BOY OF TALL HOUSE COME OUT AFTER SNOWFALL, MANY YEARS. RUN WITH HOUSEWOLF. I STEAL HIS HAT. OLDER, RIDE THROUGH FOREST IN ROARINGSHELL, OUT BEYOND TO BARREN TOWERS AND BACK. OTHER ROARINGSHELLS COME NOW, BRIGHT-EYED, HOWLING. HOUSEWOLF OLD, LONELY, HOWLING TOO. …
Harrisley gingerly puts down the leaf, covered in a fine spidery writing. “And, this is…?”
“north wind... i transsslate...“ says the Walker Amid The Pines, in a voice that is the rustling of swaying branches.
“Riiiight. I see.” Harrisley looks over the other leaves now spread across his desk, covered in painstakingly-transcribed interviews with dryads, harvest spirits, the moon…
“So, er, this is rather embarrassing, but I’m afraid there may have been a slight miscommunication. When I said I needed a seasoned detective…”
“yessss... all four... i know them well...“
“Er, yes, I can see that quite clearly. Your, ah, unique expertise is certainly appreciated. It’s just – I don’t mean to be rude, but it doesn’t appear as though you have any prior experience with murder investigations, do you?”
The Walker Amid The Pines cocks its head slowly, long spindly limbs hanging at its sides, two glowing dots shining out from the shadows of its face. “no... but i have contactssss... blackfeathersss know many thingssss... wisssse to call upon them... i learn much from harrissssley... i go ssspeak with murder now...“
“Wait, er, that’s not quite what –” Harrisley calls out plaintively, as the Walker Amid The Pines strides impassively out of his office. Sighing heavily, he opens his filing cabinet, and begins delicately sorting the leaves into subfolders.