Chapter 43: Tradition
Clara stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind her with a soft click. The gas lamps in the Westwick Plaza’s upper hallway flickered, casting shadows that were as unsteady as her breathing. She stood there for a moment, staring at the wood, her hand hesitating to let go of the handle.
“Clara.”
She flinched at the small voice. Emma’s freckled face emerged from behind her. The girl’s eyes were wide with concern, and it looked like she’d been crying.
“Emma. Didn’t Iris dismiss you for the night?”
“Y-yes. I was going to go to the servant’s quarters, really. But your face looked so serious, and I got worried, and… Are you really leaving, Clara?”
I guess she was listening from behind the door. I suppose at least that saves me the misery of having to break the news to her.
Clara looked at her. Just a fifteen-year-old girl from the countryside, barely literate, with her fingers knotted together at her waist, twisting the fabric of her apron.
“Yes. Lady Iris has dismissed me from her service.”
Emma let out a sob, but then she pressed her lips together hard and nodded. The meek sadness in her face gave way to something approaching determination. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“With me? Emma, no. What about your life here? This job is what lets you support your family.”
“You saved me from being lashed. You taught me to write my name. You helped me learn how to be a good maid. You even gave me sweets.” The girl took a shaky breath. “My family always taught me to stand up for what was right. They will understand.”
Clara wrapped her hands tightly around Emma. “I appreciate the sentiment. I really do. But there’s no right or wrong here. I have a good reason for doing what I’m doing, and Lady Iris had a good reason to dismiss me.”
Emma hugged back, burying her face in Clara’s chest. “But—”
“No buts, Emma. Your family needs you, and so does Lady Iris. And at least for now, I’ll be staying in Westwick, so you can still see me on your time off.”
Clara moved her arm up and began slowly stroking Emma’s head. They held each other in silence, and Clara felt a wetness spread through the fabric of her uniform as Emma let out small sobs. A few of the von Rhenia servants moving around the floor gave them curious looks, but Clara ignored them.
Eventually, Emma pulled back, and Clara took out a handkerchief and wiped under the girl’s puffy eyes.
“You promise we can still see each other?”
“I promise. If you can find the time, we can even continue our writing lessons.”
Emma gave a small smile. “Thank you, Clara. What will you do now?”
I wish I knew. Clara’s short-term future, which had once seemed so solid—work for Lady Iris, take on any cases that popped up, sow the seeds of a different life—was now mired in uncertainty. By all accounts, this was a faster path to where she wanted to go. But it was also lonely and unpredictable.
Small steps first. She glanced outside, and the sky was already dark. “Well, I had hoped to talk to Dame Rowena and Duke von Rhenia, but I suppose it’s far too late for that, now. I think I’ll go get my belongings at Ashford Hall, then spend the night at an inn.”
“I’ll come with you. I can help you carry your things.” Emma was already moving toward the stairs. “It’s dangerous to walk outside in the dark alone.”
It would be good to have some help. And Clara could definitely use the company, so she didn’t have to sit alone with her thoughts.
“Thank you, Emma. But don’t worry, we’re not walking.”
Clara led Emma downstairs to the lobby, and they approached the concierge’s desk.
“Excuse me,” said Clara. “Could you call a hackney for us?”
The man nodded. “Of course, Miss. Shall I bill House von Rhenia, as usual?”
“No, I’ll be paying for it myself this time. Personal business. Thank you.”
The concierge squinted at her, then at Emma, as if he couldn’t quite understand what ‘personal business’ would allow two servants to request a carriage. She took a twopence from Lochlann’s pouch and placed it on the counter. “For the trouble.”
The coin disappeared under the concierge’s hand. “I’ll send a boy to hail one for you, Miss.”
Within a few minutes, a two-horse hackney cab pulled up to the Westwick Plaza’s entrance. The driver, a stout man with a heavy coat and a flat cap, stood tall at the back.
“Where to?”
“Ashford Hall, at Claves Academy. Then the Kettle & Key, and then back here.”
“That’ll be eight pence for the round trip. Extra two if you need me to wait.”
Clara handed him the ten pence, then climbed inside with Emma, and soon they started moving. Compared to the von Rhenia carriages, it was a much bumpier ride, and the coach felt a bit cramped even with just two occupants.
“Emma, I need to ask you something. What happened after I left the banquet last night?”
The girl pursed her lips. “Well, we mostly kept chatting for a while. Professor Morris was trying to explain something about magic to the old professor, but then they kept arguing about working at parties. Major Ricardo and the nice priest kept drinking together and talking.”
Old professor, nice priest—is this how Emma categorizes people? What am I, the ‘nice old maid’?
“What did they talk about?”
“Something about the north, I think? The priest seemed to know quite a lot, but I didn’t really understand much. Sorry.”
Clara leaned forward. “Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to remember everything. How was Ricardo? Did he seem upset about anything?”
Emma shook her head. “No, he was the same as before. Well, he did get very drunk. He looked like he was having a great time. It’s hard to believe he…”
“Yeah. I know.”
Clara gave the girl a moment to recompose herself, and then continued. “How long did you all stay together after I left?”
“Not long. Maybe twenty minutes. The old professor left first. Then Ricardo said he was feeling quite tired, so we said good night, and everyone went their separate ways.”
“Did Father Leofric, or anyone else, take Ricardo up to his room?”
“No, he went alone, from what I could see.”
Clara stared out the rain-streaked window as the cab turned onto the road toward Claves. The timeline was beginning to take shape, but she didn’t feel much closer to piecing together what exactly happened.
“Thank you, Emma.”
The amphitheater at Westwick’s city hall had changed.
Clara noticed it the moment she stepped inside, with her satchel over her shoulder and the charcoal suit buttoned to the collar. Last time, there had only been three desks arranged in a U, but now there was a hastily constructed wooden riser, flanked by two standing candelabras, making an impressive judge’s bench. On its flanks were two thick, diagonal stands with chairs behind them, angled to face both the gallery and the judge. And on the other end was a wide witness stand.
Someone—a city official, or perhaps even the bishop himself—had watched the play and taken inspiration from it. Clara grinned, and she realized that was the first time since—
The smile vanished instantly.
She tried to distract herself by running her fingers along the edge of the defense desk. The arrangement wasn’t perfect. The proportions were a bit off from what they should be, and the desks were clearly being repurposed and not properly made for this. But if she squinted enough, she could at least pretend this was a modern courtroom, and she felt at home. Which was ironic, given she hadn’t been to court often at all, back in her world.
The gallery, which had been half-empty during the first day of Professor Morris’s trial, was now packed to capacity, with some even left standing along the back wall and spilling onto the corridor. It seemed a murder trial involving two acclaimed knights could draw a crowd even on a rainy day.
The von Rhenia family occupied the first row on the right side of the gallery, near the prosecution’s desk. Duke Maximilian sat with his hands resting on the head of an elaborate walking cane Clara had never seen him use before. He glanced at her with the usual impassiveness; if there was any resentment, he didn’t show it. The duchess sat beside him in a high-collared dress, her hand resting over Conrad’s with a look of concern. And the young man was, of course, glaring at Clara with the fury of a thousand suns. Interestingly, they all wore white. Was this the color of mourning in this world?
And then there was Iris, sitting next to her brother. She wore a simple dress with no jewelry, and her hair was pulled back into a plain knot. Her eyes had an emptiness to them, and they were fixed on Clara’s collar. Clara adjusted the burgundy lace she’d very consciously chosen to wear, and tried to give Iris a gentle look.
We don’t have to be enemies, she wanted to say. But the girl turned away, and Clara felt an increasingly familiar tightness in her chest. She suspected it wouldn’t fade for some time.
On the left side of the front row, separated from the von Rhenias by a conspicuous gap of empty seats that no spectator had dared to fill, sat the royal contingent. Lochlann wore an impressive formal jacket bearing a crowned wolf at each shoulder, and he had his eyes closed and his arms crossed. Helena sat beside him, her eyes jumping around the room with undisguised anxiety.
And on the other side of the Crown Prince was Ciarán. Next to Lochlann, the boy’s hair looked an even darker shade of red than usual, and his shoulders were hunched forward. Clara wondered if he’d spent the night at Claves. He should technically still be the duke’s guest, but it was hard to imagine the von Rhenias having much patience to babysit him in these circumstances, and it was possible alternate arrangements had been made with the King yesterday—Westwick and Elysia City were close enough to exchange messages relatively fast. Ciarán glanced at Clara, and she gave him a nod.
Then Warren came in and took his place behind the prosecution’s bench and began arranging papers with precision, with Tobias following behind carrying the usual wooden chest. But when the prosecutor looked up, Clara was surprised to not see only the usual sly arrogance. There was a subtle rigidity in the way his eyes moved from her face to the gallery and back. She could almost hear the question forming behind his apprehensive expression: What are you doing on that side of the room, Casewell?
Their gazes held across the gap between the desks. Warren was shrewd enough to understand the implications of her being there, and sharp enough to wonder what could possibly be worth it. He would know that, by choosing to defend Rowena and therefore burning her position with House von Rhenia, Clara now stood truly alone, with no title and no safety other than whatever goodwill she’d accumulated in Westwick.
“Counsel Casewell.” His voice carried its usual lightness, but there was a careful quality to it. “I confess I was expecting a less dramatic start to my morning.”
“Prosecutor Righton. I hope this doesn’t disappoint.”
“On the contrary. Yet I would be remiss if I didn’t confirm if you understand the position you’ve put yourself in.”
“I do.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. But I suppose I cannot stop you, so let us ensure this is worthy of both our efforts.” Then his smirk settled into place, though it didn’t fully reach his eyes.
At that moment, six garrison guards entered in white-and-gold armor. They were split into two columns, with Dame Rowena in the middle, her wrists shackled behind her. Based on the number of guards, it was clear they ranked her as a much greater threat than the professor. Clara wasn’t sure if she agreed.
Rowena wore a clean shirt and a pair of trousers. Without her uniform or her armor, the knight looked stripped of more than just clothing. Her short blonde hair hung messily around her face, and the scar across her cheek stood out starkly against her pale skin. The guards directed her to the witness stand, and when she passed by the front row, her gaze lifted and found Ciarán in the gallery. She smiled and mouthed something Clara couldn’t make out from this angle.
Then the door behind the elevated bench opened, and Bishop Dicton emerged, climbing the riser with careful steps. He settled into the high-backed chair behind the bench, surveyed the room, and pulled out a wooden gavel from his clerical vestments. The same one Helena had used during the trial.
The bishop turned it over in his hands, examining it briefly. Then he gave a soft smile, and brought it down three times, each one producing a decisive crack.
“This court is now in session.”
The murmurs in the gallery died almost instantly. The bishop looked down at the gavel in his hand with undisguised delight, then turned to Clara.
“How was that, Counsel?”
Clara held back a chuckle. “Very authoritative, Your Excellency.”
“I thought so, too. I’ll admit I’ve been practicing.” He held up the gavel. “I must thank you for the gift, and for the accompanying note. I had no idea that praetors of the Elysian Empire used this instrument to maintain order in their courts. It is a pity that such a useful tradition fell out of favor.”
“It was a minor practice, Your Excellency.” And definitely not one Clara had made up. “Not all scholars agree on the details.”
I’m sorry, Professor Harwick.
“Well, it is a most satisfying device, regardless. Though my wife is considerably less enthusiastic about it than I am. Perhaps I ought to stop using it at the dinner table.”
Thank you for your sacrifice, Mrs. Dicton.
Warren cleared his throat. “Your Excellency, if we might proceed with the matter at hand?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The bishop straightened in his chair. “We are gathered here today in the name of the Goddess and under the light of Heaven to ascertain the truth of the matter between Sir Ricardo Macedo, the victim, and Dame Rowena, the accused. I regret to say that the charge is murder. If both sides are ready, let us begin the proceedings.”