Page 17 of Mane Brew

She opens the book to a marked page. The text is handwritten in a language I don’t recognize—symbols that seem to move when I try to focus on them, sliding away from direct observation.

“The Severing wasn’t just a ritual to weaken witch-shifter partnerships. It was cast here, in Mistvale. The original site is beneath the Familiar Registry. Grandmother Peach guards it.”

“I figured something like that.” Rhodes’s voice is careful, controlled, the voice of someone adding information to an internal file.

The silence that follows is heavy with implications.

“We need to protect the Registry.” Rhodes’s voice cuts through the silence, all business, already planning. “Increase patrols, reinforce wards, establish surveillance protocols⁠—”

“Grandmother Peach has her own protections.” Anouk’s tone carries a warning. “The Registry isn’t as vulnerable as you might think. Her methods don’t fit neatly into documentation.”

“Every location has measurable defenses.”

“Some defenses aren’t meant to be measured, Rhodes.”

I watch them face off—the methodical lion and the composed coven leader. Two people who approach problems from opposite directions but reach the same conclusions.

“If the Preservers have been planning this for forty years, we need every advantage we can get.”

Everyone looks at me.

“What? I can be reasonable, occasionally.”

“Occasionally.” Rhodes’s tone is dry, but I catch approval underneath it. Or at least the absence of disapproval.

Don’t get used to it.

We leave Anouk’s shop as the sun starts its descent toward the hills.

Rhodes has been quiet, his mind obviously churning through implications and documentation requirements. I can almost see the new file categories forming in his head.

“You’re planning a reorganization.”

“The existing threat matrix doesn’t account for civilization-ending magical catastrophes.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“That’s what the documentation will call it.” He pauses at the corner where our paths diverge—his toward Sunridge, mine toward the brewery. The mist curls around us, catching the fading light. “I need to review the Preserver symbol we found. Cross-reference it with Cordelia’s seized documents.”

“Now?”

“The investigation doesn’t pause for evening.”

I should go home. I should let him work in peace, return to my brewery and my disrupted ingredient stores and my confused magic. I should maintain professional distance from the man who documents sunbathing schedules and has seventeen pins dedicated to my brewing disasters.

“I’ll help.”

His eyebrows climb. “You want to help with documentation.”

“I want to understand what we’re dealing with.” I fall into step beside him as he turns toward Sunridge, matching his stride without thinking about it. “And your filing system is almost impressive.”

“Almost?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Two hours later, I’m surrounded by paper.

Rhodes has spread every relevant document across his office floor, creating a physical map of the conspiracy that covers nearly every inch of available space. Cordelia’s files on one side—her forty years of correspondence, meeting notes, coded communications. Intelligence reports on the other—Elio’s observations, shipping records, incident documentation.