“Nigel can run comms from his closet,” Didi said, rising from the table. “We can brief him on the way.”
Fifteen minutes later found us in a car headed north.
Didi drove. I’d learned early on in my new job that questioning this arrangement led to a silence so pointed it could draw blood.
Gavin sat in the back with Bo and had wedged himself against the door like a dragon newt who’d drawn the short straw and knew it. He’d brought three fire extinguishers and was arranging them on the seat beside him in descending order of size.
“Is the third one really necessary?” I asked, eyeing them over my shoulder.
“It’s a backup for the backup,” Gavin said. “You can never be too prepared when witches are involved.”
“Ex-witches,” Didi corrected absentmindedly. “They’re not supposed to be practicing any magic. Not even cantrips.”
Bo pressed his nose against the window and huffed a mournful sigh that fogged the glass.
“What’s the matter with him?” Didi asked irritably.
“I’m wasting away,” the Husky declared before I could reply.
I narrowed my eyes at him in the rearview mirror. The extra dietary restrictions I’d imposed after catching him red-pawed at the Council’s sandwich cart had apparently triggered a personal crisis of historic proportions.
“You had breakfast two hours ago,” I said coldly.
“A measured breakfast,” Bo countered glumly. “With portions.”
Didi grimaced. “That’s generally how meals work.”
“Not my meals.” Bo’s tail drooped. “My meals used to have freedom. They used to have soul.”
“Dear God,” the witch muttered in disgust. She flashed me a look that somehow combined contempt with pity. “I bet he’s a riot to live with right now.”
Bo ignored the witch’s sarcastic barb.
“Did you know that Huskies have a genetic predisposition toward food insecurity?” my dog said in the somber tone of a public service announcement about an execution.
Gavin blinked. “They do?”
I sighed heavily. “No, they don’t.”
My dog subsided with the dignified suffering of a martyr and returned to fogging up the window.
North Amberford was quieter than the main town. The streets grew narrower as we left the busier commercial district behind. Old oaks lined the roads, their branches forming a latticed canopy overhead. The buildings here were mostly small workshops, independent stores, and residential homes that looked like they’d been standing since before the town had a name.
Didi finally slowed and turned onto a street called Oakvale Lane.
“That’s it,” she said, jerking her chin.
The Marcheford woodcarving business occupied a converted barn at the end of the lane. Ahand-painted sign above the entrance readMarcheford & Sons—Bespoke Woodwork Since 1980. Carved animals, decorative signs, and pieces of furniture were displayed beneath an awning out front. The whole setup looked about as threatening as a craft fair.
Didi parked behind a plumber’s van two buildings down and killed the engine.
“Now we wait,” she said.
The waiting, as it turned out, was deeply uneventful.
We could see into the workshop through the car windows. Two figures moved around inside—a short, stocky man planing a piece of timber and a tall, thinner man sanding what appeared to be a very large wooden chest. Neither of them looked like they were plotting the downfall of the Amberford covens.
I stared. “Are they arguing about sandpaper grit?”
