Gunnar rolled his eyes, looked back at the rest of the agents. “Is there a store upstairs? Have you ever bought products up there?”

Silence, until a man in the front shook his head. “No, sir. Not upstairs.”

“And there you go. And since you’ve trashed it, I strongly suspect the Commandant will have some questions about how you went about inspecting said store. And Claire will probably have some thoughts about whether you can ever come back.”

“I do,” I said to Broussard. “Don’t ever step foot in this store again.”

Then I lifted my gaze to the agents. A couple looked embarrassed, maybe that they’d let things go so far, maybe because they’d followed Broussard in here at all against their better judgment. Maybe they’d followed tough orders even though they knew better. We’d all done difficult things in difficult times.

Others just looked irritated. For whatever reason, or because of whatever Broussard had told them, they believed I was Public Enemy Number One. And that was fine. They could believe whatever they wanted, no matter how naive.

“If you believe I’d try to hurt this city,” I said, “you’re not as smart as you think. And you’re no longer welcome here.”

Broussard directed an agent to pick up the crate that contained the “evidence” they’d gathered. He gestured the man to the door, walked toward me with a piece of paper in hand. “You can come to Containment in forty-eight hours to check the status of your things. They may be retained as evidence in the event further action is warranted, but the clerk will advise.”

I scanned the receipt, felt immediate relief. Among other totally innocent things, they were taking a saltcellar, candles, a pearl-handled knife, and a book about nineteenth-century spiritualism. “None of those things are magical,” I said, handing the receipt to Gunnar, “and none of them are banned.”

Broussard’s expression was flat. “These are all goods that could be utilized to develop magic.”

He said it like magic was something that could be made from scratch, like baking a cake. Like lighting a candle and saying a few words over the flame could raise someone from the dead or make someone fall in love. Hadn’t the Veil proven that what humans knew of magic was just illusion? Just manipulation or coincidence? There was magic, absolutely. But the thing we’d imagined it to be had been only a sickly shadow of the real thing.

“No,” I said, suddenly exhausted. “They couldn’t. And I’m pretty sure everyone in the room knows that.”

“Forty-eight hours,” he said, then looked at Gunnar. “Perhaps we should both speak with the Commandant.”

Gunnar nodded. “I think that would be best.”

Broussard strode to the door, yanked it open, and moved into the overcast day outside.

The door closed silently behind him. They’d even taken the bell off the doorknob. Because that was clearly the key to my improper magical undertakings.

Silence fell as Gunnar and I stared at the remains of my store. No, they hadn’t destroyed everything. But they’d tossed over enough furniture, dumped out enough nuts and bolts, that the floor was littered with stuff. It would take hours to put the room back into order.

I walked to the table where the agent had dumped the broken and shattered pieces of the cuckoo clock.

It had taken me a few weeks to get it cleaned and running the last time around. Now it wasn’t just about the movement, but the pieces themselves. I’d have to figure out how much of the wood could be glued back together, or figure out a way to get new pieces cut. It would take months if I was lucky. I stood up Little Red Riding Hood, put the wolf upright beside her. And hoped I’d be lucky.