"Good morning, Mr. Mumei-shi. I am Officer Límíng."
I bowed as he stepped into view, the morning light catching the edge of his sleeve. He looked as composed as ever—unhurried, as though disturbances arranged themselves around his schedule rather than the other way around.
"Good morning, Officer Límíng," he replied, his gaze shifting briefly to the woman beside me. "And your colleague."
I hesitated.
For a rare and uncomfortable moment, language failed me. Rank? Title? Jurisdiction? None of them felt quite correct.
"I am Miss Ayami," the woman said smoothly, rescuing me from my silence. She bowed with practiced grace. "It is a pleasure to finally meet the famous Mumei-shi."
"Fame is a persistent exaggeration," he said mildly, inviting us inside.
We were seated, tea already prepared as though our arrival had been anticipated, not announced.
I kept my back straight, my expression neutral. Miss Ayami accepted her cup but did not drink immediately.
"We were informed," she began, "that several mikos were attacked during a visit to the cemetery."
Mr. Mumei-shi closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if replaying the memory—or editing it.
"It is as you were told," he said. "I was at the shrine when I received word. I arrived only just in time."
He lowered his gaze to the tatami.
"Whatever caused the incident ceased upon my arrival. I regret that I cannot offer an explanation."
A sip of tea. Calm. Measured.
A girl with striking black-and-white hair had served us earlier, placing the tray down with quiet efficiency before withdrawing without a word.
Miss Ayami's eyes followed her.
"Is she one of your mikos?" she asked lightly.
"Not at all," Mr. Mumei-shi replied, breaking a biscuit. "A relative. Temporarily in my care."
Miss Ayami finally drank her tea, surveying the room as she did.
"Would it be possible," she asked, setting the cup down, "to speak with Miss Hazel? Records indicate she was present during part of the excursion."
The air shifted.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
"She is still recovering," Mr. Mumei-shi said. He did not reach for another biscuit. "I would prefer she be given time."
"I understand," Miss Ayami said, exhaling softly. "But a threat remains. We cannot afford delays."
She paused, then smiled.
"It is a miracle there were no fatalities."
Her fingers closed around the last biscuit on the plate.
"I also hear," she continued casually, "that Miss Hazel played a significant role in the city's recent recovery. Opened a new shop as well."
A compliment. Filed neatly. Sharpened.
"I would very much like to thank her."
"And you may," Mr. Mumei-shi said, turning his gaze away from the now-empty plate, "later in the day. She has a child to feed. Breakfast has not yet been taken."
"Oh—Zinnia," Miss Ayami said warmly. "Of course. I've heard she's a delightful child. Butterflies seem rather fond of her."
The room did not react.
"We apologize for the disturbance," she added, rising. "We may return another time."
Outside, as we descended the hill, I finally exhaled.
"Please extend my thanks to Miss Hazel," I said. "Thanks to her, my mother is fully recovered."
Miss Ayami nodded, thoughtful.
"You mentioned the bell," she said after a while. "It was brought to the shrine by monks after it ceased functioning?"
"That's correct, Ma—" I caught myself. "…Miss."
She smiled faintly.
"Have your chief open a case file," she said. "For Miss Hazel. And for the girl with the black-and-white hair."
I blinked. "But—"
"We never received her name," she added.
Orders, not explanations.
"Yes, Miss."
She stepped into the carriage, dusting her boots with unnecessary care.
"To the cemetery," she said.
I took the reins, unease curling in my stomach.
That hadn't been the plan.
But then again—plans were for people who believed they were in control.
And Miss Ayami?
She hadn't asked questions.
She'd been confirming suspicions.