Chapter Text
The antique shop was called The Oracle’s Teacup, which really tells you everything you need to know about its priorities. It sold Edwardian silverware, overpriced crystals, and a whole wall of books on topics like “quantum alchemy,” with forewords written by the sort of people who genuinely believed they could speak fluent Ancient Egyptian after that one time they blacked out at Burning Man.
But the vestigia were real—sharp and herbal, like dried yarrow—and the poltergeist had definitely tried to throw a teacup at my head. Twice. So here we were, interviewing the shop’s owner-slash-resident Neo-pagan, while a barista behind the counter made very slow oat lattes and watched Nightingale like he was on the specials board.
Nightingale sat at the centre of the chaos like a fixed point: crisp suit, hair neatly parted, calm and courteous as ever while he asked whether the teacups had started levitating before or after the full moon.
“They kind of just started, you know?” the shop owner said, waving her arms vaguely toward the ceiling, where one of the cups had embedded itself near a lighting fixture. “I thought it might be the energy shift from the Venus retrograde, but I saged the entire place and it only got worse.”
“I see,” said Nightingale, with the slight incline of his head that I’d come to recognise as internal screaming. “And have there been any other disturbances?”
The barista appeared at our table with a latte in each hand and an expression that I recognised instantly from my own brief stint behind a coffee bar. It was the look of someone about to shoot their shot.
“Here you go,” they said, setting the cup down in front of Nightingale with all the reverence of a religious offering, voice a little husky. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, but I figured… London Fog. Classic. Thought that’d suit you.”
I raised an eyebrow. Nightingale blinked.
The barista smiled, tilting their head just enough to let a fall of dyed silver hair slide across one eye.
“I finish at six, by the way.”
And that was when my brain caught fire.
“Sorry,” I said, before I could stop myself, “he doesn’t date. I mean—this is a police interview.”
There was a silence so profound I could hear the espresso machine wheeze in the background.
The barista looked at me. Looked at Nightingale. Then gave Nightingale a little smile that said you can do better and sauntered back behind the counter.
Nightingale sipped his latte. Glanced at me, the barest flick of his grey eyes. “Thank you, Peter,” he said evenly. “But I am capable of answering for myself.”
“Right,” I said. “No, totally. Sorry. Just, you know. We’ve got a case. No time for, uh. Distractions.”
He raised one eyebrow, and I busied myself with pretending to inspect the poltergeist cup. It was wedged in the ceiling at an angle that suggested impressive force. Maybe I’d get lucky and it’d fall on my head and end this whole conversation.
Instead, Nightingale turned back to the shop owner and said, “You mentioned the disturbances began after you acquired a new item for the window display?”
“Yes!” she said, clearly grateful for the change of subject. “The compass. Supposedly belonged to a sea captain who was cursed by a selkie.”
I made a note to check for salt traces. Also to Google selkie dating habits. Added them to the case notes folder for upload, tapping my phone to make sure the audio was still running. Don Patel, the Folly’s new technology liaison, had roped me into beta testing his new transcription tool, which was supposed to automatically tag any mentions of vestigia, magical artifacts, or property damage requiring Folly reimbursement.
From across the shop, the barista was still watching Nightingale.