Page 43 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

"That's fair," I admit.

She points toward the door. "Leave."

I lean against the desk. "I need merchant registrations."

The secretary closes her eyes, slowly, painfully. "As punishment for what?"

"I don't understand the question."

"Yes, you do."

I grin, as she sighs heavily. "If I give you these records, will you stop bothering me?"

"No."

Her shoulders slump. "I appreciate the honesty."

A short while later, another stack of ledgers lands on the desk. The secretary folds her arms. "I hope you find whatever you're looking for."

"I think I am," I voice,, the answer earning a suspicious look. Unfortunately, she's beginning to recognize that tone, the same one I used before finding inconsistencies in the harbor records, the same one I used before discovering trade routes connected to the attacks.

I collect the ledgers and leave before she can change her mind.

The harbor is busier than usual. Fishing crews move between vessels, merchants argue over cargo, workers unload crates from incoming boats. Life continues. Yet something feels different. People are nervous, watching the sea more than usual, watching the sky. Waiting for the next disaster.

I settle near the end of the docks and spread the ledgers across an empty crate. Merchant registrations, vessel licenses, dock assignments, names, routes, ownership records. The list is extensive.

I begin comparing registrations against the boats currently occupying harbor slips. One vessel missing and then another. I check again. Same result. Several licensed vessels should be here. They aren't.

That doesn't necessarily mean anything. Some boats are at sea, others trade elsewhere. Still, the pattern bothers me.

I continue counting, and when I finish, my notebook contains several names circled repeatedly. The same names appearing in contracts, near affected routes, connected to eastern trade operations. Interesting. Very interesting.

I close the ledger and glance toward the shoreline. Something catches my attention—a strange shimmer near a cluster of bushes close to the water. My frown deepens. The sensation is familiar. Not visibly magical. Residual and lingering.

I leave the records and head toward it. The farther I walk, the stronger the feeling becomes, the wolf stirring immediately, alert, interested. The shoreline here remains relatively isolated, few people bothering to come this far, which makes the disturbance even stranger.

I crouch beside a patch of flattened grass. The leaves look wrong, not damaged, changed, as though energy passed through them. I reach out carefully, and the moment my fingers touch the leaves, a pulse races through my hand. I jerk back, the sensation feeling almost electrical. Not painful. Unexpected.

I watch the leaves, then touch them again. The energy responds immediately, recognition following. Not memory. Recognition. My pulse quickens. I know this feeling. I've felt it before. Recently.

Reina.

The realization lands heavily. The magical residue resembles hers, almost perfectly. Almost.

I kneel lower, the wolf pushing forward again, examining, studying. The similarity is undeniable. So is the difference. The energy feels wrong around the edges, like a forged signature, close enough to fool most people, not close enough to fool someone familiar with the original.

My stomach tightens. Someone copied her magic. The thought settles into place immediately. Not borrowed. Not accidental. Copied…Deliberately.

The implications are staggering. Every damaged ward, every planted trace, every accusation, someone isn't merely framing Reina. Someone is manufacturing evidence.

I stare toward the water. The answer raises another question. Who possesses enough magical knowledge to accomplish something like this? The list is much smaller than most people realize.

I pull out my notebook and begin writing names. Council members, harbor officials, certain merchants, a handful of traders. Several names immediately disappear. Others remain. The list narrows. Not enough. But more than before.

The problem is that motive alone isn't enough. Neither is opportunity. I need proof. Something concrete. Something undeniable.

My gaze drifts back toward the forged residue. Since beginning this investigation, I finally feel as though I'm looking at the real trail. Not the one someone wanted me to find. The actual one. And that realization is both exciting and deeply concerning, because if I found it, whoever created it may realize their mistake.