Venturing into the mountainous forest the other day, Scorpion had collected frightshade, a type of nightshade that is especially potent. In smaller doses, it causes paralysis. With direct application, it will stop the heart. At high concentrations, it goes well with sugar. He mashed the plants and strained the liquid through a funnel until he extracted a few teaspoons.

Scorpion rises early to purchase supplies. The artisan’s boulevard is the market hub of the estate, with smoke actively rising from chimneys, and stores lining the streets. There’s no apothecary around, the closest alternative being a spice shop. He browses the shelves and jars of sublime scents, until finally purchasing a bottle of cane syrup.

At the textile mill, he buys a fresh roll of gauze; from the basket weavers, a circular steamer and lid made from brindlewood; from the bakers, a thirty-brick bag of rice flour. In the center of the hub, a roaring community fire is maintained by chefs and bussers. There’s always food cooking to feed the hungry population. If anyone wants to use it, they’re expected to share.

Keeping his belt secured, Scorpion ties his overcoat around his waist, revealing a plain undershirt. "I’ll be making sweet rice cakes," he says to the onlookers. They nod and tell him to wait his turn.

A portly man and his stick-like assistant handle a gigantic skillet, sizzling a stir-fried medley of greens, peppers, onions and wild rice. A dishwasher with pots and pans stacked haphazardly around him scours a plate with water, sitting near a giant cistern and well. Scorpion heads over and grabs a clean bowl to begin the mixture. Water, flour and syrup form a sticky and dense dough. Transferring to a flat board, he sprinkles flour and kneads until firm.

He makes a huge batch using half the bag. In a smaller bowl, the ingredients are thrown in, but left untouched.

"Would you like some?" the chef asks, offering vegetables heaped onto a mollusk shell.

Scorpion resists the flavorful aroma. "I’ll pass."

The chefs go around the crowd, distributing stir fry. When the skillet has finally been cleared off the griddle, Scorpion cuts his dough into chunks. People offer to join in, ranging from workers on break to amateurs excited for a little dessert. He accepts their help, saying, "Just don’t touch that bowl. I want to make a special-flavored gift for my host." Expert mothers employ technique, covering their hands in flour, pulling the dough up through fingers into a mushroom and cutting off the bottom before rolling. Some children make a sticky mess, creating lumpy mochis.

Steamers are lined on the bottom with elephant leaves, and rice balls are rolled and placed on them. People use whatever is on hand to cover the pots, whether it’s with leaves, a canvas cloth, or a plank. Huge, deep chambers are filled with water for steaming. In Scorpion’s special bowl, he kneads halfway, pours the distilled frightshade casually, stuffs the bottle back into his pocket, and quickly forms the dough into spheres and places them in his steamer. After a few minutes, his fingers tingle.

The steamers are stacked three levels maximum, so Scorpion finds a spot to place his. As they wait for the mochis to cook, he stares at his property with unwavering attention. In the meantime, he discreetly tosses some of the poisoned dough, makes a fuss about tripping over it, and spills the leftovers all over the ground. He gets up and stabilizes himself. Beyond the initial charade, a few murmur, "Too bad, what a waste," and nobody bats a further eye.

He returns the empty bowl to the dirty dish pile. As he glances at the fire, a weasley fellow takes the lid off the top steamer, holding chopsticks to sneak one out. Scorpion panics and runs, and when he invades the man’s personal space, emits a loud noise in his ear. The fellow yelps and drops the cake, highly disgruntled.

"Sorry, I made these," Scorpion says. "Um, these are really ugly and deformed." He snatches the top steamer, the vapor expanding into their faces, and gestures towards the mochis below. "These ones are prettier."

The fellow stares at Scorpion, before he shakes his head and picks a cake from the other batch. As he walks away, hand cupped underneath the chopsticks, he mutters, "I don’t notice a difference."

Scorpion cusses under his breath and switches the batches, searing the new location into his brain. For good measure, he steps on the fallen cake and kicks it towards some weeds.

At the end of the cooking session, Scorpion gathers extra mochis and arranges them alongside the tainted ones, marking notches in the leaf with his knife. He leaves the flour sack behind, more concerned about the time, and heads to a local soup shop. After grabbing a quick bite, he sits on a bench outside the ordering window, putting his coat back on. A navy blue awning shades the dining area, with enough seats for other customers to spread apart.

The boulevard is a well-paved road with cobblestone, and most people take it on their way to the clinic. The morning has aged, but there’s a high chance that Timo will pass through. The mochis are dusted with rice flour, pearls hidden in snow. He recounts the ones that are safe to eat, planning which side he will position himself next to Timo to access them casually. When he feeds the snack to him, the child should be rendered helpless, then he’ll tie him up and interrogate him.

Tapping on the shelf, which is a bar extending under an open window of steam and soup smells, he wrangles the remnants of a pita wrap into a book shape, then eats it.

He identifies Timo by height, a short figure trawling out of the boulevard. Patiently, Scorpion shifts his body and turns at the last moment, "coincidentally" spotting Timo as he passes the soup shop.

Waving him down, he says, "Fancy seeing you here."

Timo acknowledges him with a swivel of his head.

Scorpion nudges the air. "You got a moment to share?"

The boy alters his course and leisurely sits on the bench. "What tidings?"

"Nothing much. I need ointment, but the apothecary is a ways off." Scorpion drags out the steamer and plucks a mochi, biting it in half. "Want one?" he says before munching, and pushes the steamer towards Timo.

Timo suspends his hand over the steamer, observing the waved leaf lining, and looks at Scorpion, where a speck of flour nestles in the corner of his cheek. He picks a cake at random, then throws the whole thing into his mouth. It tastes mildly sweet, heavy and cool against the roof.

"How is it? Good?" Scorpion says with a hint of amusement.

Having difficulty chewing the large object, Timo nods his head rapidly.

Scorpion selects another cake and finishes it. "What are you doing traveling by yourself?"

"I'm visiting the clinic. The road there is pretty safe."

The man nods approvingly. "We're going the same way, so we can head there together. What say you?"

"I don't mind."

The witchhunter gets up from the bench and stretches his long arms. He leans the steamer lid against the pan. "You can keep the rest."

"Are you sure?" Timo asks politely, ogling the sanded grain construction and the pile of mochis.

"I haven't thanked you properly for the other day." Scorpion gestures at the contents. "I hope this is alright."

The man and the boy step over the risen sill, which keeps dust out of the dining area. Timo holds the steamer against his stomach, keeping watch as one would a treasure coffer.

The background shifts from man-made to all-natural. The vegetation grows denser, the roads barer. Cobblestone crumbles into broken compromises, until dirt is all that remains. Toll beats and metal clamors are traded for crickets and thrushes.

Both of them are fatigued from lack of sleep, withdrawing from idle banter besides the occasional grunt when scaling an incline, or a sigh to rid stale oxygen.

"I heard a unicorn broke into the farm. Did you see it at all?"

"Actually, I did."

Timo widens his eyes, impressed. "Was it angry at us? They say unicorns punish humans who harm the wilds."

"No." Scorpion purses his lips. "I think it was more sad than anything. Their kind is dying, you know? They want to survive."

"What happened to it?"

"We put it down." Upon seeing Timo’s disheartened face, Scorpion adds, "The farmers were afraid of its magic."

"Are unicorns scary?" Timo picks up a mochi, slobbering over it.

"Of course. They can cast magic as well as any human spellcaster. The one we fought was greatly weakened, though. I think it wanted to find a resting place more than to fight."

Timo chews for a long while, his cheeks puffing, before swallowing.

Scorpion taps his chin, contemplating about the topic in his mind. "I think Nero could’ve murdered Harcus. They’ve had disagreements over which fields the horses should plow for a long while." Someone angry over Harcus’s death would strike down Nero’s draft horse in vengeance. In reality, the question is a test of reverse-psychology: if Timo seems enthusiastic about pinning the blame on Nero, then Nero is likely not the mastermind.

"It’s not Nero." Timo licks the rice dust off his fingertips.

"What if Nero had injured the horse and feigned sympathy to throw off my trail?"

A branch-snapping sound reaches Scorpion’s ears, and his neck cranes a bit. No one is behind the bush.

Timo says, "Nero never uses the whip violently. The horses have unscarred coats."

Scorpion keeps silent for a few minutes. Timo pops another mochi.

"What about Palia? She took over the supervisor’s position rather fast, and used to be the chamber pot janitor." She would be desensitized to grossness, a good trait when it comes to handling corpses.

"Who’s Palia?"

"The new supervisor of the young sharecroppers."

Timo grabs a mochi and sticks his tongue out, carefully setting it atop like a glass figurine. He chews for a while and speaks with a mouthful, "She’s too skittish to carry out a crime."

The wild grass twirls, and a chipmunk dashes through the middle of the path, disappearing into another bushel.

"Did you know Arviel had a crush on Palia before? I really wonder if he should confess to her." Saela’s mother is supposed to be dead, but it's rumored Palia had a fling with Harcus and they altered the narrative. A jealous man may plan his vengeance.

"When he talks about his crushes, he’s frustrated rather than embarrassed."

Scorpion scratches his head. "You’re very observant." What’s the difference between frustration and embarrassment? "I don't really think any of these people are perpetrators." It was worth a try. He will find the answer soon enough.

Timo plucks a cake and throws it into his mouth, the dessert squeaking with every bite. "These are really good."

Scorpion smiles lightly. There’s a question that carries substantial risk, but would lower Timo’s guard. "Do you have any other ideas on who might be behind Harcus’s death?"

The child meets him in the eye. "I’m not very keen at this stuff. I still don’t understand why he was murdered."

Scorpion shrugs. "I don’t care about the why, unless it leads me to the who."

"Out of your suspects, Nero seems a reasonable one."

"Who could have murdered his horse? Perhaps a henchman of Harcus?" He keeps his tone neutral and non-accusatory. He still doesn’t know if the animal deaths and Harcus are truly related, and doesn’t have good proof. This question would give the impression that he suspects Timo to be a henchman. How would the boy answer?

"Harcus didn’t have henchmen. He was henpecked by the bossman."

They are nearing the midway between farm and clinic. When is he going to collapse? Scorpion's pounding heart has made its way to his brain. The lining of his retinas ache, and pressure builds in his temples. The internal swelling makes it hard to focus. Did Timo eat only the normal cakes? Is that why he’s still standing? The steamer is empty. Did I accidentally eat-- Calm down, he planned meticulously. There’s no error, but if there is...

"Mr. Scorpion," Timo touches the witchhunter’s sleeve, stroking down to the man’s hand, so large and sturdy, and whispers, "I killed Harcus."