Dafydd winced as greenhouse glass crunched under the hobnailed boots of the detective. That glass had cost him his sight for a year and a day, and the goblin merchant who had sold it to him had sworn up and down that it could not be broken by rock or tree or mortal hand. Though the loss of his greenhouse was the least of his misfortunes today. ‘You say the thief only took roses?’ Detective Inspector Fuchs’s voice could not be more incredulous. While not the chiefest of Dafydd’s misfortunes, the good detective seemed bound and determined to try to seize that dubious honour. ‘There is nothing only about my roses, Inspector,’ Dafydd said, anxiously running his thumb over his fingertips. ‘As I have told you…’