The next morning, I got ninja-ed by Rall Axton.

Olivia and I were alone in the dining room, eating breakfast when he sauntered in, as casual as can be.

“Oh, Emerra! Are you busy this morning?”

I blinked and stared at him for a second. Then I glanced at Olivia. Was I busy that morning? I wasn’t sure.

We had one big supposition—that the kidnapper was a thief—and roughly a bajillion questions.

Last night, Jacky and Olivia had proposed spending some time after breakfast writing down the questions and figuring out which ones were a) important, and b) possible to investigate, and working from there.

Jacky had said, “The most important question, I suspect, will be answered for us.”

“What question is that?” I asked.

“Whether or not they succeeded in getting to their target.”

Olivia shook her head. “If you’re hoping some witch will tell us—”

“Not all information comes in the form of a direct answer to a question. Whether the thief has succeeded, failed, or was there for more testing, it will affect their behavior.”

“Should we be watching ARC Hall?”

“I don’t know if we have enough resources to watch the Hall and pursue our inquiries, but I’ll regularly check to see if Nolan Kirby is still alive.”

Olivia paled. “Why?”

“Unless he’s willingly joined them—”

“He would never do that!”

Jacky stopped and gazed at his apprentice. I could see the sympathy lining the edges of his skull. “Then, once the thief’s job is done, they’ll have to decide what to do with him.”

As of that morning, Kirby had still been alive. Big Jacky had assured us of that the moment we met him in the hall. But relying on Jacky as our only ready source of information created a painful tension. My emotions were being held, suspended, like a stretched rubber band. The worst hadn’t happened yet, but there was always the terrible chance that, the next time you asked, the answer would change.

That tension only added to the frustration I felt when I considered that the next step in our plan—the best thing we could be doing—was sitting down to work out a list that would illustrate exactly how much we didn’t know.

I’d rather be doing anything else.

Rall said, “You remember that thing we were talking about the other night? I thought I’d take you out to see it.”

My eyes widened.

That was his idea of subtle? When it came to being a ninja, he clearly subscribed to Uzumaki Naruto’s scream-and-run-at-it school of thought. Olivia was already watching me, her eyes full of suspicion.

On the other hand, I had picked up the hint that he had something important to share with me, so I guess it worked.

I turned to Olivia. “Do you mind?”

She chewed slowly, then swallowed. “No.”

No surprise there. She hadn’t brought me along for my brains or my company, and she didn’t need the Eyes of the Sphinx to write out a list of questions. But there was a hint of emotion, even in that one tiny syllable, that made me wonder if she wasn’t as indifferent as she pretended to be.

I said to Rall, “Let me get my boots and coat.”

While we walked, Rall explained what he’d learned.

“You want crime, I’ve got a crime. At least, we think it might be.”

“You sound so sure of yourself,” I said.

He shrugged. “What do you expect from the ol’ geriatric gang? The boys love that, by the way.”

I smiled. “Do they?”

“It makes them feel exciting and dangerous.”

“Thug life,” I said while trying not to laugh.

“I don’t think they like the ‘geriatric’ part so much, but I told them there was no point in denying the obvious.”

“Tell me about this might-be-a-crime.”

“Barnaby Barlowe—an unfortunate name, I know, but a loyal friend—anyway, he swears that someone broke into his house last night.”

“That would be a crime, so why the uncertainty?”

“His wife thinks he’s crazy.”

Barnaby Barlowe. Meaning his wife would be Mrs. Barlowe. I heard an echo in my head of Olivia greeting someone by that name. She’d been wearing a pointy black hat.

“Is Barnaby married to a witch?” I asked.

“He is. So, as you can imagine, Mrs. Barlowe was very sure of herself. Fortunately, Barney’s got a stubborn streak in him, and he wouldn’t be convinced.”

“Are all witches so…” I hunted around for a suitable word. Cocksure was the first one that occurred to me, but I didn’t think it’d be diplomatic. “Confident?”

Rall took three or four steps before he answered. “I think most of them are. It’s easy to be confident when you’re powerful. The ones whose personalities don’t lend themselves to confidence learn to fake it, or risk being lost in the background.” He glanced toward me. “It changes things, you know. It changes relationships. The men of Craftborough are a different breed.”

“How so?”

“Men out there in the real world go into their relationships knowing that they’re more powerful than their women.”

I gave him a snooty look. “You think men are more powerful than women?”

“Often. If only physically. Let me put it another way. I think that, out there, the women know that, when the chips are down, they would probably lose in a fight.”

He was right. I didn’t like it, but I knew he was right.

He went on, “If Ellis and I ever got into a no-holds-barred fight, you’d be scraping what was left of me off the walls, and it might be enough to fill a teaspoon. She knows it, and I know it. If a witch ever backs down, it’s because she loves you and she wants to preserve the relationship—not because she had to. Power is part of what defines a relationship. I’m not saying it’s everything, but it makes a difference. Who can say what, why they choose to back down, how much is fear, and how much is trust.”

We walked a few feet in silence.

“Has Ellis ever backed down?” I asked.

Rall laughed. “She’s never had to. I’m far, far, too easy-going for my own good. Who needs all that conflict and friction? I grew up in a family full of powerful people, and I learned that the fastest route to a happy life was letting others have their way. I’ll dress how you want me to dress, do what you want me to do—you only have to give me some free time and laugh at a few of my jokes and I’m content. ”

I connected with that last line on a bone-deep level. Maybe it was a survivor’s trick. He and I had both grown up in a place where we knew we’d never get our way, so we’d learned to be happy without it.

But a trick can mean “a neat thing you do to make something work” or “a magician’s illusion.” There were times, even when I was cracking jokes, that I could feel a lonely resignation leeching at my heart.

“Rall, have you ever wished things were different?”

His easy-going smile faltered. “A few times. I wish I’d stood up for Olivia more when she was younger—during that whole school debacle. I don’t know if it would’ve changed anything, but it would sit easier with my conscience. The problem is that standing up takes practice. When the time came for me to say something, I didn’t know what to say.” He sighed and raised his head to gaze up at the sky. “Maybe that’s why I’m so eager to help her when I can. Maybe I’m still trying to make it up to her.”

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My chest swelled with sympathy. I reached out and patted his shoulder.

We turned a corner, and before Rall said anything, I knew we’d arrived at our destination. Three people were standing out on the front sidewalk of the modestly sized house. One of them I recognized as the witch that had ushered me, Olivia, and Jacky into the room where Olivia would give her report. The other witch was Officer Tarah Ansel.

I felt the sudden urge to look innocent.

Between the two witches was an older man with a full beard that led up to a gray and brown fringe of hair that wrapped around the back of his head. He was wearing a polo shirt, a coat, and a smug expression. He called out as soon as Rall and I were in earshot.

“Rall, I was right! I told you, I was right!” Barnaby kept talking as we approached. “Someone did break in.” He turned to his wife. “I told you.”

Mrs. Barlowe must have decided she loved him and wanted to preserve the relationship. “Yes, honey. You were right.”

Barnaby glowed with pleasure.

Ansel said, “Good morning, Miss Cole. Are you here in your capacity as an amateur detective?”

I shrugged. “Just call me Sherlock.”

She said to Rall, “Does that make you Watson?”

“At best, I’d be Toby.”

From the way Ansel rolled her eyes, I guessed that Rall had cracked a joke. I made a mental note to look up the reference later.

“What are you all doing out here?” Rall asked. “It’s a bit chilly for an outdoor conference.”

“The chief and I have to stay out here,” Mrs. Barlowe explained. “We’re checking for magic traces.”

Rall turned to Ansel. “You’re not doing it yourself?”

“I wanted to use someone more sensitive,” she said.

“And I’m out here telling the chief how it all happened,” Barney said. “How I was right.”

“Then don’t let us interrupt you!” Rall swept both hands toward his friend to encourage him. “Go on! Tell us!”

That was all the excuse Mr. Barlowe needed to resume his place in center stage. He looked at the chief. “Where was I?”

Ansel glanced down at the notepad in her hand. “You’d come downstairs after hearing a noise and found nothing. You said you checked the whole house.”

Barnaby snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Nothing. No broken windows. Nothing fallen to the floor. No one in the house. Nothing out of place. Eventually I went back to bed, but I knew I’d heard something. It left me uneasy. I must have stayed up for another hour, listening.”

“He was back to snoring in under ten minutes,” Mrs. Barlowe said.

Ansel tapped her pen on her notebook. “Did you happen to notice if the jug was missing when you searched the place?”

“What jug?” Rall asked.

“The bastard stole one of my wine jugs!” Barnaby said. “Can you believe it?”

“Ah.” Rall turned and muttered to me, “Barnaby here makes wine as a hobby.”

“It’s a business!” Barnaby cried. “Or it will be someday.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Probably.”

Once again, his wife felt the need to correct him: “It’s a nuisance.”

Ansel raised her voice. “And did you happen to notice if it was missing when you searched the house?”

“No,” Barnaby said. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice it was gone at all. The missus noticed the gap in my line up while I was out walking with this fellow.” He jerked his thumb toward Rall.

Ansel said, “So it’s possible the sound you heard was the thief leaving with the jug?”

“Then who unlocked the door?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I told you, I checked the whole house. You don’t think I checked the door? It was locked! Then, when I went out for my walk this morning, the door was unlocked. It’s only me and Sarah at home right now, and she was still in the kitchen, working on her first cup of coffee.” Barnaby wagged his index finger in the air. “That’s why I knew I wasn’t imagining things.” He tilted his head to motion to his wife. “She said I was.”

She patted his arm. “Yes, dear. Forgive me.”

Ansel’s brows pulled together. “Let me get this straight. Last night, around midnight, you heard a noise. You went downstairs, searched the whole house, and found nothing out of place. The door was locked. When you went down this morning, the door was unlocked, and around”—she checked her notes—“seven, Mrs. Barlowe noticed the jug was gone.”

Mrs. Barlowe nodded.

“Was it a full jug?” Ansel asked.

“No,” Mrs. Barlowe said. “It was one of the empty ones.”

“Why would someone steal an empty jug?” I asked.

I felt the urge to squirm when all their eyes turned to me, but I resisted. Sherlock Holmes never squirmed.

I went on, “Was it worth a lot of money?”

Relief! The majority of the eyes moved from me to Barnaby.

“Not really,” he said. “If you know where to go, you can get them for as little as thirteen dollars.”

“And it’s not like they’re useful,” his wife grumbled.

“Breaking into a locked house is a pretty big deal,” I said. “Would a thief break into a witch’s house for something that only cost thirteen bucks?”

“It’s festival time,” Mrs. Barlowe noted. “We get a lot of visitors that might not know I’m a witch.”

“But Miss Cole has a point,” Ansel said. “Even if they didn’t know you’re a witch, most criminals won’t break into a house for something that cheap. Was there something about this jug that made it special?”

Barnaby frowned. “It was nothing but a standard five-gallon glass jug. You can get them anywhere.”

“Not anywhere, honey,” Mrs. Barlowe said. “If you could get them anywhere, we wouldn’t be spending so much in shipping.”

The chief glanced up from her notebook. “What’s this?”

Barnaby waved his hand in front of his face. “It’s nothing important. I said you could get them anywhere, but Sarah’s right—I ship mine in. It’s easier than driving all over creation trying to find a specialty shop.”

“Did you notice anything else that seemed unusual to you?”

Barnaby shook his head.

“Did you sense any magic or see anything unusual?” Ansel asked Mrs. Barlowe.

“Not a thing.”

The chief let out a sigh. “All right. I’ll make a report, but I should warn you now, Mr. Barlowe, stolen goods, especially generic ones, are hard to retrieve.”

“I’ve resigned myself,” he said cheerfully.

I was willing to bet that he would’ve paid a lot more than thirteen dollars for that kind of vindication. Considering how much his wife went around correcting him, I could understand why.

The front door of the Barlowes’ house opened. Since Rall was facing that direction, he was the first to see who emerged. He muttered a curse and lowered his head.

I glanced over.

Nylah Oliversen was descending the porch steps and glaring at her stepfather.

I would've put my hand up to block her view of my face, but thanks to my bald head, for it to be effective, I'd have to drop to the ground and scuttle off, lizard style.

“Anything?” Ansel asked.

“Nothing,” Nylah said as she reached us. She turned to Rall. “What are you doing here, Father?”

Rall must not have had a decent lie ready. He went on the offensive.

“I didn’t know that the chief was calling you in to help with investigations!” he said, loud and proud.

Nylah wasn’t prepared for such an enthusiastic assault. She looked down, cleared her throat, and looked up again. Too bad for her, she’d looked up into Rall’s beaming face. She blushed, but didn’t look away again.

“It isn’t often,” she said.

Ansel explained, “My own sensitivity is usually good enough, but considering recent circumstances, I thought a little more thoroughness was called for.”

Mrs. Barlowe said, “Can we go inside now?”

“Yes,” Ansel said. “Everything’s been checked. Thank you for your patience.”

“Would you all like to come in for a warm drink before you go?” Barnaby asked.

“Thank you, Mr. Barlowe, but I’m afraid I’ve got work to do.”

The Barlowes waved goodbye and went into their house.

Nylah said, “Is there anything else, Chief?”

“No,” Ansel said. “That’s the last one. Are you going to be busy today?”

“Not until seven o’clock. You can call me again if you need me.”

“Thank you.” Ansel put her notebook away and turned to her patrol car.

As I watched her walk away, my conflicting motivations nearly tore me in two. I really, really wanted to talk to Ansel, but my instincts insisted that annoying the witch who’d nearly arrested me was a bad idea.

But she was the only police officer in town! Who else was I supposed to annoy?

There was Nylah, of course, but she'd probably refuse to tell me anything since I had the audacity to live in the same house as her sister. Oh. There was also that minor matter of me thumbing my nose at her snobbery the day we'd met.

If Officer Ansel refused to tell me anything, it would only be because she suspected I had criminal tendencies.

I lunged after her. “Hey! Chief!”

Ansel stopped with her hand on her open car door. I jogged around the car and stood beside her.

“What can I do for you, Miss Cole?” There was no mistaking the weariness in her voice.

“Would you be willing to tell me who else’s house was broken into last night?”

“What makes you so sure that anywhere else was broken into?”

“Because you said this was ‘the last one.’ That usually means there were others.”

No matter how much she narrowed her eyes, she could find no flaw in my logic.

“Miss Cole—” she started.

I cut her off. “Please. You know why we’re doing this.”

Ansel let out another sigh. It was deep and full of exhaustion. I was looking at a woman who’d spent too much time separated from her much-needed coffee mug.

“If I do this,” she said, “I want your word that there won’t be any more ‘book borrowing.’ You and Olivia work above the board. No more sneaking around and snooping into places you shouldn’t be.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Officer Ansel, but I promise that if the urge hits us, we’ll refrain.”

“I got two other calls this morning. One was from Doc Morgan. The other was from Ms. Hamlin. If you want the story, you’ll have to talk to them. And don’t you dare pretend that I sent you.”

“What was stolen?”

“As far as we can tell, nothing.”

“Then how do you know their places were broken into?”

“Because the door windows near the locks were smashed in. Tell me if you learn anything interesting.”

“Absolutely.” I nodded as well, to demonstrate the depth of our accord.

Ansel gave me one last look before she got in her patrol car and drove away.

I wandered back to where Rall was standing on the sidewalk. Nylah was already half a block away, headed in the direction of her home. We watched her go.

“Did you tell her anything?” I asked.

“I told her we were out taking a walk and happened to run into Barney, but I’m not sure she believed me,” he said.

“Do you think she’ll tell Ellis or Olivia?”

“Oh, she’d never tell Ellis. But she might confront Olivia.”

“Confront her?”

“You know—What are you doing? Why did you send them?—that kind of thing.”

“It wouldn’t occur to her that we might be doing this on our own?”

He looked at me. “Well, we aren’t, exactly, are we?”

That was true. We were doing it for Olivia. She just happened to be ignorant of that fact.

“Do you know Doc Morgan and Ms. Hamlin, by any chance?” I asked.

“Of course I do. He’s our local doctor, and she runs the hardware store.”

“Can you give me their addresses?”

“I’ll be happy to guide you there myself.”

I waved off his generosity. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I do. I can walk there, but I don’t know the addresses.”

“Ah. Then, please, lead on.”

We turned and continued down the sidewalk, heading away from Nylah. Thankfully.

I gazed around the neighborhood as we walked. The variety of shapes and colors made the houses stand out from the uniform background of gray clouds and white snow. My eyes moved from one to the next, delighting in their uniqueness and old-fashioned charm.

“Why haven’t you guys replaced your old doors with something more secure?” I asked.

“Pardon?” Rall said.

“Ansel said that the windows in their doors were broken.” I pointed to the house we were passing. Like most of the other houses, the majority of its upper half was made of glass panes.

“A lot of these houses were made before electric lights were installed,” Rall explained. “They put windows in everywhere they could to let in the daylight. Have you noticed the transoms in our home?”

“Ummm—”

“Those windows above our interior doors?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“But those doors are a huge security risk.”

Rall thought for a second. “I don’t know that we’ve ever worried about it. I’ve lived in Craftborough nearly all my life. This is the first time I’ve ever heard of someone breaking in. That’s another problem with power. It makes you blind to a lot of risks.”