Page 8 of Mane Brew

I flip to the contamination analysis Anouk sent over. Her handwriting is precise, clinical—the penmanship of someone who understands that accuracy matters. The modified moonflower contained traces of chaos magic, deliberately introduced to amplify unpredictable effects.

Deliberately.

The word sits heavy in my chest.

I pull a second file from my cabinet—one I compiled during the Valesh incident. The magical dead zones that nearly destroyed the sites the Registry had flagged for mate-potential signatures. I remember the patterns, the methodology. The careful precision of sabotage designed to look like an accident.

The contamination in Zeph Grimwood’s brewery matches perfectly.

Same approach. Same signature. Different target.

The Preservers are back.

My lion stirs at the thought, restless in a way that has nothing to do with territorial threat and everything to do with⁠—

I shut that line of thinking down. Not relevant to the investigation. Not documented. Not permitted.

I make a note in the margin: Confirm Preserver methodology with Elio’s intelligence files. Cross-reference with Cordelia Ashworth’s seized documents.

The pen moves across paper with familiar comfort. This is what I do. What I’m good at. Finding patterns in chaos, imposing order on the incomprehensible. Fifteen years of documentation have prepared me for exactly this moment.

They have not prepared me for Zeph Grimwood.

Her file sits in the locked cabinet behind my desk—the one labeled “Ongoing Concerns.” Fifty-three pages of incidents, violations, and inexplicable occurrences.

I gather my materials and head for the door.

The brewery looks different in full daylight.

Yesterday’s assessment was cursory—establishing the scene, collecting preliminary samples. Today requires thoroughness. Today requires hours of proximity to a woman who argues with every observation I make and smells like wildflowers and fermentation and something alive that makes my every trained instinct want to pace.

Professional focus. Maintain professional focus.

I knock. Three precise raps.

The door swings open to reveal Zeph. She’s holding a mug of liquid that steams aggressively—coffee, I assume, though with her, one can never be certain.

“I need to complete the full assessment of your ingredient stores.” I step past her into the brewery, clipboard at the ready. “The preliminary analysis from Anouk confirmed external contamination. Someone introduced chaos magic into your moonflower supply.”

“Chaos magic.” She follows me toward the storage area, her bare feet silent on the worn wooden floors. “That’s not exactly a precise diagnosis.”

“It’s the technical term for magic designed to amplify unpredictable effects. Usually employed in sabotage operations.”

“Sabotage.” The word comes out flat. “Someone sabotaged my brewery.”

“Someone used your brewery as a delivery mechanism.” I set my clipboard on her workbench and begin examining the ingredient jars systematically. “The question is why.”

She’s quiet for a moment. I can feel her watching me—that particular weight of attention that makes my shoulders want to tense. I refuse to let them.

“You have a theory.”

“I have a pattern.” I pull down a jar of dried sage, checking the seal. Intact.

“The Preservers.” Her voice carries an edge now. “Cordelia’s people. The ones who murdered Elder Mathilda.”

“Among other crimes.” I glance at her over my shoulder. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “You knew Cordelia.”

“Everyone knew Cordelia. She was on the Elder Council for forty years.” A flicker crosses her face—not grief. Betrayal, maybe. “She came to my grandmother’s funeral. Brought flowers. Said all the right things about legacy and tradition. Ate three slices of pie and commented on my ‘unconventional approach to brewing.’”