The Honey-Lipped Budnewt Who Couldn’t Swallow the Evidence

The Wing Between His Teeth

By the time anyone noticed that Ambrosius Glintback was dead, Niblick Budmouth had already swallowed three times and regretted every single one of them.

He sat deep in the throat of a trumpet blossom with his knees tucked beneath his belly, his tail curled tightly around a cluster of trembling stamens, and both hands pressed over his mouth as though he could physically hold the truth inside.

He could not.

The truth was sharp.

It was also jeweled, approximately the size of a rose petal, and currently lodged sideways between his back teeth.

Niblick tried to work it loose with his tongue.

The object shifted.

A thin violet edge appeared between his honey-glazed lips.

He slapped both hands over his mouth again.

“No,” he whispered through his fingers. “You stay the fuck in there.”

A bead of golden nectar escaped down his chin.

Niblick watched it fall onto the peach-colored petal beneath him, where it landed with a bright, incriminating plip.

Everything in the blossom seemed determined to betray him. Dewdrops clung to the curling petals like dozens of tiny witnesses. Morning light poured through the flower’s translucent walls, illuminating every smear of nectar on his cheeks. Even the pollen dusted across his belly looked arranged in the shape of an accusing finger.

Beyond the blossom, the Sugarwild Garden was waking.

Peepfrogs sang filthy little courtship songs from the irrigation reeds. Velvet-winged moths staggered home from whatever they had done beneath the moon. A pair of budwiggles argued over whether licking condensation from a stranger’s windowsill counted as trespassing if nobody had technically installed a window.

It should have been an ordinary morning.

Then the scream came.

“AMBROSIUS!”

Every dewdrop on Niblick’s frills trembled.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Oh, piss.”

The second scream was louder and considerably more specific.

“AMBROSIUS GLINTBACK HAS BEEN MURDERED!”

The garden went silent.

A moment later, every creature within six flowerbeds began talking at once.

Niblick remained perfectly still inside the trumpet blossom, which would have been an excellent hiding strategy if he had not chosen the brightest flower in the entire eastern garden. The bloom stood above the surrounding foliage like an enormous coral bell announcing that something suspicious was crouched inside it.

He risked a peek over the rim.

Below, beside the Honeywake Pavilion, a crowd was gathering around a collapsed moonpetal. At its center lay Ambrosius Glintback, the garden’s most celebrated nectar beetle, occasional moneylender, and full-time unbearable bastard.

Even from a distance, Niblick could see the beetle’s polished ruby shell beneath the fallen petal. Six little legs protruded at unfortunate angles. One translucent wing remained spread across the grass, glittering with the silver and amethyst veins for which the Glintback family was famous.

The other wing was missing.

Niblick’s tongue touched the hard object in his mouth.

He gagged.

“Don’t do that,” he told himself. “If you cough it out, you’re finished. If you swallow it, you’re probably also finished, but later.”

That qualified as a plan.

Niblick tipped his head back and attempted to swallow the wing.

It moved halfway down his throat, unfolded, and snapped back into his mouth with enough force to make both eyes bulge.

He wheezed soundlessly, clutching his neck.

Below, a familiar voice rose above the crowd.

“Nobody touches the body!”

Marshal Thistlewick shoved through the onlookers with his broad leaf hat tilted low over one eye. He was an elderly thornmouse with a scar across his muzzle, a silver badge pinned to his vest, and the permanent expression of someone who had spent forty years listening to other creatures explain why the thing in their hand technically belonged to them.

He crouched beside Ambrosius and examined the crushed moonpetal.

“Who found him?”

A honeybee wearing a tiny delivery satchel raised one shaking leg.

“I did, Marshal. Just after sunrise. I came to collect the morning accounts and saw his shell beneath the petal.”

“Did you move anything?”

“Only myself, backward, very quickly.”

“Sensible.”

Thistlewick leaned closer to the dead beetle. His nose twitched.

Niblick ducked beneath the blossom’s rim.

He did not know how much a thornmouse could smell from thirty feet away, but he knew exactly what was coating his lips: Glintback Reserve, a smoky amber nectar brewed exclusively for Ambrosius from the first drips of the morning honeysuckle.

It had been Niblick’s favorite nectar for almost seven minutes.

Now it tasted like prison.

He crawled toward the rear of the blossom, hoping to climb down the stem unseen. One careful hand reached for a lower petal.

Then someone beneath the flower shouted, “Niblick?”

His entire body clenched.

“Niblick Budmouth, is that your tail?”

He looked behind him.

The bright turquoise tip of his tail dangled over the blossom’s edge, sparkling in the sunlight like a decorative confession.

Niblick yanked it inside.

“No,” he called.

There was a pause.

“No, it isn’t your tail?”

“Correct.”

“Then whose tail is it?”

Niblick’s eyes darted around the empty blossom.

“Bird.”

“A bird’s tail?”

“A very small bird.”

“With scales?”

“It has been ill.”

Marshal Thistlewick appeared over the rim.

He stared at Niblick.

Niblick stared back, cheeks swollen around the folded wing.

Honey glistened across his lips. Dewdrops crowned his frills. His enormous eyes shifted once to the left, once to the right, then settled on a point somewhere above the marshal’s head in what he hoped was the universal expression for innocence.

Thistlewick’s ears flattened.

“Open your mouth.”

Niblick shook his head.

“Why not?”

He pointed at his throat and made a strained croaking noise.

“You’ve lost your voice?”

Niblick nodded vigorously.

“You just told me your tail was a sick bird.”

Niblick frowned as if disappointed by this unexpected flaw in the marshal’s reasoning.

“It came back,” he mumbled.

“Your voice?”

“Briefly.”

“Open your mouth.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Religious reasons.”

Thistlewick climbed into the blossom.

Niblick shuffled backward.

“Since when have you had religious reasons?” the marshal asked.

“Since this morning. It’s been a very spiritual day.”

“Niblick.”

“Marshal.”

“What is in your mouth?”

“Teeth.”

“Besides teeth.”

“Tongue.”

“Besides your tongue.”

“Personal boundaries.”

Thistlewick stared at him for a long, exhausted moment.

Down below, the crowd had noticed the interrogation. Dozens of faces turned upward. Budlings climbed onto mushrooms for a better view. Two gossip moths abandoned all pretense of discretion and hovered directly beside the blossom.

Niblick could feel the jeweled wing softening against his tongue.

That was good.

Probably.

Unless the softening meant it was dissolving into him.

Could a murdered beetle’s wing poison a budnewt? Would he die instantly, or would his tongue first become permanently glittery? If he survived, would the Glintback family charge him for consuming valuable remains?

Thistlewick reached forward.

Niblick slapped his hands over his mouth.

“Don’t,” he squeaked.

“Then show me voluntarily.”

“I’m storing something for a friend.”

“What friend?”

Niblick glanced toward the crowd and spotted Peppin Drizzlenose, who immediately shook his head and backed behind a fern.

“A private friend.”

“What are you storing?”

“A keepsake.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

“Then you’re not storing it for a friend.”

“The friend is me.”

Thistlewick pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Marshal!” called the honeybee from below. “Ambrosius is missing one of his wings.”

The crowd gasped.

Niblick’s throat made a small involuntary squeal.

Thistlewick slowly lowered his hand.

His gaze moved from Niblick’s swollen cheeks to the violet shimmer barely visible at the corner of his mouth.

“That,” he said quietly, “would not happen to be a jeweled beetle wing, would it?”

Niblick shook his head so hard that droplets flew from his frills.

“Then you won’t mind showing me.”

“I would mind deeply.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not a wing.”

“What is it?”

Niblick’s mind sprinted through every object he had ever seen.

“A spoon.”

The marshal blinked.

“You have a spoon in your mouth?”

“Emergency spoon.”

“Decorated with amethyst veins?”

“It was expensive.”

One of the gossip moths whispered, much too loudly, “He absolutely ate the murder.”

The other whispered back, “Can you eat a murder?”

“Apparently in pieces.”

Niblick attempted another swallow.

The softened wing slid backward.

For one glorious second, it seemed to work.

Then the broad edge caught against his throat.

His eyes widened.

He gagged.

Thistlewick lunged forward, grabbed Niblick around the middle, and squeezed.

Niblick’s mouth flew open.

The wing shot out like a jeweled dart.

It sailed over the marshal’s shoulder, spun twice in the sunlight, and landed squarely on the nose of Lady Marzipollen, who had just pushed to the front of the crowd.

No one moved.

Lady Marzipollen crossed her eyes and stared at the dead beetle’s wing balanced on her face.

Then she screamed so violently that three nearby blossoms closed themselves.

Thistlewick looked down at Niblick.

Niblick wiped a string of honey from his lips.

“I can explain.”

“Wonderful,” said the marshal. “You can do it from the inquiry stump.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“Do you have one?”

“No.”

“Then needing one would only complicate your morning.”

The marshal escorted him down the flower stem while the crowd parted below. Every eye followed Niblick. Every mouth whispered. Lady Marzipollen held the recovered wing between two leaves and glared at him as though considering whether to beat him to death with it.

Beside the body, Thistlewick indicated a low tree stump traditionally used for witness interviews, public announcements, and the occasional disciplinary spanking.

Niblick climbed onto it.

“State your name,” said the marshal.

“You know my name.”

“The crowd does not.”

“The crowd just watched you shout it into a flower.”

“State it anyway.”

Niblick looked at the gathered creatures.

“Niblick Budmouth.”

“Occupation?”

“Freelance.”

“Freelance what?”

“Depends who is hiring.”

“What were you doing inside Ambrosius Glintback’s trumpet blossom?”

“Resting.”

“With his wing in your mouth?”

“That part occurred later.”

A murmur spread through the crowd.

Thistlewick’s eyes narrowed.

“Later than what?”

Niblick realized he had stepped onto a conversational rake.

“Later than the resting.”

“How did the wing enter your mouth?”

“Strong wind.”

The surrounding leaves hung perfectly still.

Thistlewick looked up at them, then back at Niblick.

“A strong wind blew a dead beetle’s wing off the ground, up the entire length of that flower, over the rim, and directly into your mouth?”

“I yawn very broadly.”

“And the Glintback Reserve dripping from your lips?”

“Same wind.”

Someone in the crowd snorted.

Niblick pointed toward the sound.

“Mock the weather all you like. It will remember.”

Marshal Thistlewick paced once around the stump.

“Were you acquainted with Ambrosius Glintback?”

“Barely.”

“Several witnesses saw you arguing with him last night.”

Niblick’s stomach tightened.

“That was not an argument.”

“What was it?”

“A spirited disagreement between one creature who owed another creature nectar and another creature who was being extremely unpleasant about it.”

“Which creature were you?”

“The spirited one.”

“How much did you owe him?”

“That depends on whether you accept his mathematics, which I do not.”

“How much did he say?”

Niblick looked toward the dead beetle.

“Nine pearls.”

The crowd erupted.

Nine nectar pearls could feed a budnewt for half a season. It could also purchase a modest mushroom, three ceremonial waistcoats, or the temporary affection of almost anyone near the western compost heap.

Thistlewick waited for the noise to settle.

“Did Ambrosius threaten you?”

“Ambrosius threatened everyone. He threatened a fern last week.”

“The fern owed him money.”

“The fern was growing on his property. That is not the same thing.”

“Did he threaten you?”

Niblick hesitated.

“He said he would take my family bloom.”

The humor drained from the crowd.

Even Thistlewick’s expression softened slightly.

A family bloom was more than shelter. Budnewts were hatched inside them, raised beneath their petals, and returned there when age finally dimmed their colors. Niblick’s bloom had belonged to six generations of Budmouths. His mother still slept beneath its western fold, and his younger sisters nested around its golden heart.

Ambrosius had known exactly what the threat meant.

Thistlewick stopped pacing.

“And now Ambrosius is dead.”

“I noticed.”

“His wing was in your mouth.”

“A separate inconvenience.”

“His private nectar is on your lips.”

“Coincidence.”

“You were hiding inside his flower.”

“Resting.”

“And you spent the last ten minutes lying to me.”

Niblick raised one finger.

“Not continuously.”

Thistlewick stared at him.

Niblick lowered the finger.

“Mostly continuously.”

Lady Marzipollen stepped forward with Ambrosius’s wing still pinched between two leaves.

“Marshal, must we endure more of this? The filthy little throat-pocket murdered my business partner and attempted to digest the evidence.”

“I did not murder him,” Niblick said.

“Then why did you have his wing in your mouth?”

Niblick opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He could tell them the truth.

He could explain why he had entered the trumpet blossom before dawn, why Ambrosius had already been dead when he arrived, and why he had taken the wing after spotting something embedded along its silver edge.

But that would require showing them what he had removed from it.

And that object was still hidden beneath his tongue.

The wing had not been the only evidence Niblick had tried to swallow.

The second piece was smaller, harder, and far more dangerous.

He could feel its tiny engraved surface pressing against the floor of his mouth.

If Lady Marzipollen saw it, she would know immediately what it meant.

Niblick looked from her furious face to Marshal Thistlewick’s suspicious one. Then he glanced toward the dead beetle beneath the moonpetal.

Ambrosius had been cruel, greedy, and capable of charging interest on a favor before he finished granting it.

But he had not deserved to die.

And Niblick had seen enough inside the trumpet blossom to know that the creature who killed him was still standing somewhere in the crowd.

Watching.

Waiting.

Probably wondering whether the idiot on the stump had swallowed the one thing that could expose them.

Niblick drew himself upright.

“I know how this looks,” he announced.

“Like murder?” called one of the moths.

“Yes, thank you, but appearances can be deceptive.”

“Your mouth was full of the corpse,” shouted a budwiggle.

“Part of the corpse.”

“That is not better,” said Thistlewick.

Niblick ignored him.

“I did not kill Ambrosius Glintback. In fact, I intend to prove who did.”

The crowd fell quiet again.

Marshal Thistlewick slowly removed his hat.

“You intend to do what?”

“Investigate.”

“You are the primary suspect.”

“Which gives me a uniquely intimate relationship with the case.”

“You are also a habitual liar.”

“That gives me insight into the criminal mind.”

“You tried to eat evidence.”

“I understand evidence from the inside.”

A few creatures nodded before realizing how stupid that sounded.

Thistlewick leaned close enough that Niblick could count the gray hairs along his muzzle.

“You are not investigating anything.”

Niblick smiled carefully around the object beneath his tongue.

“Then arrest me.”

The marshal’s eyes sharpened.

“What?”

“Arrest me. Lock me in the root cellar. Tell everyone the case is solved.”

“You say that as if it were a poor suggestion.”

“It is, because by sunset the real killer will realize nobody is looking for them. They will destroy whatever evidence remains, leave the garden, and perhaps flatten someone else beneath a flower on the way out.”

Uneasy whispers moved through the crowd.

Niblick pressed his advantage.

“You know I couldn’t crush Ambrosius beneath that moonpetal.”

Thistlewick glanced at Niblick’s small hands.

“You might have used a lever.”

“I do not know what a lever is.”

“That is the first convincing thing you’ve said.”

“Give me until sunset.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Until midday.”

“No.”

“Until the next dewfall.”

“Niblick.”

“One hour.”

Thistlewick folded his arms.

“And what exactly will you accomplish in one hour?”

Niblick turned toward Ambrosius’s body and pretended to study it with professional intensity.

“First, I will examine the scene.”

“You already contaminated it with your mouth.”

“Then I have established familiarity.”

“Second?”

“I will question witnesses.”

“Without lying?”

Niblick hesitated.

“Without unnecessary lying.”

Thistlewick replaced his hat and sighed into both paws.

Lady Marzipollen shook the wing at him.

“Marshal, this is madness.”

“Yes,” Thistlewick said. “But if I detain him now, every creature in this garden will spend the next month claiming I ignored another suspect.”

He pointed one claw at Niblick.

“You have one hour. You do not leave the Honeywake grounds. You do not touch the body. You do not conceal, consume, lick, chew, suck, pocket, bury, polish, rent, trade, or marry any additional evidence.”

“That last one feels unnecessarily personal.”

“And I will remain beside you the entire time.”

Niblick’s smile faltered.

That complicated things.

The object hidden beneath his tongue pressed sharply against his gum.

He tasted blood and honey.

Marshal Thistlewick stepped aside and gestured toward the body.

“Well, Detective Budmouth?”

The title drew several laughs from the crowd.

Niblick climbed down from the stump with as much dignity as a nectar-smeared murder suspect could manage.

He approached the fallen moonpetal and crouched beside Ambrosius.

Up close, the scene looked wrong.

Not merely violent.

Arranged.

The petal lay across the beetle’s back, but its stem had been sliced cleanly rather than broken. Ambrosius’s remaining wing was spread as though displayed. Nectar dotted the grass in a deliberate trail leading toward the trumpet blossom where Niblick had been found.

Someone had wanted him there.

Someone had expected him to take the bait.

Given Niblick’s history with unattended nectar, that had not required genius.

He leaned closer to the dead beetle’s front leg.

A strand of pale golden fiber was caught around one claw.

Not pollen.

Not spider silk.

Thread.

Fine ceremonial thread, woven with enough sheen to belong to an expensive garment.

Niblick scanned the crowd.

Lady Marzipollen wore a gold-trimmed mourning veil.

Peppin Drizzlenose wore a saffron scarf.

The honeybee’s delivery satchel was stitched with yellow cord.

Even Marshal Thistlewick’s badge hung from a faded golden braid.

Half the garden appeared to have dressed specifically to become suspects.

Then Niblick spotted someone standing at the very back.

A tall orchid mantis in a cream-colored coat watched him from beneath the shadow of a foxglove. One sleeve ended in a freshly torn cuff.

The mantis noticed Niblick looking.

For an instant, neither moved.

Then the mantis turned and slipped behind the foxglove.

Niblick sprang upright.

“Him!”

Every creature looked in a different direction.

“Who?” demanded Thistlewick.

Niblick pointed toward the foxglove.

“The tall bastard in the cream coat.”

Thistlewick followed his finger.

There was nobody there.

Only a trembling leaf and a narrow path vanishing into the dense flowers beyond Honeywake Pavilion.

Niblick started after him.

Thistlewick caught his tail.

Niblick hit the grass chin-first.

The impact jolted the hidden object from beneath his tongue.

It clicked against his front teeth.

Thistlewick heard it.

His grip tightened.

“Niblick,” he said very slowly, “what else is in your mouth?”

Niblick froze.

A tiny golden disk slipped between his lips and landed in the grass.

It rolled once, flashed in the sunlight, and fell flat beside Ambrosius Glintback’s lifeless claw.

Engraved across its surface was the crest of the Royal Nectar Treasury.

The crowd gasped for the third time that morning.

Lady Marzipollen went pale beneath her pollen.

Marshal Thistlewick released Niblick’s tail and stared at the disk.

Niblick stared too.

He had known it was important.

He had not known it was royal.

Thistlewick looked at him with something colder than suspicion.

“One hour,” he said, “has just become ten minutes.”

Ten Minutes and Several Fresh Crimes

Niblick Budmouth had never accomplished anything worthwhile in ten minutes.

He had once spent ten minutes attempting to open a jar that was already open. On another occasion, he had used the same amount of time to compose a farewell letter before remembering he was only leaving for lunch.

Now he had ten minutes to solve a murder, expose a conspiracy involving the Royal Nectar Treasury, and explain why he had concealed both a dead beetle’s wing and a stolen royal seal inside his mouth.

His strongest qualification remained an unusual tolerance for swallowing sharp objects.

Marshal Thistlewick crouched beside the golden disk without touching it.

“Nobody moves,” he ordered.

Several creatures who had not been moving became so determined to obey that they fell over.

Lady Marzipollen stood rigid beside Ambrosius’s body. The color had drained from her face, but her outrage remained fully supplied.

“That seal was stolen from the Royal Treasury three nights ago,” she said. “The entire garden guard has been searching for it.”

Thistlewick glanced up at her.

“How do you recognize it so quickly?”

“Because Ambrosius and I managed the Treasury’s private nectar accounts.”

“Convenient,” Niblick said.

Lady Marzipollen turned on him.

“You had it in your mouth.”

“Also convenient,” Niblick admitted, “but significantly less comfortable.”

Thistlewick removed a broad dock leaf from his vest and used it to lift the disk. One side bore the royal crest: a crowned honeydrop encircled by six tiny thorns. The other side was stained with something dark and reddish.

“Ambrosius’s blood?” asked the honeybee.

“Beetles don’t have red blood,” said Thistlewick.

Niblick sniffed the air.

His nostrils flared.

“That’s not blood.”

“How would you know?” Lady Marzipollen snapped.

“Because I have a highly educated mouth.”

“Your mouth just attempted to obstruct a murder inquiry.”

“Education and judgment are separate qualities.”

Niblick leaned toward the disk.

The dark stain smelled sweet, bitter, and faintly smoky.

“Nightberry resin,” he said. “Concentrated.”

Thistlewick held the seal beneath his own nose.

“Poisonous?”

“Only if you swallow enough.”

Every creature looked at Niblick.

He wiped his lips.

“I didn’t swallow the seal.”

“That distinction is doing heroic work,” said Thistlewick.

Lady Marzipollen knelt beside Ambrosius and examined his mouth. She pressed a leaf against his jaw and recoiled.

“His tongue is stained.”

Thistlewick moved closer.

A dark red smear marked the beetle’s mouth.

Niblick’s eyes widened.

“Ambrosius was poisoned.”

“Then why drop a petal on him?” asked Peppin Drizzlenose from somewhere safely behind the crowd.

“To make it look like an accident,” Niblick said.

Thistlewick pointed at the severed stem.

“A clean cut makes for an unconvincing accident.”

“Then to make it look like a bad attempt to make it look like an accident.”

“Why?”

“So we would believe the killer was stupid.”

“And what would that accomplish?”

Niblick considered this.

“It would significantly broaden the suspect pool.”

The marshal glanced around at the gathered residents of Sugarwild Garden.

“Fair.”

Niblick looked again toward the foxglove where the mantis had vanished. The narrow path beyond it curved behind the Treasury’s eastern hedge.

“The mantis in the cream coat knew I saw him,” he said.

“Describe him,” said Thistlewick.

“Tall. Green. Mantis-shaped.”

“Very useful.”

“Cream coat. Torn golden cuff. Smug posture. Looked like he knew the difference between a salad fork and a smaller, more judgmental salad fork.”

Lady Marzipollen inhaled sharply.

Niblick turned toward her.

“You know him.”

“I know dozens of mantises.”

“How many dress like aristocratic cutlery?”

She folded her leaves across her chest.

“Lord Sipsorrow occasionally wears cream.”

The crowd erupted into whispers.

Lord Sipsorrow was the Royal Treasury’s chief auditor. He was also famous for having never smiled, sneezed, danced, or knowingly enjoyed a conversation. Rumor claimed he had once fined a caterpillar for consuming its own leaf without filing the correct harvest declaration.

Thistlewick turned to Lady Marzipollen.

“Why would the chief auditor be watching from the edge of a murder scene?”

“Perhaps because there has been a murder.”

“Why would he run?” Niblick asked.

“Perhaps because you shouted at him like a lunatic.”

“People who aren’t guilty rarely flee from my voice.”

Peppin raised one hand behind the fern.

“I do.”

“Nobody asked you, Peppin.”

Thistlewick slipped the royal seal into an evidence pouch.

“You said you removed this from Ambrosius’s wing.”

“I did not say that.”

“Your expression did.”

“My face lacks legal representation.”

“Where did you find it?”

Niblick looked at the dead beetle, then at the marshal.

The lies had carried him as far as they could. Another one would not save his family bloom, clear his name, or stop Lord Sipsorrow from escaping.

It would, however, be extremely familiar and comforting.

Niblick sighed.

“I found Ambrosius before dawn.”

The crowd pressed closer.

“He was already beneath the petal,” Niblick continued. “I thought he was hiding from creditors, which I respected. Then I saw his legs.”

“And instead of calling for help?” asked Thistlewick.

“I checked whether he had any nectar left.”

Lady Marzipollen made a disgusted noise.

“He was dead,” Niblick said. “He wasn’t going to finish it.”

“So you robbed the body.”

“I conserved a perishable resource.”

“Continue.”

“While I was drinking, I noticed something shining inside the folded edge of his missing wing. The seal was wrapped in it. Then I heard someone coming.”

“Why did you hide?”

“Because I was kneeling beside a corpse with his private nectar on my lips and part of him in my hands. I may be an idiot, Marshal, but I am not so great an idiot that I couldn’t appreciate the composition.”

“Debatable,” murmured Lady Marzipollen.

“I took the wing and climbed into the trumpet blossom. When the crowd arrived, I panicked.”

“And put the evidence in your mouth.”

“I don’t have pockets.”

Thistlewick stared at Niblick’s small vest.

“You have four pockets.”

Niblick patted them as if discovering them for the first time.

“Son of a bitch.”

The marshal’s face hardened.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the royal seal immediately?”

Niblick lowered his voice.

“Because whoever killed Ambrosius hid it in his wing. That meant the killer knew it was there. If I handed it over in front of the crowd, they would know I had found it.”

“Instead, you announced your plan to investigate in front of the same crowd.”

“I did not claim the plan was fully ripened.”

Thistlewick looked toward the path beside the foxglove.

“How much time remains?”

The honeybee checked the position of the sun against the face of a buttercup.

“Eight minutes.”

“Splendid,” said Niblick. “We’re ahead of schedule.”

“We have accomplished nothing.”

“Then there is no unfinished work slowing us down.”

Thistlewick grabbed the back of Niblick’s vest and marched him toward the foxglove.

“We find Sipsorrow. If he is not there, if his coat is intact, or if your description proves to be another lie, I am personally stuffing you into the root cellar’s smallest jar.”

“The one with air holes?”

“We’ll discuss ventilation after the arrest.”

Lady Marzipollen stepped after them.

“I’m coming.”

“No,” said Thistlewick.

“Ambrosius was my partner.”

“Which makes you emotionally involved.”

“It makes me useful. Sipsorrow will not speak freely to either of you.”

Niblick looked her up and down.

“Will he speak freely to you?”

“He proposed to me twice.”

“Romantically?”

“Financially.”

“Somehow worse.”

Thistlewick considered her for a moment.

“Stay behind me.”

The three entered the path beyond the foxglove.

The garden closed around them. Towering stems blocked the morning sun, leaving the trail cool and green. Dew-heavy leaves brushed their shoulders. Ahead, the cream-colored coat flashed briefly between two clusters of snapdragons.

“There,” whispered Niblick.

Lord Sipsorrow moved quickly for someone who spent most of his life behind a desk. His long legs stepped over roots with elegant precision as he headed toward the Treasury hedge.

Thistlewick called out.

“Lord Sipsorrow!”

The mantis stopped.

He turned slowly.

His narrow face displayed polite irritation, as though the marshal had interrupted him while calculating a tax on breathing.

“Marshal,” he said. “I heard there had been an incident.”

“You heard correctly.”

“Tragic.”

“Why did you leave the scene?”

“I was never at the scene.”

Niblick pointed at him.

“Liar.”

Sipsorrow’s dark eyes settled on Niblick.

“Is the accused normally permitted to participate in these inquiries?”

“I’m consulting.”

“He is on his way to jail,” said Thistlewick.

“I’m consulting on the way.”

Lady Marzipollen stepped from behind the marshal.

For the first time, Sipsorrow’s composure shifted. One claw twitched toward his torn cuff.

Niblick saw it.

So did Thistlewick.

“Your sleeve is damaged,” said the marshal.

Sipsorrow glanced down.

“Gardening accident.”

“You garden?” Niblick asked.

“No.”

“An extraordinarily aggressive garden, then.”

Thistlewick removed the pale golden thread from his evidence leaf.

“We found this around Ambrosius Glintback’s claw.”

Sipsorrow studied it without expression.

“The color is common.”

“The weave is not,” Lady Marzipollen said. “That coat was tailored from royal silkleaf.”

“As are many garments at court.”

“But very few were repaired last month with amber moth-thread. I recommended the seamstress myself.”

Sipsorrow’s head angled toward her.

“You remember an astonishing amount about my clothing.”

“I remember everything about creatures I distrust.”

Niblick grinned.

“That is almost romantic.”

Sipsorrow’s claws folded behind his back.

“I did meet Ambrosius last night. Official Treasury business.”

“What business?” asked Thistlewick.

“Confidential.”

“He’s dead. Confidentiality has become less competitive.”

“The Treasury’s accounts remain protected.”

Niblick studied the mantis’s coat. The cuff had indeed been torn, but there was no nectar, pollen, or nightberry resin on the fabric. If Sipsorrow had poisoned Ambrosius and staged the body, he had done so with astonishing cleanliness.

His shoes, however, were wet.

Not with dew.

The dark moisture clinging to them had a faint purple tint.

Niblick crouched and sniffed.

Sipsorrow stepped back.

“What are you doing?”

“Investigating your feet.”

“Stop that.”

Niblick sniffed again.

“Nightberry resin.”

Thistlewick reached for Sipsorrow’s arm.

The mantis moved with startling speed.

One bladed foreleg swept outward, knocking the marshal into the snapdragons. Sipsorrow turned and sprang toward the Treasury hedge.

Niblick launched himself after him.

“Stop in the name of my rapidly improving reputation!”

Sipsorrow cleared a fallen branch.

Niblick attempted the same jump, caught one foot, and spun through the air. He struck the ground on his belly, bounced once, then slid downhill on a bed of wet leaves.

It was not graceful.

It was, however, fast.

He shot between Sipsorrow’s legs and collided with the mantis’s ankles.

Sipsorrow crashed into the hedge.

Niblick scrambled onto his back and grabbed the torn collar of his coat.

“Confess!”

Sipsorrow bucked violently.

“Get off me!”

“That is not a confession!”

One of the mantis’s forelegs snapped backward. Niblick ducked as the serrated edge sliced through a nearby leaf.

“Marshal!” Niblick yelled. “He’s becoming extremely murder-shaped!”

Thistlewick emerged from the snapdragons with petals stuck to his hat. Lady Marzipollen followed, holding a broken twig like a club.

Sipsorrow twisted again and flung Niblick into the hedge.

Niblick vanished through the leaves.

Branches scratched his face. His tail tangled around a vine. He dropped through a hollow in the greenery and landed on something hard.

The surface beneath him gave a metallic groan.

Niblick looked down.

He was sitting on a hidden hatch.

Beyond the hedge, Sipsorrow froze.

“Do not open that,” he said.

Niblick’s eyes brightened.

“That sounded beautifully incriminating.”

He grabbed the hatch ring.

Sipsorrow lunged through the hedge.

Lady Marzipollen struck him across the face with the twig.

“You proposed a shared investment portfolio, you bloodless prick!”

Sipsorrow stumbled.

Thistlewick tackled him around the waist.

Niblick pulled the hatch open.

A narrow chamber descended beneath the hedge. Inside were six sealed jars of nightberry resin, a spool of amber moth-thread, and three velvet pouches stamped with the crest of the Royal Nectar Treasury.

Niblick reached for the nearest pouch.

“Don’t touch anything,” Thistlewick shouted while attempting to pin Sipsorrow’s bladed arms.

Niblick withdrew his hand.

“I was only going to appreciate it manually.”

Lady Marzipollen leaned over the opening.

“Those are Treasury transfer bags.”

“What do they contain?” asked Thistlewick.

“Nectar pearls, if they have not been emptied.”

Niblick nudged one with his foot.

It jingled.

“Not empty.”

Sipsorrow stopped struggling.

“This chamber is not mine.”

Niblick looked around.

“It is hidden beneath the path between your office and the murder scene.”

“A location is not ownership.”

“Your thread is inside.”

“Common thread.”

“Your shoes are covered in poison.”

“Common poison.”

“You fled.”

“Common response to you.”

Niblick nodded reluctantly.

“That one has some weight.”

Thistlewick twisted Sipsorrow’s forelegs behind him and bound them with a length of vine.

“Lord Sipsorrow, I am detaining you for theft from the Royal Treasury, possession of concentrated nightberry resin, assaulting a marshal, and dressing far too elegantly for a dawn murder.”

“That final charge does not exist.”

“It may by lunchtime.”

Niblick climbed from the chamber, chest puffed with triumph.

“And murder.”

Thistlewick looked at him.

“We have not proven murder.”

Niblick’s chest deflated slightly.

“His thread was on the body.”

“It proves he came into contact with Ambrosius.”

“The poison is beneath his hedge.”

“It proves he concealed poison.”

“He ran.”

“It proves he did not wish to answer questions.”

“He tried to slice my head off.”

“Understandable, but separately criminal.”

Niblick frowned.

Sipsorrow’s composure returned. Even restrained and lying in a hedge, he managed to look professionally superior.

“The budnewt is correct about one thing,” he said. “I stole the seal.”

Lady Marzipollen stared at him.

“You admit it?”

“Ambrosius and I discovered irregularities in the Treasury accounts. Pearls were disappearing. We removed the official seal to prevent further fraudulent transfers.”

“Then why hide the Treasury bags?” asked Thistlewick.

“They are evidence.”

“Why hide the poison?”

“It was found in one of the bags.”

“Why did Ambrosius have the seal?”

“He was taking it to the queen this morning.”

Niblick stepped closer.

“And why was your thread wrapped around his claw?”

Sipsorrow’s jaw tightened.

“Because he grabbed my sleeve last night.”

“During your official meeting?”

“During an argument.”

“About what?” asked Lady Marzipollen.

Sipsorrow looked at her.

“About you.”

Silence settled over the path.

Lady Marzipollen lowered her twig.

“Me?”

“Ambrosius believed you were responsible for the missing pearls.”

Her face went still.

“That is absurd.”

“I told him the same. He insisted he had proof.”

Niblick watched her carefully.

Lady Marzipollen’s outrage looked convincing. So had Sipsorrow’s guilt. Unfortunately, the Sugarwild Garden contained an irritating number of creatures capable of appearing innocent while standing directly beside the evidence of their crimes.

He knew because he was one of them.

Thistlewick pulled Sipsorrow to his feet.

“You will tell me everything at the inquiry stump.”

Niblick looked toward the hidden chamber again.

“Wait.”

He crouched at its edge.

The three Treasury bags sat neatly against the wall. The poison jars stood in a row. The spool of thread rested on top of a folded document.

Everything was arranged too perfectly.

Just like Ambrosius’s body.

“This was staged too,” Niblick said.

Thistlewick groaned.

“Not everything is staged.”

“Look at it. Whoever hides stolen treasure does not line it up by size.”

“Sipsorrow is an auditor,” said Lady Marzipollen. “He arranges his breakfast by tax category.”

“The smallest poison jar is missing dust from its lid,” Niblick said. “The others have been here for days. That one was handled recently.”

Thistlewick peered into the chamber.

“Sipsorrow may have used it.”

“Then where is the stopper?”

The marshal examined the jar.

Its narrow mouth was open.

No stopper lay nearby.

Niblick climbed down despite Thistlewick’s immediate objection. He sniffed the floor, crawling between the pouches and jars until his nose reached a thin crack in the rear wall.

A faint draft touched his face.

It carried the scent of crushed mint, wet soil, and something floral.

Niblick pressed both hands against the wall.

It shifted.

“There’s another passage.”

Sipsorrow’s eyes widened.

“Impossible.”

“You didn’t know?”

“This chamber was sealed when I found it.”

“You said it was not yours.”

“It is not.”

“You also said the Treasury bags were evidence.”

“They are.”

“Evidence you concealed in a chamber you claim not to own beneath a hedge you regularly cross?”

Sipsorrow’s mandibles tightened.

“You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

Niblick pushed harder.

The false wall swung inward.

Beyond it, a narrow tunnel disappeared beneath the garden. Fresh footprints marked the damp soil.

They were small, round, and dusted with luminous pink pollen.

Lady Marzipollen looked down at her own feet.

Each was small and round.

Each was dusted with luminous pink pollen.

Thistlewick slowly turned toward her.

Lady Marzipollen raised the twig again.

“Do not look at me like that.”

Niblick climbed into the tunnel and compared the prints with the trail behind her.

“They match.”

“Half the garden has feet like mine.”

“Half the garden does not produce Marzipollen Pink.”

“The pollen is sold commercially.”

“At an appalling price,” said Sipsorrow. “You own the only licensed bloom.”

“Quiet,” she snapped.

Thistlewick released one hand from Sipsorrow’s restraints and reached toward Lady Marzipollen.

She swung the twig.

The marshal ducked.

Sipsorrow did not.

The blow struck him between the eyes.

He collapsed into the hedge.

Lady Marzipollen spun and ran into the tunnel.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Thistlewick.

Niblick bounded after her.

The tunnel twisted beneath roots and buried stones. Marzipollen moved quickly, kicking loose soil behind her. Niblick followed the glowing prints while Thistlewick struggled through the passage several body lengths back.

“Stop!” Niblick called.

“You are in no position to command anyone!” she shouted.

“I’m the detective!”

“You ate the victim!”

“Only structurally insignificant portions!”

The passage climbed sharply.

Marzipollen burst through a curtain of roots and into a hidden chamber beneath the Honeywake Pavilion. Niblick followed, skidding to a stop.

The room was filled with ledgers.

Hundreds of them lined shelves carved into the soil. Bundles of invoices covered a stone table. Royal Treasury seals, transfer slips, and empty nectar pouches lay in organized stacks.

At the center of the chamber stood a large glass vat filled with cloudy amber liquid.

Something floated inside it.

A golden stopper.

The missing stopper from the poison jar.

Lady Marzipollen seized a ledger from the table and held it over a small brazier.

“Come closer and I burn everything.”

Niblick raised his hands.

“That seems dramatic.”

“You have no idea what you found.”

“A subterranean accounting hobby?”

“Ambrosius had been stealing from the Treasury for years.”

Niblick’s smile faded.

“Sipsorrow said he suspected you.”

“Because Ambrosius told him to.”

“Why?”

“Because I discovered the theft. He moved royal nectar through false accounts, then loaned it to desperate residents at obscene interest.”

Niblick thought of the nine pearls Ambrosius claimed he owed.

“My debt.”

“Purchased with stolen nectar.”

“So I never owed him?”

“You borrowed three pearls.”

“Two and a half.”

“You drank the other half while negotiating.”

“Negotiations are dehydrating.”

Lady Marzipollen lowered the ledger slightly.

“I confronted him last week. He threatened to destroy me. Last night, he told Sipsorrow that I was the thief and promised to deliver fabricated evidence to the queen.”

“Did you poison him?”

“No.”

“Did you drop the moonpetal?”

“No.”

“Did you hide the Treasury bags beneath the hedge?”

“Yes.”

“Did you put nightberry resin there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you steal the seal?”

“No.”

“Did you hit Sipsorrow with a stick?”

“Enthusiastically.”

“You see how some of this complicates the rest?”

She glared at him.

Niblick pointed toward the brazier.

“If those ledgers prove Ambrosius was stealing, why burn them?”

“Because they also prove I moved the stolen pearls after I found them.”

“To where?”

“Back into the accounts of the residents Ambrosius cheated.”

Niblick blinked.

“You returned them?”

“Quietly.”

“Without authorization?”

“The Treasury would have frozen every account for months while it investigated. Families would have lost their blooms.”

“Including mine.”

“Especially yours.”

The revelation settled over him.

Lady Marzipollen had broken into the accounts, concealed royal property, and hidden poison. She had also saved his family from Ambrosius.

She might still be a murderer.

Things were becoming morally untidy.

Marshal Thistlewick entered the chamber breathing heavily.

He took in the ledgers, the vat, and Lady Marzipollen holding the book above the flame.

“Put it down.”

“Marshal, listen to me.”

“Put it down first.”

She looked at Niblick.

For once, his expression offered no easy lie.

“Do it,” he said.

Lady Marzipollen slowly placed the ledger on the table.

Thistlewick moved forward and kicked the brazier away.

“You are both coming with me.”

“Both?” Niblick asked.

“You left the permitted area, pursued a suspect, entered a hidden chamber, and contaminated what appears to be the largest financial crime scene in Sugarwild history.”

“I solved several things.”

“You created several more.”

Niblick glanced into the glass vat.

The cloudy amber liquid slowly turned.

There was something else beneath the floating stopper.

A tiny shape.

Six legs.

A rounded shell.

He stepped closer.

“Marshal.”

“Do not touch it.”

“I’m not.”

“Do not lick it.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Do not even consider putting it in your mouth.”

“Would everyone kindly stop treating that as my only investigative method?”

Thistlewick joined him beside the vat.

Inside the liquid floated a small nectar beetle.

Its shell was ruby red.

Its wings shimmered with silver and amethyst veins.

Niblick looked back toward the tunnel leading to the garden.

Then he looked at the beetle in the vat.

Lady Marzipollen approached slowly.

“That cannot be Ambrosius.”

“Why not?” asked Thistlewick.

“Because Ambrosius is lying beneath the moonpetal.”

Niblick pressed his face close to the glass.

The beetle inside the vat opened one eye.

A bubble escaped from its mouth.

It lifted one weak leg and tapped against the glass.

Niblick stumbled backward.

“He’s alive.”

Thistlewick stared into the vat.

“Then who the hell is under the petal?”

The Corpse Who Objected to Being Murdered

The beetle inside the vat tapped the glass again.

Once.

Twice.

Then he raised one trembling leg and made an unmistakably rude gesture at Lord Sipsorrow.

Niblick pressed both hands against the glass.

“That is definitely Ambrosius.”

Lady Marzipollen stared into the cloudy nectar.

“We have to get him out.”

“Agreed,” said Marshal Thistlewick. “Preferably before Niblick decides to drink the room.”

“I have standards.”

“You stole nectar from what you believed was a corpse.”

“Low standards remain standards.”

Thistlewick examined the glass vat. Its lid was sealed by three brass clasps and a waxed cord threaded through the handles. The cloudy liquid inside smelled of honey, nightberry resin, and crushed mint.

Ambrosius’s movements had grown sluggish. His jeweled shell drifted sideways as another bubble escaped his mouth.

Lady Marzipollen grabbed the first clasp.

“Help me.”

Thistlewick caught her wrist.

“Wait. We don’t know what that liquid will do when exposed to air.”

Niblick sniffed along the rim.

“It’s suspension nectar.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it slows the body almost to sleep. Apothecaries use it during wing repair.”

“And the poison?”

“Keeps him too weak to climb out.”

Lady Marzipollen looked at Niblick.

“How do you know so much about medicinal nectar?”

“I was banned from three apothecaries during a difficult spring.”

“For stealing?”

“For sampling.”

“Without paying?”

“We can argue about vocabulary after we save Ambrosius.”

Thistlewick cut the waxed cord with one claw.

Together, they released the clasps and lifted the heavy lid. A bitter vapor rolled across the chamber.

Lady Marzipollen reached into the vat.

“Don’t touch the liquid,” Niblick warned.

Her leaves stopped inches above it.

“You were about to let me put my arms in there.”

“I assumed you knew better.”

“You just identified it.”

“And now you know better.”

Thistlewick unfastened the braided cord from his badge and looped it beneath Ambrosius’s shell. Niblick climbed onto the rim to guide the line while Lady Marzipollen pulled.

The beetle emerged from the vat with a wet sucking sound and collapsed onto the stone table.

Niblick rolled him onto his side.

“Ambrosius?”

The beetle coughed.

Cloudy nectar spilled from his mouth.

His legs twitched, and his one visible wing fluttered weakly against the table.

“He’s breathing,” said Lady Marzipollen.

“He was breathing in the vat,” Niblick said.

“I was emotionally occupied.”

Thistlewick wiped residue from Ambrosius’s face.

“Can you hear me?”

Ambrosius opened both eyes.

“Unfortunately,” he rasped.

Lady Marzipollen let out a breath that was almost a sob.

“You miserable bastard.”

“Marzipollen?”

“Yes.”

“Did you steal my accounts?”

Her relief vanished.

“Welcome back.”

Ambrosius tried to sit up, failed, and glared at Niblick.

“Why is he here?”

“I’m solving your murder.”

“I am not murdered.”

“You are making that clearer by the minute.”

Thistlewick leaned close to the beetle.

“Who put you in the vat?”

Ambrosius’s eyes moved toward Lady Marzipollen.

“She did.”

Marzipollen recoiled.

“I most certainly did not.”

“You confronted me about the missing pearls. You threatened to expose me.”

“Because you stole them.”

“Then you invited me to the Honeywake Pavilion after midnight.”

“I was home after midnight.”

“Liar.”

“Thief.”

“Embezzler.”

“Corpse impersonator.”

“Enough,” Thistlewick barked.

The chamber went quiet.

The marshal pointed to Ambrosius.

“Tell me what happened.”

The beetle swallowed painfully.

“I received a note bearing Marzipollen’s seal. It promised proof that Sipsorrow had taken the Treasury pearls. When I arrived, someone struck me from behind. I woke briefly inside the vat.”

“Did you see who attacked you?”

“No.”

“Then why accuse her?”

“The note carried her seal.”

Lady Marzipollen stiffened.

“My private seal disappeared two days ago.”

“Convenient,” Ambrosius said.

“As convenient as being alive after someone was murdered in your place?”

Niblick looked between them.

“Can we return to that part? If Ambrosius is here, who is under the moonpetal?”

Thistlewick straightened.

“We need to examine the body again.”

Ambrosius attempted to climb from the table.

His legs buckled.

“You are not going anywhere,” said Lady Marzipollen.

“That body has my shell, my wing, and my face.”

“You have always been vain, but attending your own murder scene seems excessive.”

“Someone tried to kill me.”

“Someone failed.”

“I would like to know who.”

Niblick spotted a small wooden cart beneath the ledger table. It was designed to move heavy jars, but Ambrosius fit comfortably once they pushed aside several empty bottles.

Lady Marzipollen took the handles.

“If you drip on me, I will put you back in the vat.”

“Your compassion remains overwhelming.”

“Your continued survival is testing it.”

They returned through the tunnel. Thistlewick marched first, Niblick followed with the royal ledgers bundled beneath one arm, and Lady Marzipollen pulled the weakened Ambrosius behind them.

Lord Sipsorrow was no longer in the hedge.

Only severed vines remained where Thistlewick had bound him.

The marshal stared at the empty space.

“Son of a thorn.”

Niblick examined the cut ends.

“He used his forelegs.”

“Thank you, Detective Obvious.”

“That title sounds official. May I have a badge?”

“No.”

“A hat?”

“No.”

“Authority over one minor shrub?”

“Walk.”

As they approached the Honeywake grounds, the murmuring crowd came into view. Nobody had obeyed Thistlewick’s instruction to disperse. Instead, the residents had constructed three snack tables and begun taking wagers on whether Niblick would be imprisoned, eaten, or appointed to public office.

The honeybee saw them first.

Her mouth fell open.

“Ambrosius?”

The crowd turned.

Silence swept across the grounds.

Every creature stared at the beetle lying in the cart.

Then they looked toward the body beneath the moonpetal.

Then back at Ambrosius.

Peppin Drizzlenose slowly raised one hand.

“Are there usually two of him?”

“No,” said Lady Marzipollen.

“Thank fuck.”

Thistlewick shoved through the crowd.

“Nobody leaves.”

“You said that earlier,” called a moth.

“This time I mean it more.”

Niblick approached the body.

The ruby shell looked exactly like Ambrosius’s. The remaining wing bore the same silver and amethyst veins. Even the jeweled markings around the head appeared identical.

But now Niblick knew what to look for.

He knelt beside the shell and sniffed.

Honey.

Nightberry.

Wet leaves.

And beneath them, something warm and familiar.

“Sugar lacquer,” he said.

Thistlewick crouched beside him.

“What?”

Niblick scratched the ruby shell with one claw.

A thin strip of red coating peeled away, revealing pale green beneath it.

The crowd gasped yet again, although with noticeably less enthusiasm. They were growing tired.

Niblick peeled back more lacquer.

The supposed beetle shell softened beneath his fingers. It was not armor at all but a costume molded from hardened flower sugar.

Lady Marzipollen lifted the edge near the head.

A narrow face appeared beneath it.

“Clove Pincers,” she whispered.

The honeybee dropped her delivery satchel.

The dead creature was a mint weevil named Clove Pincers, one of Ambrosius’s junior account clerks. He was quiet, punctual, and so devoted to orderly ledgers that he had once alphabetized a bowl of seeds.

Ambrosius struggled upright in the cart.

“Clove?”

Niblick examined the false wing still attached to the costume. It was painted glass, carefully veined to match the genuine wing he had found in Ambrosius’s trumpet blossom.

“The killer dressed Clove as Ambrosius,” he said.

“Why?” asked Thistlewick.

“To make everyone believe Ambrosius was dead.”

“While keeping the real Ambrosius alive?”

Niblick looked toward the ledgers beneath his arm.

“Someone needed access to his accounts.”

Lady Marzipollen understood first.

“The royal transfer vault recognizes its officers by living nectar signature. A dead account keeper’s authority expires immediately.”

Ambrosius’s expression darkened.

“But if the Treasury believed I was dead while someone kept me alive in suspension, they could continue drawing my signature from the vat.”

Thistlewick glanced toward the missing royal seal inside his evidence pouch.

“And authorize transfers.”

“Exactly,” said Ambrosius.

Niblick stood.

“So the murderer wanted Clove mistaken for Ambrosius. They poisoned Ambrosius, removed one of his wings to complete the disguise, and hid him beneath the pavilion.”

“Why place the genuine wing in the trumpet blossom?” asked Lady Marzipollen.

“It was not placed there,” said Ambrosius weakly. “When I was attacked, I tore free. My wing caught against something and ripped away. I remember crawling into the blossom before I lost consciousness.”

Niblick looked toward the flower.

“The killer found you and moved you to the vat, but missed the wing.”

“And the royal seal,” said Thistlewick.

“Which must have been caught inside it.”

Lady Marzipollen looked at Clove’s body.

“Why him?”

“Because he discovered the false accounts,” Ambrosius said.

Everyone turned toward him.

Ambrosius lowered his eyes.

“Clove came to me yesterday. He had traced the missing pearls through twelve shell companies and three fictitious pollen cooperatives.”

Lady Marzipollen stared at him.

“You told Sipsorrow I was responsible.”

“I believed you were.”

“You knew your own accounts were being used.”

“I assumed you had compromised them.”

“Because admitting you lost control of the Treasury’s nectar would have destroyed your precious reputation.”

Ambrosius said nothing.

“And because you were already loaning stolen royal pearls to desperate residents,” Niblick added.

The beetle’s remaining wing twitched.

“That was a separate enterprise.”

“Of course it was.”

Thistlewick stood over him.

“You will answer for it when this murder is solved.”

“Assuming it is solved,” said a cool voice behind them.

The crowd parted.

Lord Sipsorrow approached the moonpetal.

His cream coat was gone. Beneath it, he wore a fitted black vest bearing the silver insignia of the Royal Audit Office. One bladed foreleg rested against the honeybee’s throat.

She stumbled beside him, trembling.

“Nobody moves,” he said.

Thistlewick’s paw went toward his belt.

Sipsorrow pressed the blade closer.

“Not even you, Marshal.”

Niblick’s gaze moved from the hostage to the mantis’s uncovered arms.

No torn cuff.

No golden thread.

The cream coat had never belonged to him.

It had been a costume.

“You didn’t kill Clove,” Niblick said.

Sipsorrow’s eyes narrowed.

“An encouraging start.”

“You stole the seal because you were investigating the missing pearls. You hid the poison and Treasury bags as evidence. Then someone wore your coat at the murder scene so I would identify you.”

“I was assaulted in my office before dawn,” Sipsorrow said. “When I woke, my coat and audit keys were gone. I followed the intruder to the pavilion, where your marshal immediately accused me of murder.”

Thistlewick glanced at the honeybee.

“Then why take her hostage?”

Sipsorrow’s grip tightened.

“Because she is not a honeybee.”

The creature beside him stopped trembling.

Her frightened expression vanished.

“Oh, bollocks,” she said.

One hand shot upward and tore away the striped fuzz covering her face.

Beneath it was a narrow green snout.

A long pink tongue flicked between sharp teeth.

Peppin gasped.

“That’s a licknewt.”

“Correct,” said Sipsorrow. “Vessa Longtongue, former Treasury courier and current fugitive.”

Vessa smiled.

“Formerly current fugitive.”

Her tongue snapped around Sipsorrow’s wrist.

She yanked his foreleg away from her throat, spun beneath it, and drove one heel into his chest. The mantis staggered backward.

Vessa leaped toward the royal seal hanging from Thistlewick’s vest.

Niblick launched himself between them.

They collided in midair.

The seal flew from the evidence pouch.

Vessa caught it with her tongue.

Niblick caught her tongue with both hands.

For one astonishing moment, they stood nose to nose, each pulling in the opposite direction while the seal gleamed between them.

“Let go,” Vessa hissed.

“You first.”

“It’s attached to me.”

“That sounds like poor planning.”

She jerked him forward and head-butted him.

Niblick’s eyes crossed.

His grip loosened.

Vessa reeled in her tongue, swallowed the royal seal, and smiled triumphantly.

The entire crowd looked at Niblick.

He wiped his nose.

“See? Everyone does it.”

Vessa ran.

She bounded onto the inquiry stump, sprang toward the trumpet blossom, and caught its rim with both hands.

Niblick chased her.

“Stop!”

“Still not a detective!” she called.

“Emotionally, I am!”

He climbed the flower stem after her.

Vessa reached the blossom’s center and tore open a concealed pollen chute. Beyond it lay a narrow tunnel leading toward the outer garden wall.

Niblick grabbed her ankle.

She kicked him in the face.

He held on.

“You killed Clove,” he said.

“Clove should not have read my accounts.”

“You poisoned Ambrosius.”

“Ambrosius should not have trusted unsigned invitations.”

“You framed Marzipollen.”

“She should not have owned such a useful seal.”

“And you wore Sipsorrow’s coat.”

Vessa looked down at him.

“It was flattering.”

She kicked again.

Niblick’s grip slipped to the end of her foot.

Below, Thistlewick and Sipsorrow climbed the stem. Lady Marzipollen shouted contradictory instructions while Ambrosius yelled at everyone to avoid damaging his flower.

Vessa pulled herself into the tunnel.

Niblick stretched upward and caught the tip of her tail in his mouth.

He bit down.

Vessa shrieked.

“You disgusting little bastard!”

“Mmf fank oo,” Niblick replied.

She thrashed against the blossom walls. Nectar rained down across Niblick’s face. His feet slipped, but he kept his teeth locked around her tail.

Vessa twisted and reached for the pollen chute.

Her cheeks suddenly bulged.

The swallowed royal seal had lodged in her throat.

She gagged.

Niblick recognized the expression immediately.

“Don’t swallow evidence,” he advised through a mouthful of tail. “It’s difficult.”

Vessa coughed.

The golden disk shot from her mouth, bounced off the blossom wall, and sailed into the air.

Everyone watched it spin.

Niblick released Vessa’s tail and lunged.

His mouth closed around the seal.

He landed on his back at the bottom of the blossom.

Thistlewick reached the rim just as Vessa tried to escape. Sipsorrow seized one ankle, the marshal grabbed the other, and together they dragged her from the pollen chute.

Lady Marzipollen climbed into the blossom carrying a length of thornvine.

“Hold her still.”

Vessa looked at the thorns.

“That seems unnecessary.”

Marzipollen smiled without warmth.

“I have had a very emotional morning.”

They bound Vessa’s hands, feet, and tongue.

When it was over, Marshal Thistlewick looked down at Niblick.

He lay among the stamens with the royal seal protruding between his honey-covered lips.

Thistlewick held out one paw.

“Give me that.”

Niblick sat up and carefully spat the seal into it.

“I preserved the evidence.”

“You caught it with your mouth.”

“I preserved it dynamically.”

“You have pockets.”

Niblick patted his vest.

“I keep forgetting.”

By midday, the Honeywake grounds had become the busiest crime scene in Sugarwild history.

Vessa Longtongue confessed after Thistlewick threatened to let Lady Marzipollen conduct the interrogation with her thornvine. She had used her position as a Treasury courier to create false accounts and divert thousands of nectar pearls. When Clove Pincers discovered the transfers, she killed him with nightberry resin and disguised his body as Ambrosius.

She had lured the real Ambrosius to the pavilion, poisoned him, and placed him in suspension nectar so she could continue extracting his living signature. She planted Marzipollen’s pollen in the tunnel, wore Sipsorrow’s stolen coat near the murder scene, and hid the genuine royal seal inside Ambrosius’s torn wing when she heard someone approaching.

That someone had been Niblick.

Vessa assumed he would either overlook the wing or panic and destroy it.

She had underestimated him.

Not by much, but sufficiently.

Ambrosius recovered under the care of an apothecary who refused to let Niblick anywhere near the medicine cabinet. He was arrested before sunset for theft, predatory lending, falsifying Treasury records, and charging six generations of a fern compound interest.

Lady Marzipollen surrendered the ledgers and confessed to moving pearls back into the accounts of the residents Ambrosius had cheated. Queen Pollenelle pardoned her unauthorized transfers, then appointed her to oversee the restitution effort under what the official decree described as “aggressively close supervision.”

Lord Sipsorrow returned to the Royal Audit Office, where he filed seventeen reports, three criminal referrals, and a formal complaint regarding Niblick’s investigative sniffing.

Clove Pincers was buried beneath a mint blossom with every ledger in the Treasury balanced in his honor.

As for Niblick, he was summoned before Marshal Thistlewick two days later.

The marshal sat behind a mushroom desk with a small silver object lying before him.

Niblick eyed it suspiciously.

“Is that a badge?”

“Yes.”

His frills lifted.

“For me?”

“Temporarily.”

“How temporarily?”

“Until I regret it.”

“So I have several minutes.”

Thistlewick slid the badge across the desk.

“The garden needs someone who notices what respectable creatures overlook.”

Niblick pinned it crookedly to his vest.

“Because I’m observant?”

“Because you think like a criminal.”

“I prefer creatively unregulated.”

“You will follow my instructions. You will preserve evidence properly. You will tell the truth during official inquiries.”

“Whenever possible.”

“Always.”

“Within reason.”

“And you will stop putting evidence in your mouth.”

Niblick looked offended.

“Marshal, I solved the largest Treasury conspiracy in garden history with my mouth.”

“You nearly choked twice.”

“Every profession has risks.”

Thistlewick leaned across the desk.

“Promise me.”

Niblick raised one hand.

“I solemnly promise that I will never again swallow evidence unless circumstances make swallowing it seem like the most intelligent available option.”

“That is not a promise.”

“It is the strongest version I can ethically offer.”

The marshal closed his eyes.

“Get out.”

Niblick hopped from the chair and marched proudly into the sunlight.

His new badge gleamed against his turquoise scales. Garden residents stopped to stare as he passed. Some bowed. Others hid their valuables.

At the edge of the Honeywake grounds, Peppin Drizzlenose waited beside a peach-colored blossom.

“Detective Budmouth,” he said. “That sounds important.”

“It is.”

“Do you have any cases?”

Niblick climbed into the blossom and settled among its warm petals.

“Not yet.”

Peppin pointed at his face.

“What’s that?”

Niblick’s cheeks were slightly swollen.

A thin thread of golden nectar slipped from one corner of his mouth.

“Nothing.”

“Your mouth is full.”

“It is not.”

“Open it.”

Niblick shook his head.

Peppin folded his arms.

“What did you steal?”

Niblick glanced toward Marshal Thistlewick’s office.

Then he carefully opened his mouth.

Three royal honeycakes, a sugared berry, and the marshal’s emergency spoon tumbled into the petals.

Peppin stared at them.

“Why the spoon?”

Niblick wiped the honey from his lips.

“Religious reasons.”