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“I don’t need an excuse. I see him twice a week.”

“You need an excuse to show up at his door without it being about the training or the case.”

Mirelle opened her mouth, then closed it.

“Fiora.” Althea, admiringly.

“I’m saying what we’re all thinking.”

“I’m thinking it,” Bexley confirmed. She hadn’t reopened the notebook, a significant gesture.

Meanwhile, the creatures that had appeared near the fireplace were small and calm. Three of them. Amber-lit, unhurried. They didn’t head for the wine rack or the pastry case. They arrived and settled, like a room when the windows open and the right amount of air comes in.

Fiora said, “Those are different.”

Bexley’s eyes moved over them, then to Mirelle. Bexley opened the notebook, wrote two lines, and closed it again. “Your magic did what weeks of training have been working toward. You stopped suppressing, and it went calm.”

“Tor said holding it in was the problem.”

“Tor was right.” She set down her pen, a formal declaration by Bexley standards. “Please don’t tell him I said that. He already knows.”

The fruit bowl on the floor. The golden retriever on Tor’s foot. Seventeen on the boardwalk. The scarf.

She existed; the part she’d been searching for wasn’t gone. She’d lost track of where to look. She was starting to find herself.

“More wine,” Valene announced. She’d made a sound right before this, something like a sniff, and was now moving with great efficiency to keep anyone from commenting on it.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank the emotional breakthrough for its timing.” Althea, pleased: “You’re welcome.”

“You didn’t do that.”

“I was morally present throughout. That counts.”

The door opened as the room settled — everyone warm and easy, honest with each other and mostly interested in the cheese.

Gerri Wilder. Earth-tone wrap, blue earrings, a tin of baked goods under one arm. She came through the door without knocking, as usual, and surveyed the café as if she’d expected this and was satisfied to be right. “Good, you’re all here.” She set the tin on the counter. “I brought cardamom. The raccoon doesn’t get any; she’s already had the run of the place.”

Rowan studied her. Gerri held her gaze, steady as ever. “Somebody keep an eye on the offshore anchor,” Gerri told the room. “The tide’s been off at the northern headland for three days, and that happens before something moves. Write it down.” Bexley opened her notebook.

“Also,” Gerri said, her eyes flicking to the three calm creatures by the fireplace. “They’re about to turn lavender, so you won’t be startled.” She turned to Valene. “You’ve outdone yourself with the almond ones.”

“I made those on Tuesday,” Valene said.

“I know. I had one. Delicious.” Her attention shifted to Mirelle. “You’re doing better than you think you are. That’s not a compliment; it’s an observation.” Already moving: “Don’t let the raccoon reorganize the wine rack after ten. She gets ambitious.” Valene turned. “She’s reorganized my — how did you —”

“I pay attention, and I don’t explain myself before noon.” Gerri was at the door. “Ask me again after lunch, if you still care.” The door closed behind her.

Valene’s eyes went to the counter. Gerri had eaten one of her almond pastries, taken from a tray behind the counter, and made it back to the door before anyone saw her cross the room to do it.

“Did anyone —”

“No.” Mirelle didn’t lift her gaze from her wine. “Nobody invited her.”

“She called the lavender before it was lavender,” Bexley said. “She called the wine rack. She took a pastry from behind the counter without going behind it.” She capped her pen. “I’m choosing not to examine any of this, because I only have so many pens and I need them for things I can document.”

Mirelle turned to Valene. “Did you invite her?” Valene looked at Fiora. Fiora looked at Garnet. Garnet looked at Althea, who looked at her wine and said nothing, which was answer enough. “Althea?”