Later that evening, at my desk in the palace, there’s a gentle knock on my office door.

I put down my work and announce, “Come in.” There’s no need to ask who it is. They visit my office so routinely that I have become accustomed to their distinct, two-tap knock.

The papers scattered around the room flutter as the door swings open to reveal Finch, dressed out of their uniform into ordinary street clothes, their face full of moral purpose. “I got my hands on the official report,” they say, closing the door behind them with a little too much enthusiasm. They whip out a folio from beneath their second-hand pea coat, pull back the zipper, and present its contents to me. “This is it. Hot off the presses!”

I briefly inspect the cover of the shoddily-bound book before unceremoniously tossing it to my paper-covered side desk.

Finch blinks in surprise. “Well, aren’t you going to read it?”

I shake my head as an apathetic sigh escapes me. “We all learned the significant findings during the briefing today. You may think differently, but I would prefer not to revisit every precise detail of that dreadful day.”

Clearly, Finch is of a different character than I am. Regardless of the finer details that the report outlines, its sordid conclusions are clear and certain: A detachment of Crow Wing was operating in the weald, performing a covert reconnaissance mission for Nortane. The Princess’s security detail was ambushed by them and killed while defending her. The Princess, still living, was taken hostage and held against her will. As Crow Wing began preparations to ransom off the heir to the throne, an unprecedented act of cosmic irony occurred as the first Lithan to appear over the skies of Ellyntide in nearly two centuries landed, taking the lives of all who remained. To even contemplate these events unfolding brings me an immeasurable pain that I can not articulate, even to myself.

Despite what should be obvious, Finch grimaces, dissatisfied by my response. “But Dunc, they didn’t talk about everything. And that’s the problem.”

They grab the report from my desk and flip it open to a page somewhere in the middle. It seems I will be subjected to all the excruciating details, regardless of my wishes. Very well, then. I have learned the futility of attempting to dissuade Finch when they encounter something unjust.

“Listen to this,” they say, tapping their finger loudly against the page. “’Due to a lack of sufficient evidence, we cannot provide a satisfactory conclusion for why Her Majesty’s blood is absent from the crime scene. This analysis extends to the four-inch long lacerations present on the neck of Individual 1.’ That’s the Pine Marten.”

I shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes halfway. “Yes, well, that doesn’t surprise me at all, Finch. I’m afraid nobody will ever know the complete picture of what occurred in the hollow that day.”

Why belabor the details? Crow Wing was responsible. Calypso, Princess Asha, and two fine guards are dead. That is all that truly matters.

“Okay…” they say, grabbing a chair to sit in. They sit down and scoot in close to me. “But they make no effort to explain why the only trace of the Princess was her shredded clothes, why the Owl was still wearing his outfit, or why the Sable had her cloak torn off.”

“We could toil our heads all day about the state of their clothing,” I sigh. “It won’t raise them from the dead.”

“Can’t you see how weird this is?” they ask, imitating a brick wall. I stare back at them silently, feeling no response is necessary. Of course, it’s strange. But there’s nothing either of us can do about it.

“When Sarlain assassinated Queen Beatrix, they scoured the crime scene for weeks, meticulously extracting every possible detail to form a report that was only released months later when they felt it was ready.” Finch slams the new report shut and flings it across my writing desk, causing a flurry of papers the scatter about. “This thing took a thousand shortcuts and was released in just a few weeks!”

“Finch,” I say, straightening myself from repose. I believe they have earned the privilege of a brief lecture. “The inquiry into Beatrix’s assassination was excoriated on its release. At the time, the fourth war had been ongoing for months. The public believed the report was a waste of the Kingdom’s wartime resources and its conclusions redundant. It was a domestic headache for the newly crowned Queen.”

I know this obtuse facet of historical context thanks to my mother. She often reminds her friends that she opposed the maligned report months before the public did, and tried in vain to get Kelani to see her way. It’s not hard to understand why mother was right — we had been engulfed in conflict with Sarlain for months. An official reminder of the reason why wasn’t necessary.

“The fact of the matter is this new report is politically motivated. It exists to sway the public’s opinion against Nortane and God forbid, make the transition to wartime easier to digest.”

Finch exhales sharply and looks away, curling their their tail around their legs. For someone such as them who can’t stand injustices, this is a difficult pill to swallow.

“You’re right. There are numerous discrepancies and overlooked details in the report. Quite frankly, Colonel Durham and The Princess deserved so much more for their lives than a flimsy justification for an unwinnable war. But those are the cards that have been dealt to us. All we can do now is try to move on from the tragedy as best we can.”

Finch frowns, crosses their arms and stares at their feet in silence. There’s no easy way to accept the truth of what happened in the hollow, but everyone must accept it eventually. As for Finch, I’ll allow them as much time as they need.

“No,” they say suddenly, rising to their feet and throwing down their arms. “You’re wrong, Dunc.”

Oh, am I? I tilt my head to the side and angle my ears forward. I’m listening.

With a fire burning in their eyes, Finch continues, “Animals like us, those of us who work in the palace; we have the privilege of serving the crown in ways others do not. We can choose to let their deaths be in vain, or we can choose to do something that honors them.”

Something that honors them, huh? “What are you proposing?”

“You have an ear to the Queen. Convince her to form a special investigation, one that’s hidden from the public’s eye, solely to address the discrepancies of the report. I don’t believe for a second that Crow Wing was acting alone in the weald. I think Colonel Durham and The Princess witnessed something far stranger than Crow Wing. And if we don’t act now to find out what it is, then the truth will be lost forever!”

They still don’t get it.

I exhale, remove my glasses and clean them against the side of my vest. In a methodical, almost patronizing voice, I explain to them, “Even if I were to suggest something such as that, the commission into the tragedy has already been dissolved, and their resources re-appropriated elsewhere. It would be a headache to assemble another team.”

Finch looks throughly unconvinced. “Kelani is the Queen. If she says ‘hop’ they’ll say ‘which branch?’”

“It’s not that simple,” I reply, shaking my head.

Finch angles their head uncomfortably close to mine. “Why.”

“Because the report is final say on the matter, and it would raise questions among the nobles why the Queen is dwelling on something that is supposed to be resolved.” Bordering on exasperation, I pause and adjust my voice to sound more authoritative. “And I don’t need to remind you that the last thing the Her Majesty needs right now is more attention.”

Finch scoffs, throws their arms in the air, then opens their muzzle to say something before quickly shutting it. Something they might regret, I’d wager. Their face twists in dissonance before they rise from the chair and shove the report back into their folio.

“Alright,” they say, practically pouting. “Alright, fine, Commander. Just promise me one thing.”

I nod slowly. For Finch, that much I can do.

“In the report, there was no mention of the whereabouts of the serpentine diamond.” They button their coat and turn to face the door. “A national treasure, revered for centuries and worn by countless Lordanous. Passed over like it was a piece of garbage.”

Feeling exhausted, I remain silent.

“Think about it.”

They draw the door open and slip through, closing it shut behind them just as loud as when they entered. The wooden chair creaks as I lay back and sigh, rubbing my hands against the backs of my ears. Perhaps I should have anticipated such an obstinate response from Finch. And perhaps I should expect to see others with a similar sentiment in the coming days.

Life was so much simpler when Calypso was here.

…

I slip on my glasses, reassemble my papers and return to work, quickly forgetting that Finch’s visit ever occurred.