Chapter 34: Off Script

The backstage area of Claves Academy’s main auditorium was abuzz with excitement. Class 2-A’s play had been selected as the opening event of gala week, and, from the noise coming through, it looked like they’d have a full audience. The area had been transformed into something resembling a proper dressing room, with wooden screens dividing the space into changing areas. In the main section, a long table against the back wall was buried under scripts, props, and the remnants of a hasty breakfast.

Clara moved with her satchel under her shoulder and a checklist in hand. There were bags under her eyes, which was only to be expected, given how much work she’d put into the play and preparing for the Spellweaving Club’s exhibition on Wednesday. Not to mention her usual maid duties with Iris and the rest of the family.

The finished costumes had arrived from the tailor yesterday, so the students no longer had to wear berry-stained bedsheets. Instead, they had togas in the appropriate colors: deep purple for the senator, off-white for the advocate, and crimson for the judge.

“The veil won’t sit properly,” said Charlotte from behind one of the screens, where she was adjusting Felicity’s costume.

“Can’t you just re-pin it?” asked Felicity.

“I’ve re-pinned it three times. It keeps sliding off. It won’t look good.”

“You simply don’t understand the Elysian aesthetic.” Felicity let out a long sigh. “The problem is that the pins are too short. I told the tailor my hair would need longer ones.”

Clara walked over and examined the situation. In typical aristocratic teenage girl fashion, the problem wasn’t the pins; it was Felicity’s overly elaborate updo, piled so high that the linen veil had nothing to anchor against except a tower of curls.

“Perhaps you could take your hair down, Lady Felicity. You are playing a common woman, and I’m told they wore the veil over loose hair or a simple knot.”

“But my mother said—”

Charlotte glared at her. “Your mother isn’t managing this play.”

Felicity muttered something under her breath but began pulling out the hairpins. Clara moved on.

On the other side of the backstage area, Warren Righton sat on a wooden crate with one leg crossed over the other, reviewing Edward’s script with a pen. He’d arrived early that morning—the students, sans Iris, had specifically requested his continued help after his contributions last week, much to Clara’s dismay.

Doesn’t the heir to a duke have more important things to do than loiter around in Westwick?

“I think we can remove this part,” Warren said, circling something on the page. “You can emphasize the point better with just your tone.”

Edward raised his hand to his chin. “It does read better without it.”

He seems to really value Warren’s input. I wish they were this receptive to me.

“I’m not sure about this,” said Iris, approaching Clara from behind.

The girl was now in the advocate’s toga, with the off-white linen draped elegantly over one shoulder, and a thin golden cord cinched to her waist, which Iris had insisted on, saying that ‘Advocate Valeria would not appear in public looking shapeless, Clara’.

“You look the part, my lady.”

“I think the hem needs to be a quarter-inch shorter on the left.”

“The play starts in an hour.”

“So?”

Clara held back a groan and called over the tailor, whom they’d paid to be on standby for the entire day, and went to check on Helena next. The girl sat quietly in a corner next to Vivienne, already dressed in her toga and rereading her lines.

“How are you, Lady Helena?”

Helena looked up and smiled. “Ready, I think. Vivienne was helping me practice the sentencing speech.”

“Just remember: when Valeria makes her closing argument, wait a while before you start. The pause is what sells it.”

Helena nodded earnestly. Clara still couldn’t get a proper read on the girl, even after so many rehearsals. She was diligent, cooperative, and helpful, even when interacting with Iris. But then again, so was Marcella.

Lochlann emerged from behind a screen in his purple toga, and Clara had to admit the regal costume suited him annoyingly well.

“How does it look?” he asked Edward.

“Like you were born to play a corrupt aristocrat.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” said Edward.

Yeah, it kind of is. Warren seemed to think so as well, showing the slightest smile at the boy’s joke.

Clara was just about to run through the cue sheet one last time when the side door opened and Emma slipped inside.

“Miss Casewell,” she whispered, slightly out of breath. “The duke is here. With Lord Conrad. And the prince—the small one.”

Parents and family members weren’t supposed to come backstage, but who’d dare stop Maximilian von Rhenia?

Goddess, what did I do to deserve having to deal with all this?

Clara straightened up as the duke entered. His serious eyes swept the room—the costumes, the props, the clusters of teenagers—and he gave a single, measured nod. Conrad trailed behind him with his usual scowl, and behind him was Ciarán, barely concealing his amusement.

A letter had come to the Westwick Plaza with the royal seal this morning, presumably to address the Second Prince’s… adventure. Clara didn’t know its contents, but after he read it, Duke von Rhenia informed the staff that the Second Prince would be allowed to attend gala week as House von Rhenia’s guest. Though the way he said ‘guest’ had some bite to it.

Iris hurried over. “Papa! I thought you’d be in the gallery.”

“We will be shortly. I wanted to wish you well before the performance.”

She raised her chin. “A von Rhenia doesn’t need well wishes. My performance will, of course, be exceptional. You must all sit in the front row and pay close attention. I’m sure you will enjoy it.”

“Indeed. Your mother is already there.”

The duke’s gaze shifted to the back of the room. “Lord Warren.” His deep voice carried easily across the wide room.

Warren walked forward with smooth steps, then stopped at a respectful distance and bowed deeper than Clara had seen him bow to anyone.

“Your Grace. It’s an honor.”

“I understand you have been assisting with my daughter’s production.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I’ve had the privilege of sharing my experience with the young students.”

The duke studied him, just as intensely as he’d studied Clara before.

“Your father and I haven’t spoken in some years. How is Duke Albion?”

“Reclusive, as is his nature. But in good health. I shall pass along your regards.”

“Do. And tell him that, regardless of how many years pass between our conversations, House von Rhenia stands at the ready if there’s anything we can do to help ensure the north’s stability.”

“I will convey that, Your Grace.”

There was a pause. Clara thought the duke might say more, but he just nodded, and Warren nodded back.

At the same moment, a different kind of tension was unfolding near the costume racks. Ciarán had been wandering around backstage, inspecting it with curiosity. He picked up a prop gladius and swung it around, until his orbit brought him directly into the path of his brother.

Lochlann, who’d gone to sit next to Helena, looked up, and his expression froze.

“Ciarán.”

“Brother.” Ciarán’s tone was light, and he was still playing with the sword. “You make a fine senator.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m a guest of Duke von Rhenia. I go where my host goes.”

“You’re not a guest, you’re an uninvited child who stowed away in someone’s luggage.”

“Yes, we all have our moments, Your Highness.” Ciarán glanced at Helena. “You’d know.”

For a moment, Clara thought Lochlann would respond with something heated, as he was prone to. But Duke von Rhenia and Warren’s presence at the other end of the room seemed to exert a pull on everyone’s worst impulses, and the Crown Prince simply turned away.

Clara caught Iris’s eye and tilted her head toward the door. Iris followed her, and they stepped just outside the side entrance, into the corridor that led to the wings of the stage.

“What is going on between them?” Clara asked quietly.

Iris glanced back through the open door. “You really don’t know?”

Clara shook her head.

“Ciarán is illegitimate. Born to the King and a palace maid.” Iris’s tone was cautious. “He was legitimized later, but his pedigree brings shame to the royal family.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. “If he was legitimized, why does it matter? Aren’t there plenty of noble bastards?”

“There is a difference between being born to a proper mistress and a maid. Not every maid is like you, Clara. It is a great dishonor.”

Clara frowned. Being the child of a maid is a ‘great dishonor’. Of course, in an aristocratic society, that was the undeniable reality. Still…

And did she just call me ‘not like the other maids’?

But before there was time to respond, Charlotte’s voice rang out. “Everyone, let us get into position!”

“Shall we?” asked Iris.

Clara didn’t answer, and simply followed her back inside.

The auditorium at Claves had been built for lectures, not performances, but with enough velvet draping and some well-placed illusion magic, it looked the part. Clara was stationed in the wings, with a copy of the script and a clear line of sight to the performers. Emma stood next to her, holding a basket of props and looking as nervous as if she were about to go on stage.

“Deep breaths, Emma.”

She inhaled. “Don’t you ever get nervous, Miss? You’re always so composed.”

“Of course I do. Being nervous is normal. Breathing helps, but there are some other tricks you can use to stay focused even when you’re stressed. Remind me to teach you later.” Clara gave a reassuring smile.

The auditorium lights dimmed—a few 2-A students were operating the illumination crystals from the opposite wing—and a hush fell over the audience. Charlotte, hidden behind the curtain and holding a speaking trumpet enchanted for volume, began to narrate.

“In the twilight of the Elysian Empire, in an age before magic, when the Senate’s corruption ran as deep as the Emperor’s debauchery, tragedy struck an honorable family of modest means: the killing of the honorable Legate Septimus in the dead of night. And now, a son stands accused of the murder of his father.”

The curtain drew back to reveal the stage, dressed to look like what Clara had told them was the setup for an Elysian courtroom, but was really inspired by a modern one. Helena sat behind the judge’s bench looking surprisingly austere, though still with a faint smile on her cheeks. Edward stood behind the prosecution’s lectern, and on the witness stand was a frail-looking boy playing the accused, Sextus Septimus.

The opening scenes went smoothly. Helena banged her gavel to signal the start of the proceedings, which Clara had commissioned from a local turner mostly for the sake of her own nostalgia. Then Edward delivered his opening with the confidence that Warren had drilled into him, laying out the case against Sextus with methodical precision. The accused looked suitably bewildered and frightened, and Helena nodded at just the right moments to signal the tide shifting against him.

“Those are grave charges,” she said after Edward’s speech. “The crime of patricide is an affront to the noblest of Elysian values. Will anyone speak for the accused?”

Clara gave a signal, and murmurs came from around the stage—not from the spectators, but from sound magic cast by Class 2-A’s students.

Helena banged her gavel again. “If no one will take up the accused’s mantle, I have no choice but to—”

“Hold it,” said Iris gravely, stepping onto the stage. Her shoulders were straight and her steps were measured.

“You are… Advocate Valeria?” asked Edward.

Iris took her place behind the defense’s lectern. “Indeed. I shall speak for the accused.”

“Very well. You may give your opening statement, advocate.”

“Honorable Praetrix,” Iris began, her voice carrying easily to the back rows, “the prosecution asks you to believe that a devoted son woke one morning and decided to murder the father who raised him. As you said, a shameless affront to Elysian values. During this trial, I will ask you to consider young Sextus’s motive for such an outrageous act, and whether others may have had something to gain from this tragedy.”

Clara could see the duchess in the front row, leaning forward with interest. The first act built steadily. Iris cross-examined the prosecution’s witnesses with sharp questions, catching them in contradictions that Vivienne had woven into the script. Edward pushed back, objected, and rallied, and their exchanges felt practically spontaneous.

By the time Felicity took the stage as the key witness in the second act—a woman who managed the affairs of the Chrysogonus household—the audience was thoroughly invested. Felicity had committed to the role with flair, adopting a nervous mannerism and a higher pitch.

Edward finished his questions, and Iris walked to the center of the stage for her cross-examination. The next exchange was to be straightforward: Valeria would establish that the witness had seen the senator leave his mansion before news of the murder could have reached the city, and that he’d been consorting with certain unsavory figures.

“You have been serving in the senator’s household for seven years, is that correct?” asked Iris.

“Yes, Advocate.”

“And during those seven years, you came to know the senator’s habits well?”

“I did.”

“His schedule, his visitors, his… private affairs?”

Clara’s eyes narrowed. She checked the page again. The line was supposed to be ‘his schedule and his visitors’.

“I suppose I did, Advocate,” said Felicity, who hesitated for just a moment before her theatrical instincts kicked in and she wrung her hands.

“Then perhaps you could illuminate something for the court. I have heard rumors. Persistent ones, surrounding Senator Chrysogonus.”

Clara held her breath. Iris had now gone completely off script. What is she trying to pull?

Iris continued. “Rumors that the senator keeps lovers. That he favors women of lower birth, with whom he consorts in houses of ill repute.”

There was an immediate laugh from the front row—Ciarán. Lochlann, who was sitting nearby and waiting for his turn to come in, stood up with a grimace.

Oh shit.