The Mystery of the Golden Seed

Rowan’s father was a wizard, his mother was a mundane, so he felt his knowledge of both worlds made him effective in his chosen vocation to investigate what crimes occurred in the county. He looked like a wizard-the archetypal copper red hair and emerald green eyes of one blessed with magic-and had an old wizarding name, which made him trustworthy to the Arcanes, but he was able to understand the mundane point of view, as well.

However, work and solving crime was the last thing on Rowan’s mind as he made his way to his favorite bakery in Hallowton, Sally Lunn’s. Snow whirled in the air in flurries of fluffy, wet white flakes, and the towers of the minster brooded behind him. As the snow fell on the cobblestone lanes and brick Victorian buildings, Hallowton appeared just like a picturesque village of a holiday card, or snowglobe.

He dug his hands into the pockets of his wool coat, and peered into the window. Scones, buns, muffins, and biscuits taunted anyone who walked by tantalizingly, displayed in the window. But, he peered past them, to see if Tamara Marsh was there.

The mundane girl was behind the counter, vacillating between tasks: taking a pan of scones out of the oven, brewing coffee. She wore an apron over a peasant dress, and her curly hair was cropped close. Her skin was honey brown, and she had a round face with a ready smile always waiting to appear at the corners. But, her eyes were a play of light and shadow, bright when she smiled, but with a secret weariness lurking in them. There was pain in his past, as there was in Rowan’s: when he was 15, his parents were attacked by a boggart, a shapeshifting malevolent creature, and did not survive. He was taken in by his godfather, a member of the Arcane Parliament, a doting but busy man who provided for him well, but did not always have the time he would like to spend with Rowan. Rowan had no grudges, but his experiences made him aware of those who suffered, and good at talking to them.

“Good morning,” he said brightly, hoping that Tam would be happy to see him.

She was! She smiled brightly, and looked happy and hopeful.

“Hi, there! Let me guess: Earl Gray tea, and a blueberry scone?” she said.

“You know me,” Rowan said.

Tamara laughed. “Trust me, you’re one of my easiest customers,” she said.

“Compared to the not-so-easy ones? Let me guess, grumpy trolls? Lascivious satyrs?” Rowan joked.

“Oh, the trolls are lovely, I save back the coffee grinds for their gardens, and we trade organic pesticide tips. The satyrs are perfect gentlemen, in fact. No, it’s the Wicked Witch of Hallow Regis, and her Tudor Christmas cake that’s driving me barmy!” Tamara said.

Rowan looked over at the small seating area, and noticed a smallboned girl in a woolen hat, jumper, and jeans diligently scrubbing a table…almost as if she was eavesdropping, and trying to look busy whilst doing so. He almost told himself that he was just being paranoid, but his concern for Tamara told him to take his instincts seriously.

“Who’s this, then?” Rowan asked. “And what’s this about a Tudor cake?”

Before she could answer, the entrance bell clanged, snow spilled over the eaves, and the swish of a witch’s long dress and cloak was heard as she entered the warm café, which smelled like bread, cake, and coffee.

Rowan looked up.

“Lady Mortimer! Nasty morning, isn’t it?” Tamara said pleasantly.

Lady Mortimer was a wealthy witch, who lived in a stately home called Clairville Castle with her husband, who was currently taking up bench space in the House of Lords of the Arcane parliament. Rowan knew him by reputation from his godfather, Oberon De Wylt, and knew Lady Mortimer vaguely by sight: a tall, handsomely aging blonde whose fine, thick hair was just hinted at beneath her towering dove gray silk witch’s hat, which had a long medieval veil. She wore a matching dove gray silk dress and cloak, and her hands were tucked into a silver velvet, sable fur lined muff.

She looked imperiously at Tamara, and said, “I didn’t teleport to this hovel to commiserate about the weather: I only want to see, for myself, in person, that the cake for my Midwinter Revels is accurate, and being prepared in accordance with the instructions I provided. Where is Mistress Lunn?”

“Sally’s an herbalist as well as the town baker, and she got a call from a patient. Isn’t it lovely of her, to do house calls?” Tamara said calmly.

“Hmph. I don’t think its lovely at all that she is not prioritizing such a diplomatically important occasion, over the sniffles of mundane villagers!” Lady Mortimer said. “Many members of the Arcane Parliament will be in attendance, and the celebrations will be in accordance with our oldest Yuletide traditions: masques, dances of the Renaissance to authentic period instruments, a Lord of Misrule, and the cake must be an authentic Twelfth Night spice cake…”

“Oh, so it’s a fancy dress party?” Tamara said drily.

Rowan held in a laugh and a smirk. It was clear by the shock engraved on Lady Mortimer’s face that she wasn’t used to having her pretentious visions translated into plain terms.

“Is that cheek?” she demanded.

“Not at all, Lady Mortimer,” Tamara said soothingly. “Everything will be handled. Sally will be here soon, and Alys and I are holding down the fort.”

“Whom?” Lady Mortimer said.

As if on cue, Alys bumped into a chair as she wiped more tables. Lady Mortimer’s gaze lingered on her. Rowan noticed it. He gave Alys a sympathetic gaze, and she looked up at him. Rowan saw something, but he wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

The bell chimed again, and the owner of the bakery, a pleasantly plump woman with an appealing, kind face, and bouncy red hair, entered. She wore a dress that skirted her suede boots, and a wool shawl.

“Oh! Lady Mortimer!” she said, surprised.

“My Twelfth Night cake! For the Revels! Do you know how many imminent wizards will be in attendance?” Lady Mortimer demanded.

Rowan and Tamara exchanged a look. For all her aristocratic sang froid, she had no compunctions about invading the space of, and raising her voice at, those she considered subordinate. And yet…Rowan looked down at the hem of her silk cloak and dress. A witch like her had their clothes not only tailored by spinning elves, but charmed for Imperviousness against the elements. Such charms did wear off, however, after a matter of years. Judging by the fraying, her expensive clothes were quite old.

“Everything is being seen to, My Lady,” Sally said, cowed.

“Oh? And the golden seed? Has it been delivered?” Lady Mortimer demanded.

“Golden seed?” Tamara asked.

“The Empress of Spices,” Sally said. “Only our kind, witches and wizards, ever added it to a Twelfth Night cake. The Heritage Society wants everything done just so, and as Lady Mortimer is chairwoman, of course we want to take care…it’s the most expensive spice in the world.”

“I believe that’s saffron, followed by cardamom,” Rowan said.

Tamara smirked.

“Is that so?” Lady Mortimer drawled.

“That’s so. And, its also cheek, in case you were going to ask,” Rowan said, wanting a go at the woman holding up his tea and scone on a nasty, wet day.

“The seed was delivered. Bethany took the delivery, didn’t you, child?” Sally asked, looking anxiously at Alys.

“Erm…um…I…” Alys stammered convincingly.

“Sal, that’s Alys. Bethany was our first temp, then there was Brigid,” Tamara reminded her.

“Hmm,” Rowan said.

“I’ll get the seed, I know where its kept,” Tamara said, retreating to the back of the bakery. Lady Mortimer scowled, and the wizards waited. Tamara returned, her face engraved with disbelief like an ancient theater mask, distraught as she announced,

“Its gone! Sally, its gone!”

She clutched the empty vial desperately.

Sally’s face fell, too.

“That seed…its worth more than the bakery! Its…priceless…its…” Sally stammered.

“Its in her pocket! She’s been wiping those tables since I came in, and she’s going to pass it to Lady Mortimer. Or, she was going to,” Rowan said.

Alys looked like a deer caught in headlights. Tamara looked furiously at Rowan, and said,

“You can’t just point the finger at Alys because she took the delivery!”

“Trust me,” Rowan said, took his wand from his coat pocket, and cast, “Reveal Yourself!”

The spell engulfed Alys, who took different forms. Sally’s and Tamara’s eyes widened, as they surely recognized the previous temporary bakers, Brigid and Bethany. They were all the same girl.

“Alys?” Sally said breathlessly.

“She’s a Protean. A shapeshifter. And she’s working for you, isn’t she…My Lady?” Rowan asked.

Lady Mortimer put her hand to her chest, and feigned shock.

“Why would I hire a common thief, to steal something which I had already purchased?” she demanded loftily.

“Easy. To double your money. Your husband’s ancestral pile was the perfect spot for this little heritage fete, but the cost is putting you out of house and home. So, you hire a Protean, to stake the bakery you harassed into preparing this centerpiece cake, with a view to feign a theft and sell the golden seed to an Alchemist, to cover your money troubles. They’d pay top dollar for the Empress of Spices. Alchemilla, they call it-and in the right circumstances, a skilled wizard can turn lesser metals into gold with it. But, you knew that, My Lady-and plan to collect an investment on whatever gold the Alchemist spins. Isn’t that right?” Rowan said.

“Robbing Peter, to pay Paul!” Sally said, vivified by outrage. “Shameful!”

“Well, what of it? I’m not a poaching werewolf, or a pugnacious troll brawling at a tavern. What will you do with me, and your novel discovery?” Lady Mortimer said sardonically.

“Same thing an Arcane Inspector does with every other criminal, My Lady,” Rowan said, and cast a Manacle Enchantment on Lady Mortimer. The chains around her arms glowed blue, and she was transported in a flash of blue light to the Bureau of Arcane Affairs’ offices.

“Alys…give me the seed,” Rowan said, but not unkindly. He didn’t judge the girl. She was young, probably didn’t have a lot of options, and he would try to have her dealt with fairly. She looked into his eyes searchingly, and handed him the Alchemilla seed.

“Well, then-as baking isn’t a crime, and you handed me the Alchemilla seed, you haven’t stolen anything. Go. Start over. I know its hard, but you can do better. All right?” he said, with grave kindness.

Alys nodded, and ran off into the snowy street, the bell on the door ringing behind her.

Sally, Rowan, and Tamara looked at each other, digesting all that had passed.

“Now who’ll host the old codgers’ Renaissance themed fancy dress party?” Tamara said.

“Oh, stop, now!” Sally laughed. “I suppose it won’t go on, then, will it?”

“Pity,” Tamara said, with a touch of irony that she meant the exact opposite. “How did you know?”

“Her eyes. Window to the soul, you know? And they just didn’t match her hands,” Rowan said.

“You’re on odd one, Inspector. Lets get you that tea and scone,” Tamara said, and straightened her apron.