“She’s lying again.” Sylva’s ears flicked, sharper than before—then settled. He glanced at Lucy like he was measuring distance, timing, and patience all at once.
Lucy froze.
“…Okay, maybe a little explosion.”
Basil sighed. “Wonderful.”
He pushed open the door.
And all hell promptly began preparing itself.
30
Lucy
How to Spot Trouble: look for pink hair.
The tavern door creaked open, and instead of the smoky, ale-stained chaos Lucy expected, the inside of Luna’s Tavern was unnervingly clean.
It shouldn’t have been. The sign said tavern.
But the floors gleamed like polished bone, lanternlight pooled warmly across spotless tables, and a faint scent of lavender-and-mischief drifted through the air. It smelled less like spilled ale and more like a crime scene waiting to happen.
Lucy had read enough mystery books to know what a potential crime scene looked like.
The first indication: nothing was that clean without having something to hide.
The second indication: the air itself felt… arranged. Not enchanted exactly—Lucy didn’t have the vocabulary for magic—but managed. Like the room had rules it expected everyone to follow.
Even the sound was wrong. The tavern should have been loud—laughing, clattering mugs, someone yelling about a card game gone tragic. Instead, the noise was a careful murmur, as though each patron had been trained to speak in indoor voices and plausible deniability. Conversations didn’t spill. They stayed neatly within the circles of the people who had them.
Lucy’s gaze flicked to the corners. Lanterns hung in just the right places to eliminate deep shadow.
Tables were spaced far enough apart that no one could “accidentally” brush shoulders. The bar top had faint rings carved into the wood—old stains. She leaned closer.
They were too precise to be stains. If she looked closely enough, she could see a pattern forming.
Basil noticed her noticing and subtly tugged her sleeve. She could read his thoughts as clear as day.Don't touch anything, you menace.
Lucy’s mouth twitched. She was going to touch everything.
Sylva noticed, but he didn’t stop her. Just shifted closer, like he trusted her judgment enough to prepare for the consequences instead of preventing them.
The third indication arrived before her fingertips could betray her.
A woman sat on the bar counter as if it belonged to her and also like gravity was a polite suggestion.
Beside her was a pile of scrolls, ledgers, and spy reports so blatant they might as well have been labeled “Definitely Spies.”
Her hair was cotton-candy pink, tied up in a high, glossy, dramatic ponytail that swished like it had an ego of its own.
Any hair that bright meant trouble. Lucy felt it in her gut.
“Good day, Luna,” Basil said, shutting the door gently behind them.
“Says the liar,” Sylva whispered, just loud enough to be heard and just quiet enough to pretend he hadn’t.
Basil shot him a practiced glare. The kind Lucy suspected had been honed through years of putting out magical fires started by people who were technically family.
