I had been careful not to leave even the smallest mound of dirt where I’d buried the compact, no evidence that the soil had been disturbed and something planted within it. Still I wondered if Papa’s most quotidian, instinctual magic might uncover it, like a hound suddenly catching the scent of a fox on the wind, ears pricking even as it lay slack by the fire. Papa was bred to sniff out secrets, and he always anticipated deceit.
