Chapter 3 My First Customer Betrayed Me

The cellar trapdoor was smashed off its rusty iron hinges with a crack like thunder.

Three academy proctors surged down the narrow stone stairs, wands drawn, their heavy wool cloaks sweeping through the purple smog that still lingered in my conservatory. At their head was Head Proctor Vance, a man whose face looked like it had been carved out of dried leather and perpetually steeped in vinegar.

"Nobody move!" Vance bellowed, his diagnostic wand glowing a bright, aggressive amber as he swept it across the room. "We traced a Class-4 unregistered magical spike directly to this cellar!"

I immediately threw my hands into the air, holding my canvas cleaning rag like a white flag. "Evening, gentlemen! Mind the carpet it’s an ancient heirloom, mostly!"

Vance didn't look at me. His wand snapped toward the mahogany desk, where Rowan Nightshade stood with supreme, unbothered composure. Rowan was casually wrapping a white silk handkerchief around his left palm, his posture so relaxed he might as well have been standing in the royal conservatory of the Moon Court.

"Lord Nightshade?" Vance blinked, the aggression draining from his voice, replaced by sudden, panicked confusion. "What... what are you doing in this abandoned storage basement?"

"Conducting a private, high-tier resonance trial, Proctor Vance," Rowan said, his voice dropping into that smooth, aristocratic register that made everyone in the room feel instantly lower-class. "As head of the Student Council discipline committee, I am permitted restricted spell-casting for personal academic research. I trust you received my filing?"

Vance hesitated, his diagnostic wand flickering. "Your filing? Well... no, my lord, but the alarm"

"Was a minor miscalculation in my atmospheric wards," Rowan interrupted coldly, stepping forward and subtly blocking Vance’s line of sight to my workbench and the remaining silver filings left behind by the pocket watch. "I apologize for the disturbance. You may stand down your men."

I watched Rowan from the corner of my eye, my heart hammering against my ribs beneath my apron. He was lying through his teeth with absolute, breathtaking precision. But as Vance began to lower his wand, the proctor’s eyes suddenly darted past Rowan, landing squarely on the shelf behind my head.

"Wait," Vance said, his eyes narrowing. "A copper distillation rack? Jars of unclassified dried flora? A... sleeping goose on a stack of restricted ledgers?" He took two heavy steps toward me, his wand flaring bright red. "This isn't an academic storage room. This is an unlicensed, illegal commercial enterprise!"

"It's a biology study group!" I squeaked quickly, taking a step back. "I'm researching the... emotional life of cabbages!"

"Silence!" Vance snapped. He whipped a rolled parchment from his belt an official academy search warrant. "We didn't just trace a magical spike, Bellweather. The Proctor’s Office received an explicit, anonymous report twenty minutes ago stating that an illegal repair shop was operating beneath the West Tower, complete with stolen academy tools and contraband artifacts."

My stomach dropped like a stone into a well.

An anonymous report.

Someone hadn't just stumbled upon my shop—someone knew I was down here. And they had reported me to the proctors twenty minutes ago... right around the exact moment Rowan had walked through my trapdoor holding his mother's pocket watch.

I turned my head sharply to glare at Rowan. His face remained an unreadable mask, but I saw the subtle, razor-thin clench of his jaw as Vance spoke.

"Search the room," Vance ordered his two assistants. "Confiscate every jar, every tool, and every piece of parchment. Miss Bellweather, you will accompany me to the Headmaster’s office for immediate suspension proceedings."

"Now wait just a minute," I said, my temper flaring as one of the proctors reached for my grandmother’s heirloom brass soldering irons. "You can't just swipe my gear! I haven't done anything wrong!"

"You're operating without a license, Bellweather," Vance sneered, reaching for the velvet cloth on my desk.

Before Vance’s fingers could touch the fabric, Rowan stepped smoothly into his path.

"Proctor Vance," Rowan said softly, though the tone carried enough threat to freeze a waterfall. "If you touch that velvet wrap, you will be interfering with an active Moon Court royal investigation."

Vance froze, his hand hovering an inch above the desk. "My lord?"

"The artifacts in this room were brought here under my direct supervision," Rowan lied smoothly, reaching down with his uninjured hand and casually sliding my box of rare silver solder beneath a stack of parchment, effectively hiding it from the other proctors. He did it so fast, so seamlessly, that only I noticed. "Miss Bellweather was acting as my temporary lab assistant under official council mandate. If you confiscate these materials, you will be answering directly to the High Fae Ambassador."

Vance’s pale face went completely white. "I... I see. But the anonymous report"

"Was clearly a malicious prank designed to waste council time," Rowan cut in, turning his dark eyes onto me. "Though my assistant has been remarkably sloppy with her workspace. Look at this place. It's a fire hazard."

I goggled at him. He was actively helping me hide my most expensive tools with one hand while insulting my housekeeping with the other.

"Right," I managed to choke out, grabbing a stack of illegal potion receipts and shoving them frantically into my apron pocket while the proctors were distracted by Rowan's royal aura. "Terribly sloppy! I’ll sweep immediately!"

Vance cleared his throat, thoroughly intimidated and clearly eager to avoid a diplomatic incident with the Moon Court. "Very well. But the shop is closed. Effective immediately. If I catch so much as a single copper piece changing hands in this cellar, Miss Bellweather, scholarship or no scholarship, you will be thrown out of Moonvale."

"Understood, sir!" I gave him a sharp, sarcastic salute. "Clear as crystal!"

Vance grunted, motioning for his men to fall back. "Clear out, boys. Lord Nightshade, a formal report will still be required by morning."

"It will be on your desk at dawn," Rowan replied coldly.

The proctors turned and marched back up the stone stairs, leaving the cellar in an agonizing, heavy silence. The broken trapdoor hung limply on its single remaining hinge, letting the cold draft of the upper corridors whistle down into the room.

The moment the proctors' heavy boots faded down the hallway above, I whipped around to face Rowan, my hands shoved deep into my apron pockets.

"You reported me," I hissed, stepping right into his personal space, my eyes blazing.

Rowan didn't flinch, though his dark brows pulled down in genuine irritation. "I did no such thing."

"Oh, pull the other one, Nightshade!" I snapped, gesturing wildly at the smashed door. "You walk into my shop with a forbidden, dangerous watch, and twenty minutes later the proctors burst in with a written tip-off? You set me up so you’d have leverage over me!"

"If I wanted leverage over you, Iris, I would simply have let Vance search your desk," Rowan countered sharply, taking a step toward me until we were standing toe-to-toe. "I just staked my personal reputation and lied to an academy proctor to save your ridiculous, unlicensed business. Do you honestly think I would risk exposing my mother's watch to the faculty just to catch you fixing tea-kettles?"

I opened my mouth to shoot back another sharp retort, but the sheer, icy sincerity in his voice stopped me cold. He was furious not at me, but at the situation.

"Then who did it?" I asked, my voice dropping as the cold reality set in. "Nobody knows about this shop except my handful of private clients."

"Someone saw me coming down here," Rowan murmured, his dark eyes sweeping over the quiet, ruined conservatory. He reached down to his wounded palm, his silk handkerchief turning faintly silver from his blood. "Or someone recognized the pocket watch when I brought it across campus."

He looked back at me, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second to my right sleeve, where the hidden, black crescent mark was still resting cold against my wrist.

"They weren't trying to catch an illegal shop, Iris," Rowan said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low whisper that sent a shudder down my spine. "They were checking to see if the watch had been mended. Someone wanted to see who would answer its activation."

I looked down at my hands, feeling the lingering, quiet thrum of my Mending Magic beneath my skin. The cozy, quiet life I had built in this little cellar was officially over.

"Well," I said softly, looking up into the dark, intense eyes of the Fae Prince. "It seems my first customer brought me a lot more than double-rate pay."

Rowan’s jaw set into a firm, unyielding line. "Your shop is compromised. But our work isn't finished." He turned toward the ruined stairs, pausing at the threshold. "Clean up this mess, Bellweather. Tomorrow, we find out who sent that report."