The Big Bad Wolf's Defense Attorney

• Chapter 1: The Retainer in the Rubble
• Chapter 2: Huffing, Puffing, and Process Serving
• Chapter 3: Meet the Defendant (Watch the Claws)
• Chapter 4: The Three Little Plaintiffs
• Chapter 5: Brick by Brick, Lie by Lie
• Chapter 6: A Hood Full of Falsehoods
• Chapter 7: Grandmother's House: Crime Scene Examination
• Chapter 8: The Woodsman’s Axe to Grind
• Chapter 9: Jury Selection at the Enchanted Tavern
• Chapter 10: Opening Statements and Open Wounds
• Chapter 11: The Straw House Subpoena
• Chapter 12: Cross-Examining a Pig in a Suit
• Chapter 13: The Red Riding Hood Dilemma
• Chapter 14: A Question of Canine Appetite
• Chapter 15: Motion to Suppress the Woodsman’s Axe
• Chapter 16: The Boy Who Cried Conflict of Interest
• Chapter 17: Expert Testimony from a Blind Mouse
• Chapter 18: The Gingerbread Forensic Audit
• Chapter 19: A Brief Recess in the Dark Forest
• Chapter 20: The Defense Rests (And Needs a Drink)
• Chapter 21: Closing Arguments for the Big Bad
• Chapter 22: Twelve Angry Fable Creatures
• Chapter 23: Waiting for the Magic Mirror’s Verdict
• Chapter 24: The Scales of Fairy Tale Justice
• Chapter 25: A Settlement Sealed with a Snarl
• Chapter 26: Happily Ever After (Plus Billable Hours)

The sign on my door used to read Edward Sterling, Attorney-at-Law: Specialized in Commercial Disputes and Property Claims. After five years of representing middle-tier merchants, artisanal cobblers, and the occasional disgruntled miller, someone—presumably an unsatisfied client—had scratched out the words Attorney-at-Law with a rusty nail and etched Desperate Has-Been into the mahogany. I hadn’t bothered to fix it. Mahogany is expensive, and frankly, the edit wasn't entirely inaccurate.

My office sat on the second floor of a sagging building on the outskirts of the King’s Quarter, right where the paved cobblestones gave way to the muddy, roots-tangled paths of the Deep Woods. It was a location that offered cheap rent and a steady stream of clients whose legal problems generally involved disputed property lines, stolen porridge, or unlicensed bean sales. It was unglamorous, poorly lit, and smelled faintly of damp moss and my own cheap gin.

I was in the middle of calculating how many days I could stretch a remaining jar of pickled herring when the floorboards beneath my feet groaned in a way that suggested an elephant was taking the stairs.

The door burst open without a knock.

It didn't just swing open; it vibrated on its brass hinges as a figure filled the frame. He was at least six-foot-four, clad in a tattered, oil-stained trench coat that had seen better centuries. His skin possessed the rough, greyish hue of cured leather, and his shoulders were wide enough to block out the feeble afternoon light filtering in from the hallway. He wore a heavy wool cap pulled down to his brow, but it did little to hide a pair of pointed, tufted ears that twitched nervously at every sound from the street below.

"Edward Sterling?" his voice sounded like gravel being tumbled in a brass bucket.

I set down my pen, carefully placing it beside my pickled herring, and offered my best impression of a man who was not terrified.

"That depends," I said smoothly. "Are you serving a summons, collecting a debt, or looking for counsel?"

reached into the deep pockets of his coat. My hand drifted instinctively toward the heavy brass paperweight on my desk, but instead of pulling out a weapon, the giant hauled out a massive, soot-covered linen sack and dropped it onto my desk. The impact shook my inkwell and cracked the already fragile veneer of my writing slope.

"I need a lawyer," he growled. "The best lawyer money can buy. But since I only have this, I came to you."

"Charming," I said, leaning back and resting my hands over my stomach. "And whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

The visitor pulled off his wool cap, allowing two large, grey-furred ears to spring upright. He adjusted a pair of tiny, wire-rimmed reading glasses that perched precariously on a snout black as obsidian, revealing a mouthful of elongated, gleaming incisors.

"Mr. Bigby," he said softly, extending a massive, clawed paw. "Though the press has taken to calling me something a bit more colorful."

I looked at the paw, then up at the snout, and finally at the yellow, luminous eyes blinking behind the delicate wire spectacles. The pieces fell into place with the alarming speed of a falling guillotine.

"The Big Bad Wolf," I breathed.

"I prefer Bigby," he snapped, taking a chair opposite me. The poor wooden chair let out a shriek of agony, but somehow held his weight. "And for the record, the 'Big Bad' moniker is a gross mischaracterization manufactured by the local tabloid, The Daily Quill. I am an independent contractor specializing in structural demolition and ecological clearance."

"Of course you are," I said, staring at the wolf sitting in my office. "And I suppose the business with the houses was just routine urban renewal?"

Bigby winced, a deeply human expression crossing his canine features. "That’s precisely why I’m here, Mr. Sterling. I’ve been served."

He reached back into his coat and produced a thick stack of parchment tied with a bright red ribbon. He slid it across the desk, carefully avoiding the herring. I picked it up, untied the ribbon, and unrolled the lead document. The calligraphy was sharp, arrogant, and unmistakably written by the high-priced firm of Gilded, Finch & Hares—the premier litigation shop in the Capital.

In the High Court of the Enchanted Realm, the document read. Class-Action Complaint for Damages, Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress, Gross Negligence, Trespass, and Unlawful Consumption.

I skimmed down to the plaintiff list.

1. Barnaby Pig, et al. (The Three Little Pigs Construction Corp.) 2. Little Red Riding Hood (by and through her legal guardian, Grandmother Hood) 3. The Woodsman (Individually and as Agent for the Royal Forestry Division)

I looked up from the parchment, rubbing my temples where a familiar, thumping headache was beginning to take root. "They've joined forces. A class-action lawsuit. They're suing you for everything you own."

"Which is currently nothing," Bigby said, gesturing to his torn coat. "They've frozen my forest assets. They put an injunction on my foraging rights. I can't even hunt a squirrel without a court order. They're trying to ruin me, Sterling. They want my hide. Literally. The Woodsman has already brought a skinning knife into the courtroom during the preliminary bail hearing."

"Did the judge allow that?"

"The judge is a King's Magistrate who happens to be married to Little Red's aunt," Bigby said dryly. "Justice in this realm is an absolute joke."

"You don't have to tell me," I muttered, looking around my dingy office. I looked back down at the suit. "They're claiming full restitution for two destroyed properties—one straw, one stick—plus punitive damages for the attempted destruction of a third brick dwelling. Furthermore, Miss Hood is claiming civil assault, terroristic threats, and emotional trauma stemming from an alleged impersonation of her grandmother."

Bigby let out a low, rumbling huff that blew three stray papers right off my desk. "Impersonation? It was a misunderstanding! Have you ever seen the light inside those dark forest cottages? The old woman had the curtains drawn! I was simply trying on her nightcap because my head was cold, and the girl walked in and started making disparaging comments about the size of my ears!"

"And the grand larceny? The swallowing of the old woman?"

"She fell into my open mouth after slipping on a rug!" Bigby insisted, leaning forward, his yellow eyes wide with indignant passion. "I didn't chew! I have terrible dyspepsia, Sterling. I couldn't swallow a whole grandmother if I tried! The Woodsman cut her out before I could even digest a slice of toast. It was an emergency surgical intervention performed by an unlicensed butcher with an axe!"

I stared at him for a long moment. The story was absurd. It was preposterous. It was entirely unprovable without expert medical testimony, structural engineering reports, and a witness list that included half the fairy-tale creatures in the local woods. It was also the biggest case to hit the Enchanted Realm in fifty years.

If I took this case and lost, I would be laughed out of the kingdom, barred from the bar, and likely fed to the troll under the toll bridge to pay off my debts. But if I won—or even managed to secure a reasonable settlement—I’d be back in the good graces of the legal elite. My sign wouldn't just say Attorney-at-Law; it would be plated in gold.

"What's in the bag, Bigby?" I asked quietly, pointing at the soot-covered sack on my desk.

The wolf reached over, untied the drawstring, and tipped the contents onto the blotter.

Out spilled a cascading pile of gold coins, silver goblets, three glittering diamonds the size of walnuts, and a pristine, golden egg that gave off a faint, hummed pitch.

"Is this..." I whispered, touching the egg. It felt warm.

"Jack's," Bigby said, grinning to reveal a terrifying array of ivory teeth. "He defaulted on a loan from the Ogre up on the beanstalk. I did some legal recovery work for the big guy last spring. It’s legit title, signed and notarized. That egg alone pays for your retainer, your court fees, and enough pickled herring to stock a navy."

I looked at the gold. I looked at the wolf. I looked back at the court summons, signed by the three most litigious pigs in the northern hemisphere.

"First rule of my office, Mr. Bigby," I said, pulling a fresh piece of parchment toward me and dipping my quill in the ink. "From this moment on, you do not 'huff.' You do not 'puff.' And you certainly do not blow anything down unless I give the order in writing."

Bigby adjusted his reading glasses and offered a faint, predatory smirk. "Understood, counsel."

"Good," I said, setting the ink down. "Now sit down and tell me everything. Start with the straw. Why didn't you just use the front door?"

The morning after accepting Mr. Bigby as a client, I woke up with two things I hadn’t possessed in five years: a throbbing hangover from a celebratory half-pint of dwarf ale and a legitimate retainer sitting in a iron-bound chest beneath my bed. The golden egg was currently residing in the vault of the First Merchant Bank of the Cloud Realm, secured under an escrow agreement so complicated it had taken three goblins and a notary public two hours to draft. I was, for all intent and purposes, back in business.

However, being back in business when your client is the most reviled apex predator in the history of folklore comes with distinct operational hazards. The first of which arrived at precisely eight o'clock in the morning in the form of a rogue process server.

I was standing at my small kettle, waiting for a brew of chicory to boil, when a crossbow bolt shattered the upper pane of my office window.

The bolt whirred past my left ear with the high-pitched hum of a angry hornet and embedded itself deeply into the wall behind me, right between my framed diploma from the Royal College of Jurisprudence and a faded portrait of my late uncle. Attached to the shaft of the bolt was a bright pink parchment scroll sealed with blue wax.

I dropped my tin mug, ducked beneath the sill, and peeked out into the narrow alleyway below. Standing on top of a heap of discarded cabbage crates was a goblin wearing a stained green tunic and a leather satchel stamped with the seal of the High Court of the Enchanted Realm. He held a small repeating crossbow in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

"Edward Sterling!" the goblin shrieked, his voice carrying the carrying power of a rusted hinge. "You are hereby served with an Amended Notice of Intent to Distrain Assets and an Expedited Order for Involuntary Fur Harvest!"

"You served me with a deadly weapon, Grik!" I yelled back, keeping my head firmly below the wooden window frame. "That’s a violation of Judicial Canon Section Four! Process servers must deliver documents in person or by registered carrier pigeon!"

"Rule Seventy-Two, Subsection B!" Grik shouted back, reloading his crossbow with terrifying efficiency. "Targeted legal representatives of hazardous beasts may be served via projectile delivery if the process server reasonably fears being eaten, mauled, or turned into a rug!"

"I'm a human lawyer, you idiot! I don't eat process servers, I just bill them!"

"Tell it to the Magistrate! Service is deemed complete upon structural impact!" Grik pulled a lever on his belt, fired a smoke pellet onto the cobblestones, and vanished in a puff of sulfurous purple smoke.

I sighed, hauled myself up from the floorboards, and pulled the crossbow bolt out of the plaster with a pair of pliers. I unrolled the pink parchment. It was, as expected, an emergency injunction filed by Gilded, Finch & Hares, seeking to seize Bigby's remaining assets—which consisted entirely of his coat, a pair of reading glasses, and a half-eaten smoked trout—before we could even file an entry of appearance.

The legal machine was moving fast. Sir Reginald Gilded, the senior partner at Gilded, Finch & Hares, was a silver-haired hare who had made a fortune representing wealthy landowners, royal aristocrats, and real estate developers. He was famous for employing blitzkrieg legal tactics: file fifty motions in twenty-four hours, bankrupt the defense before the preliminary hearing, and buy up the disputed land at a foreclosure auction for pennies on the copper crown.

If I wanted to keep Bigby out of a cage—or a pelt trader's vat—I needed to get to the Court of Chancery before the noon bell.

The High Court of the Enchanted Realm did not look like a sanctuary of justice. It looked like a fortified cathedral designed by an architect who suffered from severe paranoia and an obsession with gargoyles. Sitting atop the highest ridge of the King’s Quarter, it overlooked the muddy sprawl of the Lower Forest on one side and the manicured, gilded estates of the aristocracy on the other.

I marched up the seventy-two marble steps carrying a leather briefcase that was heavier than usual, stuffed with legal treatises on wildlife law, property demolition codes, and ancient forestry rights. Beside me walked Bigby, who had done his best to look respectable. He was wearing an oversized tweed coat I’d borrowed from an acquaintance who used to play rugby for the University of Oxford, though the sleeves stopped midway down his forearms, exposing a pair of massive, grey-furred wrists.

"Remember the rules," I muttered under my breath as we approached the heavy oak doors of the courthouse. "No growling. No teeth. If anyone asks, you suffer from a severe nasal allergy that causes occasional high-velocity exhalations."

"It’s not an allergy, Sterling," Bigby rumbled softly, taking care not to look any of the passing townspeople directly in the eye. A group of milkmaids on the steps shrieked and scattered as we passed. "It’s a diaphragm condition. My pulmonary capacity is roughly four times that of an average dire wolf. When I get stressed or excited, my chest expands naturally. It’s an involuntary respiratory reflex."

"Great," I said. "We’ll call it Involuntary Pulmonary Discharge Syndrome. Sound medical. Sounds expensive. We might even be able to counter-sue for disability discrimination."

We pushed through the double doors into the Great Hall of Justice. The air inside was thick with the scent of melted beeswax, old paper, and the distinct, coppery tang of tension. Dozens of litigants, bailiffs, minor royals, and mythical creatures were milled about the flagstone floor. A basilisk in a tailored doublet was arguing with a dwarf bailiff over a summons; a fairy godmother was crying quietly into a lace handkerchief while her clerk tallied up her unpaid magic licensing fees.

At the far end of the hall, standing beside the massive bronze doors of Courtroom Three, stood the prosecution team.

Sir Reginald Gilded was impossible to miss. He was a tall, immaculate hare with snow-white fur, dressed in a double-breasted velvet coat with gold buttons and a starched white cravat. He was leaning gracefully on an ivory-headed cane, surrounded by a swarm of junior associates—mostly young foxes and stoats in sharp charcoal suits—who were handing him scrolls and taking frantic notes.

Beside Gilded stood the plaintiffs.

The Three Little Pigs were sitting on a velvet-covered bench reserved for distinguished visitors. They were dressed in matching, tailored wool three-piece suits that looked aggressively expensive. The eldest, Barnaby Pig, was a rotund boar with small, calculating eyes and a gold pocket watch chain draped across a silk waistcoat that was stretched to its absolute limit. His brothers, Cletus and Hamish, were busy eating pastries out of a greaseproof paper bag, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the surroundings.

Next to them sat Little Red Riding Hood. She was no longer the innocent little girl depicted in the nursery rhymes painted on the walls of the city taverns. She was sixteen, dressed in a customized leather riding coat dyed a vivid crimson, complete with brass buckles, reinforced shoulder guards, and a silver-hilted hunting knife strapped to her thigh. She was chewing furiously on a piece of dried venison, glaring across the marble floor straight at Bigby with an expression of pure, unadulterated venom.

And finally, leaning against the archway with his arms crossed, was the Woodsman. His real name was Gabriel Vance, though everyone just called him Vance. He was six-foot-six of solid muscle, clad in stained buckskin and a red flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off. A double-bitted felling axe—the very weapon used to cut Bigby open—was slung across his back in a leather harness. It was clean, oiled, and polished to a mirror shine.

"Look at them," Bigby muttered, his upper lip quivering slightly to reveal the tip of a canine. "A trio of predatory real estate speculators, a delinquent minor with a weapons permit, and a vigilante lumberjack who doesn’t even have a clear-cutting license for Sector Four."

"Easy," I said, putting a firm hand on his massive tweed-clad shoulder. "Let me do the talking. And for heaven’s sake, pull your tail inside your trousers."

As we approached the courtroom doors, Sir Reginald Gilded turned, caught sight of us, and let out a soft, theatrical laugh that drew the attention of half the hall.

"Well, well, well," Gilded said, his long ears twitching with amused superiority. "If it isn't Edward Sterling. I heard you were practicing down by the docks these days, Edward. Taking cases for fishermen and cobblers. I didn't realize you'd moved into wildlife rehabilitation."

"Reginald," I said, stopping a polite five feet away. "I see you’ve brought your entire war cabinet for a simple preliminary hearing. Scared you might actually have to litigate a case based on facts rather than public hysterics?"

Gilded chuckled, adjusting his wire-rimmed pince-nez. "Facts? The facts are carved into the landscape, Sterling. Two destroyed dwellings, an elder citizen subjected to digestive captivity, and an assault on a child. This isn't a legal defense you’re launching; it’s a suicide pact."

Barnaby Pig stood up from the bench, brushing pastry crumbs from his waistcoat. He waddled forward, his snout twitching with arrogant distaste as he looked up at Bigby.

"You’re finished, Wolf," Barnaby squeaked, his voice surprisingly high for a man of his structural girth. "The Three Little Pigs Construction Corporation holds exclusive development rights to the entire Lower Valley. We’ve already cleared the straw and wood debris. The court is going to award us full title to your forest den as compensation for structural devastation and loss of future rental yield."

"That straw house was a fire hazard, Barnaby," Bigby growled softly, leaning down slightly. "It didn't even meet the regional building codes of 1442. You used unbonded wheat bundles without structural cross-bracing!"

"Silence, monster!" shouted the Woodsman, stepping forward and laying a heavy hand on the haft of his axe. "You talk about building codes while you stood there and huffed until the poor pig's home collapsed!"

"I didn't huff to destroy it!" Bigby shot back, his voice rising in volume and causing three clerks near the drinking fountain to jump. "I had an acute bronchial spasm brought on by the absurd amount of unsealed pollen your cheap straw was releasing into the atmosphere!"

"Gentlemen, please!" I shouted, stepping between the four-hundred-pound wolf and the axe-wielding lumberjack. "Save the amateur theatrics for the jury. We have a motion to hear."

Gilded sneered, turning his back on us and waving a manicured paw toward the courtroom doors. "By all means, Sterling. Let us go before Magistrate Thistle. I’m sure he will be most receptive to your 'pollen allergy' defense. Especially considering his sister-in-law is currently funding Miss Hood's trauma recovery therapy."

Courtroom Three was smaller than the main hall, but far more oppressive. The walls were lined with dark oak paneling that looked as if it had been soaked in centuries of legal misery. Behind the high judicial bench sat Magistrate Thistle, a small, wrinkled man with severe liver spots, bushy eyebrows, and a toupee made of grey badger fur that sat slightly crooked on his scalp.

"Call the case," Thistle barked, not bothering to look up from a mountain of parchment spread across his desk.

The court clerk, a tired-looking gnome with a quill tucked behind each ear, stood up. "Case number 884-FA: The Three Little Pigs Construction Corporation, et al. versus Bigby, also known as the Big Bad Wolf. Hearing on Plaintiffs' Emergency Motion for Immediate Asset Seizure and Restraining Order."

Gilded stepped up to the podium on the left, bowing gracefully to the bench. "May it please the court. Sir Reginald Gilded appearing for the plaintiffs. My clients seek an immediate freeze on all legal tender, land rights, and foraging permits belonging to the defendant, pending final adjudication of our multi-count tort suit."

"And for the defense?" Thistle asked, finally looking up over his spectacles. His eyes locked onto me, then drifted to Bigby, who was attempting to squeeze his giant frame into a defense table chair designed for a human clerk. The chair groaned in protest. "Ah, Mr. Sterling. I see you’ve managed to find a client who matches your professional desperation."

A quiet chuckle ran through the gallery, led by Gilded's flock of junior associates.

"Good morning, Your Honor," I said, taking my place at the defense podium and ignoring the insult. "The defense has filed a cross-motion to dismiss the emergency order for asset seizure on the grounds of improper service, lack of clear emergency, and gross bias in the plaintiff's filing."

"Improper service?" Gilded interrupted smoothly. "Your Honor, our server delivered the process directly to Mr. Sterling’s office this morning."

"Your server shot a deadly missile through my window, Your Honor," I said, holding up the bright pink parchment, which still had a visible hole through the center from the bolt. "Unless the High Court has legalized summary execution by process server, this delivery violates Civil Procedure Code Section Twelve."

Magistrate Thistle waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense, Sterling. Given the defendant's known history of violence and... ravenous appetite... alternative delivery methods are entirely permissible under the Dangerous Beast Ordinance of 1389."

"The Defendant is a tax-paying resident of the Kingdom, Your Honor!" I argued. "He is not a wild beast, he is a licensed independent contractor!"

"He ate a grandmother!" Little Red Riding Hood shouted from the front row of the gallery, standing up and pointing a finger at Bigby. "He wore her nightgown, Your Honor! He wore her lace bonnet! He lied to me about his facial features!"

"Miss Hood, sit down!" Thistle ordered, though his tone softened considerably. "While the court sympathizes deeply with your ongoing distress, you must allow your counsel to speak."

Gilded smiled, basking in the favorable court atmosphere. "Your Honor, the facts are simple. The defendant blew down two homes belonging to the Three Little Pigs Construction Corporation, causing massive property loss. He then invaded the residence of Mrs. Abigail Hood, swallowed her whole, and laid in wait to ambuctuate her granddaughter. Had it not been for the heroic intervention of Mr. Vance here"—he gestured toward the Woodsman, who struck a dramatic pose in the gallery—"two innocent lives would have been lost to the wolf's insatiable gullet."

"That is a complete fabrication!" I shouted, striking the wooden podium with my fist. "We have evidence that the straw and wood dwellings constructed by the plaintiffs were severe code violations, structurally unsound, and built on disputed forest land without proper zoning permits!"

Barnaby Pig gasped loudly, clutching his golden pocket watch. "How dare you! Our straw homes are eco-friendly, sustainable living units!"

"They were firetraps held together by mud and bad intentions!" Bigby rumbled from the table, forgetting his instructions.

"Silence in the court!" Thistle slammed his gavel three times, the heavy wooden strike echoing off the oak paneling. "One more outburst from the defendant and I will have him placed in a iron muzzle for the duration of these proceedings!"

Bigby clamped his jaws shut, his grey ears drooping low against his skull. I could see the muscles in his jaw twitching. The wolf was trying, he really was, but the entire legal system was rigged to treat him like a monster long before a single witness had taken the stand.

"Now," Thistle continued, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the bench. "Regarding the motion for asset seizure. The court finds that the plaintiffs have demonstrated a strong likelihood of success on the merits. The defendant’s past conduct speaks for itself. Therefore, I am granting the motion. All real property, accounts, and personal belongings of the defendant are hereby frozen."

Gilded bowed low. "Thank you, Your Honor."

"However," I interjected loudly, pulling a thick gold-embossed document from my briefcase before Thistle could bring his gavel down again. "Your Honor must consider the Counter-Suit."

Thistle paused, his eyebrow twitching upward. "Counter-suit? On what grounds?"

"On the grounds of illegal eviction, unlawful assault with a deadly weapon, and tortious interference with business relations," I said, stepping forward and placing the parchment on the clerk's desk. "We are counter-suing the Three Little Pigs Construction Corporation for two hundred thousand gold crowns for breach of building standards and false advertising. Furthermore, we are filing criminal charges against Mr. Gabriel Vance for performing an unlicensed surgical procedure with an axe inside a private dwelling!"

The courtroom erupted into total chaos.

The Woodsman jumped to his feet, pulling his axe half out of its harness before two dwarf bailiffs lunged forward to hold him back. Little Red Riding Hood began screaming insults at me, while Barnaby Pig turned a vivid shade of violent pink and looked as if he were about to suffer an apoplectic stroke.

Gilded’s smooth composure finally cracked. He turned to me, his long ears pinned back against his head. "This is absurd! You can't sue a hero for saving a victim!"

"Mr. Vance isn't a surgeon, Sir Reginald!" I yelled over the din. "He is an uncertified laborer who conducted an abdominal extraction without a medical license, without anesthesia, and without consent! My client suffered severe internal trauma, persistent digestive disruption, and extensive scar tissue!"

"He swallowed my client!" Gilded roared.

"And she survived completely unharmed because my client's stomach acid was suppressed by a severe case of nervous dyspepsia!" I shot back. "If anything, Mrs. Hood’s presence in his stomach caused him more distress than it caused her!"

"Enough!" Magistrate Thistle’s gavel hit the desk with the force of a small cannon shot. The sharp crack reverberated through the hall, finally silencing the shouting crowds.

Thistle stared at me for a long, agonizing minute. His badger-fur toupee had slipped even further to the left, giving him a look of manic rage.

"Mr. Sterling," Thistle said in a voice dangerously cold. "You are treading on extremely thin ice. You are accusing respected members of this community of serious crimes to protect a notorious predator."

"I am representing my client, Your Honor," I said steadily, holding the Magistrate’s glare. "Which is my right under the Royal Charter of Legal Representation. If this court refuses to hear our counter-claims, I will immediately file an emergency appeal with the High Council of Enchanted Appeals in the Capital."

Thistle grimaced. The High Council was notoriously pedantic about procedural rights, and nothing annoyed a lower court magistrate more than having his rulings overturned on a technicality by a panel of ivory-tower arch-magi.

"Fine," Thistle spat out the word as if it were poison. "The counter-claims will be joined to the primary suit. The asset freeze remains in effect, with an exception made for reasonable legal defense fees." He cast a glaring eye toward Gilded. "We will proceed to trial in two weeks' time. And Mr. Sterling?"

"Yes, Your Honor?"

"You had better have more than technicalities and pollen stories when you step into my courtroom again. If you waste this court's time with frivolous defenses, I will personally see to it that you spend the next five years reviewing sheep-grazing disputes in the outer provinces."

"Understood, Your Honor."

Thistle slammed his gavel one last time. "Court is adjourned!"

As the courtroom cleared, Gilded walked past our table. He didn't look amused anymore. The easy, arrogant smile had been replaced by a tight, calculating line.

"You're playing a very dangerous game, Edward," Gilded said quietly, leaning in close so only I could hear. "The public wants the wolf’s head. The King's magistrates want this case closed. If you stand in the way of the Three Pigs' development deal, you won't just lose your law license. You'll find out what happens to washed-up attorneys who get caught between big money and popular justice."

"I’ve been washed up for five years, Reginald," I replied, snapping the brass locks on my briefcase shut. "I'm used to the water. The question is, how well can your pigs swim when the truth comes out?"

Gilded sneered, adjusted his starched cuffs, and swept out of the room, his long green velvet coat billowing behind him like a cape.

I turned to Bigby. The giant wolf was sitting on his tiny wooden chair, looking at me with something approaching genuine awe.

"You actually did it," Bigby murmured. "You didn't let them take everything."

"Not today," I said, rubbing my face with both hands. The thumping headache from the dwarf ale had returned with interest, accompanied by a fresh wave of panic about the sheer volume of work ahead of us. "But today was just the process serving and the paperwork, Bigby. Next week, we have to start gathering evidence. And that means we’re going to have to visit the crime scenes."

Bigby winced again. "The straw house? Sterling, that place is a nightmare. It's full of reporters, construction inspectors, and little souvenir shops selling 'Big Bad Wolf' memorabilia."

"We aren't going to the souvenir shops," I said, hauling my heavy briefcase off the table. "We’re going to find out what those houses were actually made of. And then, my friend, we are going to talk to an expert witness who knows a thing or two about bad engineering."

"Who?" Bigby asked, following me down the center aisle of the empty courtroom.

"A blind mouse," I said. "And if we’re lucky, he won't hold a grudge about your relatives."