By the time they got upstairs, Campbell and Stephenson had seemed to have gone home. Claire supposed she couldn’t be too hard on the choice. Stephenson seemed to be muscle, and work for paper pushers tended to dry up when everyone started going to bed.

Claire let Miller do most of the explaining. Dryden looked on with grave concern, occasionally asking Claire to clarify something about the magic.

“Linn, if you could stay and get me a toxicology report, take tomorrow off. Claire, go home. We’ll need to be up early for interviews,” he said finally. “If you’re right and somebody hid the cause of death, his family will be our best chance to figure out why.”

“I don’t need much rest,” Claire told him. “It’s important for tracers to be able to finish their work before an imprint fades.”

In her twenties, she’d been able to go two or three days on willpower and black-strap coffee. Her body wouldn’t put up with that sort of treatment these days, but she could manage on three hours of sleep and cans of chipped beef until her work was done.

That didn’t seem to be the expectation in Dalgerra. It wasn’t that people here were lazy. On the contrary, even the nobles seemed to have proper jobs, but work like this wasn’t considered an act of devotion here, just a job.

“Is there anything you need to trace, Caster James?”

“If I can find the murder site...?”

“Can you? Tonight? Do you have a plan on where to start looking or how you’ll recognize a magical trace you can’t identify?”

Claire’s back stiffened a bit.

“No sir.”

“And how long do you think you’ll be able to sense it for?”

“Depends on the location. It will last longer if there’s no magical pollution drowning it out, especially if there’s a lot of organic material or glass to absorb it.”

“But at worst?” Dryden pressed.

“I’d say a month and a half.”

“Go home and get some rest, James. I expect everyone here at 5 AM tomorrow.”

She barely restrained the salute.

It was infuriating, how easily he’d read her. She was sure he would have happily pulled his buddy-buddy workplace family routine the others ate up if she’d looked soft enough for it. She’d thought she was above his game, but he just had to straighten his collar and talk like an officer and she relaxed into familiar habits.

‘I killed the last man who gave me orders, burned him without warning in front of my whole team,’ she wanted to say, unsure if she would have meant it as a warning or a defense, proof she wasn’t a mindless pawn.

“Yes Detective Dryden. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

The house was still too large.

By the time Claire got home, her head was pounding. She wanted to curl up with somebody and eat bad takeout. She’d complain about messy offices and overly-familiar coworkers like that was her real concern with work, like she wasn’t staring down the barrel of questioning grieving parents. The person beside her would understand, without needing to be told. They’d distract her with their own petty complaints and bad jokes, but hold Claire just a bit tighter. Maybe she’d fall asleep there, and they’d put a blanket over her with a fond smile.

Instead, Claire put on some canned soup and let it simmer while she did a security sweep.

She wanted to be back out there. She was used to bodies, but she kept thinking about Caspian on that table. Somewhere, there was a place where the air burnt with the same magic as Caspian’s chest. Somebody knew how he’d died, and they’d wanted it to stay hidden. Hell, that was the stress of it. Maybe it was something that should stay hidden. You never knew until you dug it up, and then it was too late.

Still, she was never one to lay awake worrying. As soon as she’d eaten, she rolled into bed. She wasn’t a deep sleeper, but what kept her awake were the small, instinctual reactions that came from living on the road, not any particular thoughts. All it took was a glimmer of magic, even just the release of a charge from some glass, a cat to screech, a drunken yell, a bat swooping past her window, but she was used to that too. She would wake up just enough to feel around with her magic, identify the disturbance, and collapse back into sleep.

The constant presence of the crystalline wastes didn’t help. Sometimes she’d wake searching the room for a place where the shadows were darker, where they took the form of something humanoid and slouching, something with long spindly arms and hooked claws.

That wasn’t here. There were no caliga in the city walls. No bounty hunter was looking for her, holding a pair of glass lined manacles. There was nobody else in the house to watch over.

She woke up with plenty of time to dress properly for visiting a grieving family. She had her sole white button down ironed with plenty of time left to drink the watery cafe coffee.

Her new coworkers had been right about the journalists. She would really need to get better about reading the news glass in the morning. Thankfully, they wouldn’t recognize her. That was another nice thing about this city. Her face would get around eventually, but she hoped it would take a while. For now, she went to the alleyway and walked in through the morgue.

The body wasn’t on the table anymore, but Miller was at her desk. She looked at Claire with distaste.

“You’re back in my morgue,” MIller said, eyebrows raised. She was still wearing the clothes from last night and there were deep shadows under her eyes.

“I’m sorry to intrude. I wanted to avoid the reporters.”

“This isn’t a mudroom. Learn to deal with the reporters or don’t come in.”

“Understood.”

That response didn’t seem to make Miller happy either, but that wasn’t Claire’s problem.

Upstairs, Stephenson was half asleep at her desk with coffee that looked like, when the local swill wasn’t bland enough, she’d chosen to further dilute it with milk.

Theodore Dryden was awake and focused, tacking papers onto a corkboard.

“Detective James, I was going to have pastries yesterday, but I wasn’t sure you’d want them, but I think I was overthinking it, so...” Campbell held out a tray, “pastries! I made them, so I hope they’re alright...”

Claire searched for the correct response. She didn’t… dislike pastries, she just wasn’t sure how to respond to Campell’s energy. Thank him? Tell him off? He was past the age where she could just chuckle fondly and ruffle his hair.

“Thank you, Cam. I’m sure they’re excellent,” Dryden cut in, taking a raspberry danish off the tray. “I assume you finished your report on the Handfellows before you started baking?”

Campbell nodded seriously, stepping over to the corkboard and checking the room. He looked incredibly nervous, but, once he started talking he seemed to tune them out, focusing on the papers in his hand.

“The Handfellows moved here from Ives and started in the grain industry. They’ve done well for themselves. They have a modest farm to the south, but it has high yields and they’ve invested well.”

“Licensed, correct?” Dryden asked.

“Yes. The original license belonged to the maternal grandfather forty-six years ago, but they’ve passed the national inspection every year since the Handfellows took over.”

“Licensed?” Claire cut in. It was embarrassing not to know, but it was worse to make bad judgments because she’d been too proud to ask. “Why does a farm need a license?”

“Most jobs have them. Don’t you have a license?” Campbell asked, looking worried.

“Yes, because I am a detective. Most who cast for a living are tested to make sure our abilities are up to par. But not farms.”

“Oh, that makes sense. You don’t need a license. Most subsistence farms, farms where they’re only growing what they need, don’t get one, but otherwise, it’s a huge risk not to have one.” Claire could see Campbell relaxing as he explained, clearly in his element. He really was adorable, in a bumbling puppy sort of way. “A licensed farm is held to certain standards in quality, worker treatment, and pays a percentage of profits into the farm fund. That fund pays for the farm inspections, but most of it is relief money. If a region is hit by a disaster, the difference between their usual yield and that year’s yield is paid out, so most farms feel the protection is worth it. It saved a lot of families here a few years ago when the lowlands flooded. Products from licensed farmers also sell for a much higher price since merchants can trust the quality without worrying about conducting their own inspection.”

Claire nodded, filing that away. A different system moved the motives. Farming seemed to be the second largest industry around here, but, even in a disaster, there was less risk of criminal acts of desperation. On the other hand, whoever did those inspections would become a key target for anyone who wanted a license without providing the quality.

“Caspian graduated from the boarding school in Ives. He’s been apprenticing with a cartographer. Decent grades, no arrest record. His father, Ulysses, is the third son of a clothing manufacturer. His sister, Flora, is in school as well, and recently secured an engagement to a glass caster who specializes in voice imprinting. Their relationship has been approved by the church as well.”

“And nothing else notable for the family?” Claire asked.

“Well… it’s a bit odd,” Campbell said carefully, “but nobody wrote in that he was missing. He was still living at home, but nobody noticed he hadn’t come home the night before last. The police report said his family seemed shocked.”

“It isn’t strange for a boy that age to be out a lot,” Dryden said, “but that’s still good to know. If he’s out at night, we might be able to find out where he goes and what he does.”

“Did he have a lover?” Claire asked.

Stephensan snorted behind them, seeming to have woken up now that there was more talking.

“A lover? Nobody under forty has ‘a lover’.”

“And he doesn’t, at least not publicly,” Dryden said, tapping his ear.

Right. Caspian had an emerald stud, single but of age and looking for a partner. Claire wasn’t used to looking at people’s ears yet. Marital status in Avairne was communicated with the hairstyle or beard, but she had quickly learned not having an earring made her look quite strange to locals and opted for a simple metal stud she was told would mark her as unmarried and uninterested. She’d also bought a small ruby stud in case she wanted to communicate interest, but, even then, she wouldn’t put it in for work. She was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to switch them out, but damn if she cared.

Now that she looked, Dryden himself had a chain dangling from his lobe to a ring around his cartilage, the mark of a marriage approved by the church.

“Our most likely case is ruled out,” Dryden said. “Linn finished the toxicology. Most of our murders happen in the heat of the moment, usually when people are mentally compromised, but our boy’s clean. If he’s out at night, he isn’t partying. It doesn’t look like he ever had more than the occasional drink, and not even that recently. Besides that, he had no defensive wounds. She also noted he had a few new calluses on his feet. He may have been trying new shoes, but he also may have been taking up some new activity.”

“Today, James will be coming to speak to the family with me. Abigail, I want you to help Cam with whatever he needs. James, I know you may have some experience here, but I’d like you to let me take the lead,” Dryden continued. “Hopefully, his family can give us a clearer picture of our victim. I imagine we won’t be particularly welcome, so please keep your temper, even if they’re rude. Remember they are grieving parents.”

“Of course,” Claire said, keeping any trace of offense out of her voice.

Stephenson clapped her shoulder.

“You go wade through reporters,” she said. “Cam and I will solve the case back here.”