The storm had passed, the bogs no longer whispered. For the first time in weeks, the sun shone warmly on the county square.
The magistrate's bell tolled midmorning as Jacob Silvan straightened the ink jars on his desk. Scrolls were neatly stacked. The records were sorted. The ledger of open cases now fit on two pages instead of fifteen. Order had bloomed where chaos once reigned.
"Your desk is too clean," said Detective David Marren, lounging on a bench near the window, tossing a plum in one hand.
"That's because we're doing something right," Jacob replied, sealing a report with wax. "And speaking of doing things right—our docket today."
David sat up, intrigued. "Bandits? Smugglers? Banshee haunting?"
Jacob gave him a look and held up the case slips.
"No," he said. "A chicken theft, a dispute over a poetry contest, someone complaining about a ghost cat, and… this one just says, 'My neighbor's goose is staring at me weird.'"
David blinked. "...Truly, we've become the pillars of civilization."
Jacob only smiled. "It all matters."
---
The Curious Case of the Goose Glare
First stop: Old Man Thomley's cottage, where a gander named General Honks reportedly stared "with unrelenting malice" at the neighboring hedge every morning.
"Can you feel it?" Thomley whispered, peering through the fence. "That judgmental beady gaze."
Jacob nodded solemnly, taking notes. "How long has this been occurring?"
"Three fortnights, no less!"
Jacob inspected the goose, who puffed up indignantly. Upon closer inspection, he found a shard of mirror caught between the hedges—reflecting Thomley himself.
"The goose isn't staring at you," Jacob explained gently. "He's defending his territory… from himself."
Thomley gasped. "So he's noble. Not evil!"
David patted the goose. "He's a true patriot."
Case closed. Goose cleared of all charges.
---
The Duel of the Sonnets
In the town's small square, two schoolmasters argued over a poetry contest gone awry. Each claimed the other had plagiarized "Ode to the Fog."
Jacob read both entries with quiet seriousness.
"These are... identical," he admitted.
"Ha!" cried Master Ilwin.
"But," Jacob added, "they are also terrible. I believe you both copied the same original work."
After some digging, they discovered a student had written it and posted it on the town board weeks ago. The student, shy and surprised, was awarded the prize.
The schoolmasters left grumbling, but the student beamed.
"Poetry matters," Jacob told David with a wink. "Even bad poetry."
---
The Great Chicken Caper
A trail of feathers led them behind the bakery, where a flock of liberated hens clucked in victorious chorus.
Turns out, the baker's apprentice had released them in protest of "egg-flavored tyranny." He'd hoped to force the bakery to start making gooseberry tarts instead.
David gave chase, tumbling over a barrel. Jacob calmly negotiated with the apprentice's mother—who arrived mid-chase wielding a wooden spoon of justice.
"Punishment handled," she declared.
"Efficient," Jacob agreed.
---
The Ghost Cat Conundrum
Lastly, a tavern owner claimed a phantom cat kept curling up on his lap at night, purring invisibly and triggering allergies.
"I hear it. I feel it. But it's not there!"
After investigating the tavern, Jacob discovered an attic crawlspace filled with shed fur, broken floorboards, and a very real (and very grumpy) gray tabby who had made a cozy home.
David caught the cat with a half-finished mackerel pie. The owner cried tears of relief—and sneezed dramatically.
They named the cat Specter, and it became the tavern's new mascot.
---
End of Day
As the sun dipped behind the rooftops, Jacob and David walked back through the village square, greeted by nods, waves, and the occasional gift of pie or plum.
"You know," David said, munching on a scone, "you're the only man in the Empire who treats poultry disputes and poetry theft like high crimes."
Jacob smiled. "Justice isn't about the size of the case. It's about whether people feel heard."
David rolled his eyes but offered a quiet: "Yeah. I get it."
They turned toward the glowing windows of the magistrate's office. Another day behind them. Another handful of lives touched.
In the far north, Empresses whispered of empires.
But in the southern county, Jacob Silvan was building one of his own—brick by brick, case by case.