Over the next two days, I made it my mission to understand Greaves.
Not confront him. Not oppose him. Understand him. Because you can't outmaneuver something you don't comprehend, and right now, he was a variable I couldn't predict.
I employed the single greatest intelligence-gathering tool available to me: being a child.
Adults ignore children. It's universal across worlds. A seven-year-old sitting in the corner reading a book is furniture. Invisible. Especially a quiet, well-behaved seven-year-old who says "yes sir" and "no sir" and doesn't make noise.
So I haunted the spaces where Greaves operated. Father's study during record reviews. The temple during ward inspections. The parlor when Greaves spoke with Mother about household operations.
I brought a book everywhere. I turned pages at regular intervals. I was the perfect piece of furniture.
And I listened.
Day one, records review:
"Your mana crystal expenditure is above the regional average, Saint Aldric."
"We maintain extensive wards for the parish, Inspector. The town's proximity to the eastern forest — there are minor Rift emanations that require—"
"I'm aware of the geographic considerations. But the expenditure is still above average. By approximately... eighteen percent."
"Ward maintenance has been a priority for my tenure. The townspeople depend on—"
"I'm not criticizing, Saint Aldric. Merely noting."
He noted everything. His quill moved across his ledger with metronomic precision. Every number, every discrepancy, every detail. Not aggressive — professional. Clinical.
That was what made him dangerous. He wasn't looking for wrongdoing. He was building a picture. And pictures could be interpreted.
Day two, ward inspection:
Greaves walked the town's perimeter wards with Father, examining each anchor stone. His fingers traced the carved patterns with practiced familiarity — he knew Sanctus Architecture.
"Standard hexagonal array," he murmured. "Well-maintained. Crystal replacement schedule?"
"Monthly for perimeter stones, weekly for the temple and household anchors."
"Weekly is frequent."
"I prefer consistent maintenance over emergency repairs."
"Noted."
At each stop, Greaves produced a small device — a mana resonance gauge, I guessed, based on its behavior. He held it near the anchor stones and read something from its surface. Numbers? Frequencies? I couldn't see from my distance (I was "playing" near each inspection point, a feat of casual positioning that deserved an award).
When they reached the garden ward of our household — MY garden ward, the one I'd experimentally modified and then carefully reset — Greaves paused.
He held his gauge near the stone. Frowned. Held it again.
"Interesting," he said.
My blood went cold.
"Something wrong?" Father asked.
"This anchor's resonance pattern is slightly irregular. Not damaged — just... different. As if the mana pathways were stressed and then reset."
Because they were. Because I channeled an octagonal override pattern through them four weeks ago and the stone remembered.
"I replaced the crystal recently," Father said. "Perhaps the new crystal has a slightly different resonance signature?"
"Perhaps," Greaves said. He wrote something in his ledger. Moved on.
I stood in the garden, pretending to examine a moonpetal, and breathed very carefully until my heart rate returned to normal.
Edric caught my eye from the kitchen window. His expression was eloquent: What did you DO?
I shook my head minutely. Later.
That night, after everyone was in bed, Edric came to my room.
"The garden ward," he whispered. "He noticed."
"He noticed residual stress in the mana pathways. He doesn't know what caused it."
"But he's curious. And curious inspectors are bad inspectors."
"I know." I sat on my bed, legs crossed, notebook on my lap. "I need to figure out what he's actually here for. Because it's not the wards and it's not the records. Those are pretexts."
"What do you mean?"
"He's looking at everything but reacting to nothing. Even the ward irregularity — he noted it and moved on. If he were looking for violations, he'd press harder. He's not auditing the parish. He's evaluating it."
"Evaluating it for what?"
"That's what I need to find out."
Day three gave me the answer.
Greaves requested a meeting with each family member. Routine, he said. Standard assessment of the Saint's household.
He spoke with Mother for twenty minutes. With Edric for fifteen. With Celestine for ten (during which she was audibly restrained in her responses, which must have cost her physically).
Then he asked to speak with me.
Father hesitated. "He's only seven, Inspector."
"I merely want to observe the family unit, Saint Aldric. The child won't be questioned — just a brief conversation. Standard procedure."
Father looked at me. I looked at Father.
"It's okay," I said.
Greaves sat across from me in Father's study. The desk between us was large enough that I felt like I was in a job interview conducted by a gargoyle.
"Lucien Ashveil," Greaves said, reading from his notes. "Age seven. Youngest child. No formal education yet — home-tutored."
"Yes, sir."
"Your father tells me you're fond of reading."
"Yes, sir."
"What do you read?"
"Scripture. History. Some mana theory." All true. All carefully selected to sound precocious but not alarming.
"Mana theory. At seven." His pen paused. "Can you give me an example?"
"I read about how ward patterns channel mana into barrier formations. I like understanding how things work."
"And do you? Understand?"
"Some of it. The big words are hard."
He studied me. Those pale eyes. Cataloging.
"Do you want to be a Saint like your father when you grow up?"
"I don't know yet. I'm seven."
A flicker — was that amusement? Hard to tell.
"What do you want to be?"
I thought about it. Not for show — I genuinely thought about it.
"Happy," I said.
He blinked. Just once, but it was the first uncontrolled reaction I'd seen from him.
"That's an unusual answer."
"Is it?"
"Most children say 'knight' or 'priest' or 'hero.'"
"Those sound tiring."
This time there was definitely amusement. A microscopic softening of the lines around his mouth.
"Thank you, Lucien. You can go."
I went. But at the door, I turned back.
"Inspector Greaves?"
"Yes?"
"Are you happy?"
The amusement vanished. Something else replaced it — something I recognized because I'd felt it myself, in my old life, sitting alone in a fluorescent-lit office at 9 PM on a Friday.
"That's a strange question from a child," he said.
"You said mine was an unusual answer. I thought we were being unusual together."
I left before he could respond.
That evening, I told Edric what I'd figured out.
"He's evaluating Father for a promotion."
"A what?"
"A promotion. Or a transfer. The Empire doesn't send inspectors to middle-of-nowhere parishes to look for problems. They send them to look for talent. Father's been here twenty years. He's a Fourth Circle caster in a Third Circle role. He's overqualified, his parish is clean, and his family is presentable. Greaves isn't here to find faults. He's here to determine if Father should be moved to a larger parish — or to the Empire itself."
Edric stared at me. "That would mean—"
"Leaving Mireth. Leaving Verath, possibly. Moving to Solanthis territory."
"Father would never—"
"Father might not have a choice. If the Empire wants him, declining could be seen as disloyalty."
The silence that followed was heavy with implications. Our daily life — the morning blessings, the garden wards, market days, Celestine's training, Edric's secret books, Elara's bakery, this warm, imperfect, precious life — all of it balanced on the decision of a thin man with pale eyes and a ledger full of notes.
"What do we do?" Edric asked.
"We make sure Father has a choice," I said. "And we make sure he chooses us."