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Crispin

C rispin Eladrin Moss’caladin was a by-the-numbers, check-all-the-boxes kind of fae, the only desk fae in the Office of the Lost with a ten-point-two perfecality score. This made his chest swell with pride whenever he thought of it, since it technically wasn’t possible to rise above a ten-point-oh.

He hummed happily as he worked his way down the Recovered Assets form, filling out every line with careful precision, dipping his quill in the ink pot with exactly the right angle and timing to collect the perfect amount of ink with nary a drop spilt on desk or parchment.

He was barely aware of the sounds of the other desk fae around him, sitting at the hundred or so identical white marble desks extending out from his like blocky petals of some strange stone flower.

Item Recovered? Check.

Item in Good Shape? Check.

Description of Item: Slightly used spelled red oak wand, possibly from the Third Dynasty.

World of Origin? Therrin.

And on and on, cataloging all the minute details of how he’d acquired the formerly lost object.

He glanced up at the hands of the enormous clock on the near wall. Five minutes to five. Perfect timing. He’d be home to his tree bole in the Greatwoods on Torevor—and his pet squirrel Minkis—right on time. Punctuality is Perfecality.

As he was slipping the form and the small box with its recovered contents into his outbox, a shadow darkened his sparkling clean desk, dimming its reflected glow.

Crispin swallowed hard and looked up into the beady eyes of his supervisor, Bidulla Kronk.

She was an ogre of a woman. Literally . Her sallow skin was the color of a rotten lemon, two pointed yellow teeth protruded a good three inches past her lips, and paint nearly melted off the walls when she smiled.

Like she was doing now.

“Hello, Curator Moscow.” Her voice was like a rake over gravel.

“That’s Moss’caladin.” He tried not to sweat, rather unsuccessfully.

She nodded. “Yes, Moscow, just like I said.” She sank down on the corner of his desk, and the far side lifted an inch off the ground. “I’m told you are doing excellent work.”

He wanted to cover his ears to block out the avalanche of sound, but decided that wouldn’t be at all proper.

He should have been thrilled that his perfecality score was at last being noticed, but instead he wanted to shrink under his desk and hide until she left.

He’d spent his entire career—well, if you could call five years a career—under the desk, figuratively, and he couldn’t imagine for the life of him how his cover had been blown.

“Thank you, ma… Supervisor Kronk. I was just heading out?—”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” And when she said afraid , it felt more like rumbly angry. But that might have been just her voice. Which, to be fair, was comparatively lovely for an ogre. Still, ogres weren’t known for a subtle expression of emotion.

“Why is that?” He found himself blinking and instead tried to stare at her politely, which somehow felt worse. She also had a strong… personal aroma, which was making his eyes water.

“Something urgent has come up, a task that we feel is more wisely left to one of our best curators.”

We? There was now a we who were aware of him?

His heart dropped. “The best would be Curator Deepmountain, ma’am.

” Theodor ur Deepmountain was a dwarf, and one of the most experienced members on the team.

And by experienced, Crispin meant ancient; his long, wispy white beard was probably older than Crispin.

Surely she’d see the wisdom in his suggestion.

She growled—or was it a purr?—and his entire desk shook. “We think this particular task needs more… finesse than Curator Deepmountain possesses. The Oracle specifically asked for you.”

Me? He suppressed a squeak, but there was the damnable blinking again. Crispin forced himself to stop.

Then he blinked again. She was complimenting him, in a heavy-handed, very ogre sort of way. The proper thing to do with compliments was to acknowledge them. Right? “Um, thank you?”

She nodded as if finally he’d done something right.

“Here are the details. If you need anything, staff will provide it.” She handed over a dark blue folder with the Office of the Lost “OotL” logo embossed in gold.

Some people called Crispin and his co-workers “oodles” as a result of the rather unfortunate acronym, but he stuck steadfastly to “curators.”

He peered over her shoulder. Three sylvan fae hovered behind her with clipboards and magical quills that never needed dipping.

Crispin sighed heavily. It was clear that there was no way out of this one, so he might as well acquiesce gracefully. “I see. Well then, I’ll go home and get a good night’s rest so I’m fresh for this most important task in the morning, and….”

Bidulla shook her head. “This matter is top priority.” She pointed at the proffered paperwork, and sure enough, it was stamped “Top Priority.” The red ink seemed to sizzle as he stared at it.

“You’ll leave tonight. With your… skills”—she said it as if there was still some doubt as to whether he possessed any—“you should be able to convince the subject to return with you forthwith.”

If the Oracle wanted him and the job was stamped top priority, it must really be important. I should feel honored. “All right. I’ll go forthwith and… wait, what?” The final word ascended into an upper pitch that only canines could usually hear.

She stared at him as if he’d gone daft.

His mind raced. She wanted him to leave tonight, without a proper bath, without saying goodbye to Minkis, and to collect a someone ? Not a something? This is all going too quickly. “May I ask what is so urgent about this particular recovery?”

She sighed, which would have blown his carefully completed paperwork out of his outbox if it hadn’t already sparked and vanished into the archival vaults.

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that. Suffice it to say that this mission is of the utmost importance.

Make this happen and you have a very bright career ahead of you, Curator Moss’caladin.

” She said it right that time, leading him to believe she’d known it all along. Ogres did love their games.

Left unsaid was what would likely happen to him if he failed.

It would be back to the forest for him, hunting deer and learning sword-craft with his know-it-all older brother.

He shuddered. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.” There, that was better.

He’d managed to get an entire sentence out without his voice cracking.

He signed the paperwork, and with a ding , a copy appeared inside Thea, his portable transport device that had somehow survived the ogre assault on his desk.

“See that you do.” She got up, and the far end of his desk settled back to the ground with a small crash .

“I expect great things from you, Moscow.” With that, she turned and made her way, with far more agility than he would have expected, across the crowded room, her staff trailing behind her like a cloud of gypsy moths.

“But you said if I needed anything….” But she and her attendants were gone.

“Very well then.” He’d never heard of a recovery mission for a being .

Once he brought them back to OotL, would they be stuffed into the vault next to the collected diamonds and wands and other important bric-a-brac?

Or would Her Ogreness come to collect them personally, leading them off somewhere without an explanation?

Not my responsibility. Crispin frowned. He liked things neat and tidy, and this case was shaping up to be anything but.

He opened the folder. Inside was a brief description of the subject—a Leopold Lane, who looked more like a Leo than a Leopold. Good enough looking, if a bit unkempt for Crispin’s tastes, dark hair in contrast to Crispin’s blond.

Thea whistled. “Handsome, though he’s a bit scruffy for you.”

“He’s a recovery asset. Not interested.” Then he saw the destination world.

Earth.

His heart sank.

No one liked to go there. It was loud and dirty and filled with inefficiency and redundancy. Very little magic remained, largely because it had been mostly stamped out by the horde of smelly humans who seemed dead set on ruining their world before anyone else could get around to it.

He’d been there a few times to collect lost things, and every time afterward he’d needed a three-hour soak in his blue ceramic bathtub to clean off the grit and the anxiety that clung to him.

In and out, quick. That’s how it would be. Then he’d be home to Minkis in time for a midnight meal.

He headed for the Necessary Room to collect whatever he would need. In half an hour, he was packed and in the Hall of Mirrors, ready to effectuate the mission and keep his perfecality score above ten-point-oh.