Page 3 of Infernal Affairs
“Hi,” she says. “Sorry to barge in, Dr. Infernalis. I’m Daisy. I work next door.”
The name is familiar.
I recognize her as the new apprentice at Hex & Honey—the one I see every morning on my commute, setting out the day’s pastries with diligent, almost monastic ritual.
“Daisy,” I repeat and step aside to let her in.
The office seems to shrink around her, though she can’t be more than five-foot-nothing in her boots. Her presence has the warmth of a wood-burning stove in January.
“Clover sent me with a gift,” she says, holding out the bakery box. “She’s stuck finishing a wedding cake and didn’t want to cancel your session without at least a peace offering.”
She presents the box with sincerity verging on reverence.
I take it.
The warmth of the fresh pastry ghosts through the cardboard. I am uncomfortably aware of how long it’s been since I ate anything that wasn’t technically compressed protein and caffeine.
Inside is a neat row of what look like shortbread cookies, each one delicately scored with a pentacle and dusted with black salt.
I pick one up.
It’s still soft in the middle.
“Calming cookies,” Daisy supplies. “Lavender, sage, and a little something extra.”
Her grin broadens.
“Clover says they’ll take the edge off your... intensity.”
I break the cookie in half and try a piece.
It’s bright, floral, and utterly unlike anything I’ve ever let past my teeth. My mouth tingles as if I’ve been gently hexed.
I smile despite myself.
“Tell her thank you,” I manage, licking sugar from my thumb. “And thank you, Daisy.”
She edges between my chairs and peers around the waiting room as if this might be the most exciting place in town.
I can see the temptation to clear her throat and make a fast exit, but instead she looks me straight in the eye.
“So,” she starts, “what does a demon therapist do when his three o’clock gets canceled?”
There are a thousand responses: catch up on paperwork, finish case notes, stare at the wall and contemplate the futility of existence.
I say, “Usually? Eat cookies and enjoy the silence for a change. Would you like to join me?”
She blinks, surprised, then grins.
“I’d love to. If it won’t throw off your schedule. You seem—”
She gestures at my color-coded calendar on the wall, which is admittedly a shrine to punctuality.
I wave her off.
“I make my own hours. Occupational hazard of being the town’s only therapist.”
She sits on the far end of the couch, making herself small in that way considerate people do.
