His door is ajar, so I walk straight in, hoping I don't catch him doing anything unseemly. Ambrose is right where I left him, and is unsurprisingly surprised to see me.
“How long have I been doing paperwork?” he asks, shooting me a puzzled look.
“Only two hours or so.” Though I'm sure it feels like much longer if it's anything like the paperwork I have to do myself.
“Why are you back?”
“I wish I knew. I made the mistake of telling my Grammie about Grandpa Dobromir and—”
“You told your Grammie?” Anger flits over his expression, but he covers it again quickly enough. I'm impressed by his control.
“Believe me, I know it was a mistake. It slipped out when I was asking her for advice on certifying and now she’s calling in a favour for us,” I explain, but without any more information, it's going to be tough.
“With… who?”
“Beats me. She told me to come get you and the sliver of wood. It’s best to do what she asks.” I shrug, unsure what he's so confused about. I'm sure he has grandparents of his own, and that he has to do what they say when they ask.
The young man doesn’t look too pleased. I don’t blame him.
To my surprise, he stretches out in a long yawn and nods. “Alright, I’ll bite. I’m going crazy filing all this crap anyway. I could use a distraction.”
“Lovely.” That was easier than I thought it would be, but I suppose that's a good thing. One more feather in my cap for when Ambrose has to decide whether or not to keep me as a consultant.
6
Much to my relief, Grammie is still waiting in the car. I don't know where I thought she'd get up to, but Grammie is like me. If she can get into trouble, then she will do.
I pull open one of the back doors and gesture for Ambrose to get in.
“Grammie, this is Detective Ambrose. He came into the shop this morning asking for help. Ambrose, this is my Grammie," I introduce them both.
Ambrose offers his hand through Grammie's open window, but I can sense the hesitation within him. I suppose that makes some kind of sense. By bringing Grammie into this, I've told someone else about the murder investigation and that could get him into trouble unless he gets results.
I take that as a personal challenge to get him them.
The two politely shake hands before he crawls into the back of the car. He has the whole backseat to himself but somehow makes it look cramped, and he’s not even that tall. It must be a skill of his.
“Ambrose?” Grammie says as the car sets into motion and we pull out of the parking lot. “Any chance you’re related to Chief Ambrose?”
“That’s my great-grandfather,” he mutters. “You know him?”
“No,” Grammie responds curtly, before turning her attention back to the road.
The drive is awkward and silent. The radio hums a soft tune but doesn’t manage to drown out the tension. I’m not exactly sure why it’s like this but when Grammie is in one of her weird moods, it just has to pass.
I’m relieved when we pull up to a big grey building. It's weirdly imposing but it's still a welcome distraction from whatever is going on in this car.
Ambrose perks up. “Winged Lion Laboratory? What are we doing here?”
“Getting your sliver certified,” Grammie declares as she stalls the car and gets out.
“You can’t just drive up here and jump the queue. There are protocols, procedures, many, many, many—” Ambrose is surprisingly flustered to say we're getting him what he wants.
“Hush, youngster.” Grammie tightens her wool jumper and swings her little purse over her shoulder. “Someone owes me a favour. You just get your wood ready.”
“Grammie! You can’t say it like that. That’s so… inappropriate.” Despite my protests, I'm snickering inside.
She gives me a steel look. “And why is that?”
I blush. “No reason.”
The look Grammie throws at me leaves no doubt that she sees right through my lie. That's embarrassing. I don't want Grammie to think I know about things like that.
Grammie leads the way with a confidence only gained through age. Ambrose still looks hesitant, but he's going along with it. No doubt he wants to find out the answers about his sliver more than he wants to abide by the rules.
I can work with that. If he's willing to break one rule, then he can be convinced to keep me on as a consultant, I'm sure of it.
We make our way through the revolving doors and into the cold entrance hall. A single desk stands in the middle of a massive room with nothing else around. A giant waste of space, if anyone asks me. Not that they do. Nor should they. I doubt interior design is something I can master with ten minutes and a book on the subject, even if I think it is.
We approach the thin man at the reception and wait in silence as he vigorously types away. Unsure what we’re waiting for, I glance from Grammie to Ambrose. Surely, one of them should take the lead here? Why are we waiting?
Unable to contain myself, I clear my throat. “Ahem.”
The man looks up from his rectangular glasses. “What?”
“We’re here to see…” I look at Grammie, hoping she’ll jump in. Instead, she seems preoccupied by one of the loose flowers on her purse. That’s not helpful at all.
I glance at Ambrose who just shrugs.
Excellent.
“The doctor,” I bluff, trying to sound as confident as I can.
The receptionist glares at me. “Which one?”
Ah, damn it. So much for that trick. What's a common name? At least then I might get someone who is actually in the building and not look like a complete fool.
Except that my brain has gone on strike.
I chuckle awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension. “I forgot the name, umm… It’s, umm. It’s the one that’s…”
“Director Riffin,” Grammie supplies, earning a surprised look from Ambrose and me.
The director? Who knew Grammie had such big connections? First, Ambrose's great-grandfather, now the director of this fancy lab? What is that she hasn't told me about her past? After this, she's going to have to tell me.
“The Director is in a meeting and isn’t expecting any visitors,” the thin guy answers. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and resumes typing, pretending like we’re not here.
I manage to wait a couple more seconds. “Aren’t you going to let him know there’s someone here to see him?”
He tuts. “No.”
Rude. What is it with all these receptionists? I thought their job was to be hospitable and welcoming. Maybe it's me who has this effect on them.
Before I can speak again, Grammie pulls her phone from her purse and painstakingly slow, taps her screen with just her index finger. With a click, she locks the phone and demonstratively crosses her arms. Almost instantly, the phone behind the front desk rings. The thin man answers it and turns white as a sheet.
“Yes, Sir. No, Sir. Yes, immediately. At once.” He puts the phone down, rises from his chair like he’s just seen a ghost, and musters a weak smile. “Director Riffin will see you now, Ma’am. Please follow me.”
Grammie closes her purse and beams “Excellent. You kids wait here.”
With the press of a button, an invisible door in the wall behind the desk slides open and she follows the receptionist, leaving me with Ambrose.
I shoot him an awkward smile. “That went well.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” I can't tell if he's more annoyed or impressed.
“I’m not sure.” I take a look around but there’s nothing else in the hall. Just boring grey walls, a couple of fake plants, and long pipes running along the ceiling.
Ambrose and I wait in silence for a couple of minutes when another invisible door opens and a woman in a white lab coat greets us.
“Hi, I’m Doctor Riffin. Are you the detectives?”
“Detective,” Ambrose jumps in. “I’m Detective Ambrose. This is Ame— Amy, she’s consulting on my
case.”
The woman nods. “Welcome to the Winged Lion Lab. This way. You’re looking to grade and certify a piece of wood as a wand, correct?”
“Yes, I’ll need a—”
“The infrared spectrometer is already on and the MTD is warming up,” Doctor Riffin says.
“MTD?” Ambrose asks.
“Magic Trace Detector,” I quickly add. She’s not the only one that knows fancy science words. Maybe I don’t work in a lab or haven’t certified wood before but I’m no stranger to wood dating and trace analysis. I have to know these kinds of things for when I’m crafting wands and putting magnifiers together. This is a different situation and whether a murder will be solved or not is relying on it, but I can do this.
We follow the woman down through a labyrinth of halls, passing various rooms with all kinds of machines and equipment. Most of them are just sitting there, not a person in sight. No wonder test results take so long. There’s nobody here doing them.
“So you have the last name as the director,” I say, making small talk. “Related?”
“He’s my uncle,” she answers, pausing at one of the doors. She presses her identification card against a scanner and with a click and a flash of green, the lock opens.
We enter the room and I marvel at all the big, fancy machines. I don’t recognise any of them, not even the MTD or the spectrometer. Long rows of counters run through the entire room, fulfilled with all kinds of beakers and microscopes. The sinks are deep with long faucets and there’s a row of white lab coats hanging by the door.
“You’ll have to sign in,” the doctor says, directing us to a station near the entrance. “Write down your names here and what you’re here to do.”
“Alright.” I take the pen and jot my name down. It all feels so official and serious, which I realise it is, but still. It’s like being in my own movie.
Once I’m done, I hand the pen to Ambrose and turn to the doctor. “And now?”
“Wash your hands and then you’re good to go. I take it you know what you’re doing?”
I try to put on a confident smile. “Of course.”
“All right, I’ll leave you to it,” she replies, turning away.
“Wait.” I feel awkward just admitting it, but all the giant machines intimidate me. “I’m… Actually, this is my first time verifying a wood sample.”
Doctor Riffin stares at me, waiting for me to continue speaking.
She’s going to make me say it.
I let out a deep breath. “Could you please… please help me?”
She smiles. “Sure, I don’t mind. We’re severely understaffed and I have a billion tasks, but anything for the PPD.”
I can’t tell if she’s being sincere or not. It sounded sarcastic but her smile looks so genuine. Her voice seems naturally sweet and soft, making it hard to decipher the tone. I’ll choose to believe she meant it. If she didn’t… well, that’s not really my problem.
7
As expected, the wood is H grade. I can't help but take a little bit of pride in myself for getting that one right, even though it's my job to do so. I take the sliver to the MTD, apprehension bubbling in my stomach as I do. I remember using the technology in one of my courses but I’ve never used a professional lab-grade machine like this. It’s big, bulky, and looks like it would fit Ambrose inside it. I'm not sure why I’d have to scan him, but the image is at least amusing.
I transfer the piece of wood onto a little glass dish and insert it into the machine’s black chamber. I wish Doctor Riffin had given me a white coat, then I could feel like a proper scientist.
“What does this do?” Ambrose inquires, glancing over my shoulder.
“It’s supposed to reveal traces of magic,” I explain, adjusting some of the settings on the machine to make sure it does what it's supposed to and not destroy the piece of wood in the process. That would definitely put a damper on the chances of me working with Ambrose again.
“How does it work?” It's impossible to ignore the genuine interest in his voice.
“It’s pretty straight-forward. Pixie dust can bind to even the smallest traces of magic. Did you know that?” I'm only half paying attention to him. I need to put as much focus on the process in case something goes wrong and I have to deal with it.
Ambrose shook his head, his curls dancing. “No.”
“Well, this machine will dust the wood and then I look through this bit to see if the wood reacts,” I explain, tinkering with the eye of the microscope. “I just have to make sure to put in the right weight and material so we get the perfect amount of dust,” I mutter, not sure if I’m explaining things to Ambrose or just talking to myself.
I don't think it matters, he's hanging onto every word.
“Ah, there we go. That’s all set… Now this… Good, all done… Ready.”
“Ready.” He doesn't sound so sure, but I'm going to take it as my cue to go ahead with the test.
“Yes.” I close the latch, trapping the wood in the black chamber at the heart of the machine. One of the lights turns green but I check the door just to be sure. Pixie dust tends to be unstable and explosive, and an inexperienced handler is exactly what will set it off. I don’t want that to happen in Doctor Riffin’s lab. Making a mess in my own workroom is one thing, in someone else's is something different.
Once I’m satisfied it’s all locked in, I press the large button in the middle, bringing the machine to life. The slight puffing and buzzing indicates it’s working and after only twenty seconds, another light turns green. It's impossible to contain my excitement, even if I'm nervous about using all this fancy equipment, it's also a dream come true. How many times in my life will I get to play with machines like the MTD?
Hopefully more, if I get to carry on consulting for the PPD.
I look through the microscope, hoping to find the dust sticking to the wood.
“Yes!”
Ambrose flinches at my shout, and guilt rushes through me. I didn't mean to scare him.
Just as I expected, pink pixie dust coating the sliver. There are plenty more tests that can determine what kind of magic has left the residue, but for the warrant from the CWC, this should be enough.
The moment we get this document made official, we should be one step closer to finding who killed Grandpa Dobromir.
To finalise my results, I have to lock in the pixie dust and set it with resin. It’ll preserve the sample and keep it in a stable condition if further testing needs to be done. It’s just a finicky project that would’ve gone much quicker if I was doing at home where I know where everything is. In this giant lab, nothing is stored at a logical place.
“I should’ve waited for the police lab’s results,” Ambrose muttered. “That would’ve been quicker.”
I give him my best Grammie Glare. “Excuse you, I’m doing you a favour here.”
He sighs and runs his hand over his face. “You’re right, I’m sorry… for speaking the truth.”
“Oi.”
“I’m teasing. It’ll be a big help to get this done,” he admits, hopping off his high chair and joining me at my bench. “How close to done are we?”
Hmm. What's this? A new more playful side of him? I can get used to that. Hopefully, it stays around.
I wave my pen under his nose. “I need to sign the document and then Doctor Riffin needs to sign off as well since she’s in charge of the lab.”
“Great. Once the wood is wand-certified, the CWC should be more cooperative and get me that list.” Relief flashes over his face as he realises that he's further ahead than he was this morning.
“Let’s hope so,” I say, scribbling down my signature on the line of the document. That’s my part done, now I just need the lab to verify the findings. “Doctor Riffin?”
The woman looks up from behind her desk. “Yes?”
“Could you please go over my findings?”
She nods and holds out her hand for the document. “Sure.” She pushes a set of thin glasses up h
er nose and with watchful eyes, she scans the paper.
It’s terrifying waiting for her opinion. Even though I know I’ve done everything right, there are plenty of ways to come to the same conclusion. If she doesn’t approve of mine, we might lock heads.
Doctor Riffin pulls a funny face but I can’t tell if it’s disapproving or not. She flicks through the set of papers, studying them carefully. If it was me revising, I’d probably just have scanned it but she looks like she’s actually reading it all.
“How much pixie dust did you use?” she asks.
“One milligram. I wrote that down,” I say, rushing forward to point to my findings.
The doctor traces my illegible one with her pen and nods. “That all looks good to me.”
I’m surprised. “Yes?”
“Yes, a couple of unorthodox methods you don’t see often but I can’t fault the results.” She scribbles her name on the bottom of the document and smacks one of the lab’s stamps down on it. An elegant figurine of a lion with wings, just like the name suggests.
“Pretty,” I point out, admiring the thin lines of ink sinking into the paper. “I like your logo.”
“Thank you.” The doctor finishes authenticating the document, puts it in a neat envelope with another stamp, and puts it in one of her drawers.
I stare, waiting awkwardly. “Umm… Don’t we need that?”
She looks up at me, her smile polite but cold. “Oh, don’t you worry, we’ll send that out first thing tomorrow to Judge House.”
“But… Can’t we take it straight to the CWC, can’t we?” I say, looking at Ambrose. “Or not?”
He doesn’t answer quickly enough.
The doctor shoots me a look. “Ah, I didn’t realise you were a judge that can issue warrants.” She holds out the envelope, her dark eyes flickering with magic. She senses my hesitance and flicks it back. “Or maybe not.”
I grimace. “I guess we’ll leave it in your capable hands.”
“I thought so. Now if you don’t mind, I have a lot more work to do,” she says, gesturing vaguely to the exit.
Hexes and Vexes Page 4