Chapter one, in which Jake lies, and M., rather foolishly, believes him.

{Introduction can be found here.}

Chapter one, in which Jake lies, and M., rather foolishly, believes him.
(also in which Stephanie pathetically copies the writing goddess, Diane Wynne Jones's titling style)


"What's your name, again?"
"Lawrence." Jake answers. "Lawrence Mavv."
M. refrains from repeating the boy's first name whimsically, although the urge is overpowering. Jake settles back into his cherrywood seat and clears his throat in an altogether unnecessary fashion.
"So. Lawrence." M. begins, without glancing up from his notepad. "have you any particular reason for appearing in my kitchen at four o' clock in the bloody morning?"
"That was your kitchen?"
M. cuts Jake a glare generous in venom. "Yes. But if you'll oblige me, I'll be the one asking questions."
"Shan't."
"What?"
"I shan't oblige you." Jake crosses his arms over his tweed-jacketed torso. "And I don't understand how someone who can't maintain a "kitchen" the size of a broom closet was able to create an underground interrogation room with three- no," he corrects himself, glancing briskly to his right, "four two-way mirrors. Illegal, by order of the Republic's Import office, if you do recall."
"Two-way mirror's aren't illegal." M.'s left eyebrow quirks dangerously beneath his fedora. "Neither are they exactly on-topic to this investigation."
"One-" Jake holds up a thumb in the style of European counting, "this is the saddest, most potently half-assed investigation I've ever encountered, and two," he extends his index finger, "Mirrors enchanted to be two-way ARE, in fact, illegal, and those four suckers are reeking of some form of Sorcery."
M. bows his head and pinches the bridge of his roman nose between his index finger and thumb.
"I wouldn't worry about it, sir," Jake coaxes, sitting upright. "Someone as soft in the head as you should never be ratted out by a greater person, such as I."
"Person's a bit of an overstatement, wouldn't you say?" M. says, glancing down towards one of Jake's hooves in a somewhat judgmental manner.
"That would be an understatement, if anything." The boy growls, his incisors appearing as ivory keys in the poor light. "A Satyr is more than a man could ever hope to be."
"Yeah, yeah, a goat's daydream, I understand." M. rolls his eyes and makes another note. "The truth is, Mr. Mavv, answers to my interrogation is honestly the last thing I require from you. A half-satyr as clever as yourself could aid me immensely with a small problem I'm having, in fact-" M. clears his throat, and glances backwards warily, "two very small, very vicious...problems."
"Those being?" Jake queries, appearing interested; his hand stroked the whisp-like introduction of a beard that clung to his chin.
"Mr. Mavv, what do you know about fairies?"
Jake laughed; M. could have sworn the noise resembled a bleat. "Mr. M., they're paying me five dollars an hour to keep you busy."
M.'s eyes fly open; Jake bleats a chuckle once more.