Shiraz Diplomacy

"I told her to befriend a detective. I didn't expect her to open a bottle and make it a wine tasting."

The portal deposited me in the study, and I barely had time to register my surroundings before the ambient noise of distant conversation put me on edge.

Female voices. Chatty. Relaxed.

I forgot about the detectives!

The thought sent a jolt of panic through me, my body tensing for flight before my brain caught up. They're not still here, though, surely!? How long had I been in Clivilius? Twenty minutes? Thirty? Long enough for Paul and Beatrix to have their caravan argument. Long enough for the detectives to have searched the house, found nothing, and left.

But those voices suggested otherwise.

I pressed my body against the wall beside the study door, positioning myself to listen without exposing my presence. The voices were static—not moving through the house, not approaching. Contained somewhere toward the front of the house.

"At least they're static. Must be in the living room," I mumbled under my breath, trying to piece together what I was hearing. If they were still here, still talking, that meant Gladys had kept them occupied somehow.

But what were they talking about? And why did it sound so... casual?

Then a sound I hadn't expected cut through the murmur of conversation: The unmistakable clink of a wine glass meeting a kitchen benchtop.

What the hell is Gladys doing?

Curiosity overrode caution. I edged toward the study doorway and peered down the hallway, angling for a view of the living area beyond. The kitchen island came into view first, then the edge of the couch, then—

Detective Sarah Lahey stood at the island bench, placing an empty wine glass on the surface. Her posture was relaxed, shoulders loose, body language carrying none of the professional rigidity I'd expect from someone in the middle of an active investigation. She laughed at something Gladys said—a genuine laugh, warm and unguarded—before gathering her jacket from where it had been draped over one of the bar stools.

She moved toward the front door with casual grace, unhurried, pausing to exchange a few more words with Gladys that I couldn't quite make out. This wasn't the departure of a detective who'd been stonewalled or frustrated by an uncooperative witness. This was someone who'd enjoyed herself. Someone who might come back—not for professional reasons, but because she'd found a kindred spirit.

A soft chuckle escaped me before I could stop it.

Gladys had actually done it. She'd taken my suggestion—befriend her—and run with it in the most Gladys way possible. Wine. Of course it was wine. The woman's solution to every social situation involved alcohol, and apparently that extended to entertaining police detectives who'd shown up expecting to interrogate her about missing persons.

I couldn't help but admire her audacity. Her instinct for finding common ground even in the most unlikely circumstances. Most people would have been defensive, nervous, tripping over their own lies. Gladys had apparently pulled out a bottle of shiraz and turned the whole thing into afternoon drinks.

If she can get a detective to drink alcohol while on duty, there's still hope for us all yet.

I waited in the study doorway, watching as Sarah collected her things. She said something else to Gladys—something that made them both laugh again—and then finally, mercifully, made her way to the front door. The sound of it opening, then closing, marked her departure.

I gave it another thirty seconds. Counted them off in my head, listening for any indication that she might return—a forgotten phone, a last question, anything that would put me back in hiding. But the house remained quiet except for the soft sounds of Gladys moving in the living room.

Only then did I step out of the study and make my way down the hall.

Gladys remained seated on the couch, a near-empty wine glass dangling from her fingers. Her posture was loose, comfortable, entirely at odds with someone who'd just spent the afternoon under police scrutiny. She looked up as I entered, and her expression carried a hint of smugness that suggested she knew exactly how impressive her performance had been.

"That was an interesting conversation," I remarked as I approached her. I kept my tone light, casual, but my curiosity was genuine. What had they talked about? How had Gladys steered things from interrogation to impromptu wine party?

"You don't say," Gladys retorted, dry as the Clivilian dust, before tipping back the last mouthful of her drink.

"Another?" I offered, moving to collect her empty glass.

"Cheers," she responded, handing it over without hesitation.

I crossed to the kitchen and found the bottle of shiraz on the bench—already open. Gladys had been generous with the pours. At least two large glasses, judging by what remained. I filled her glass, watching the deep red liquid catch the afternoon light filtering through the windows, then grabbed a second glass for myself.

After the morning I'd had—the failed Portal Key, the detective at my window, the chase through my own house, the whispered taunt as I vanished through a portal—I'd more than earned a drink.

Bye, Karl.

The memory resurfaced as I poured my own glass, bringing with it a fresh wave of satisfaction. The flickering lights. The crackling radio. The way he'd frozen mid-step, trying to make sense of something that anybody not already in the know, could possibly ever hope to know. The confusion on his face in that split second before I vanished into colours.

It wasn't smart. I knew that. It was petty and reckless and exactly the kind of theatrical nonsense that could come back to bite me later. Karl would remember that whisper. Would replay it in his mind, trying to understand what had happened, trying to fit it into some rational framework that made sense. And when he couldn't—when the lights and the static and the disembodied voice refused to resolve into anything logical—it would gnaw at him. Make him more determined. More dangerous.

But god, it had felt good.

I carried both glasses back to the living room, handing Gladys her refill before settling into the armchair. The first sip of shiraz was exactly what I needed—rich and warm, spreading through my chest like a slow exhale.

"Can you organise a few tons of wood to be delivered to the Owen's property for me, please, Gladys?" I asked, cradling the glass between my palms.

"I guess so," she replied, taking a long sip of her own wine. Then, after a beat, her eyes narrowed slightly with curiosity: "Why can't you?"

"I have business with Bonorong," I answered, swirling the shiraz and watching the legs run down the inside of the glass. The words came out casual, dismissive—nothing to see here, just another errand in a day full of them.

Gladys's expression suggested she wasn't entirely satisfied with that explanation, but I didn't elaborate. Didn't explain what business, or why Bonorong, or any of the details that would only lead to more questions I wasn't ready to answer. The wildlife sanctuary wasn't something I wanted to discuss—not yet, not until I'd sorted out the details myself.

Gladys had done enough today. More than enough. She'd faced down two detectives, kept my presence hidden, deflected questions about Jamie's whereabouts, and somehow transformed a police interrogation into afternoon drinks with a potential ally. If Sarah Lahey could be turned—if she could become someone who looked the other way, or fed us information, or simply chose not to dig too deeply into the strange happenings around this house—it would be because of what Gladys had started today.

She'd earned her wine. Several glasses of it, probably.

I took another sip, letting the warmth settle, then set the glass on the side table and rose to my feet. Bonorong wouldn't wait forever, and I'd already lost most of the day to portals and detectives and whispered goodbyes.

"I'll be back later," I said, heading for the door. "Don't drink all the shiraz."