I mean… I suspected she was, but what makes you say that?”
His grin was swift and a little sly. “I’m a fairy, my love. We’re born tricksters. And it takes one to know one.”
Her response was derailed as he stepped closer, reaching out to wind a strand of her rapidly lightening pink hair around his finger. He used it to tug her closer.
“But I’d never lie to you or trick you,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “I admit, I’d like nothing more than to enchant you into saying yes and returning with me as my queen but I will not.”
“Why?” she breathed, aiming a kick at Garlick as he made barfing noises. Couldn’t the goddess-damn cat see they were having a moment here?
Oberon smiled, still fussing with her hair. The professional yet approachable tousled updo she’d gone for this morning was completely ruined.
“If I did that, I would only have the shadow of you,” he said in a deep voice, which did things to her lower body that should be illegal. “A perfectly obedient version of you with no independent thought. You would only exist to please me. You would do anything and
