Chapter 48: Tragic Tavern Food
The bed in Clara’s room at the Kettle & Key creaked when she rested on it. The room was small enough that, if she stood in the middle and stretched her arms, she could touch both walls. It wasn’t her first time staying somewhere so cramped—that honor went to a Best Western in Tokyo during her student years—yet, given her old salary at Caine, Polis & Smith, it had been quite a while.
She could’ve stayed somewhere expensive, of course, thanks to Lochlann’s five marks and the promise of more to come. Maybe even the Westwick Plaza, if she’d asked the prince for a letter of introduction. But she hadn’t had time to think about her next steps for after the trial, and she didn’t want to waste money without a plan for the future.
Clara had returned straight here from court. She’d tried to speak to Iris, but the girl had ignored her, though with significantly less hostility than she’d displayed the day before. Progress is progress, I suppose. A beef pie sat untouched on the nightstand, which Clara had bought from the tavern kitchen downstairs.
She looked at the drizzle hitting the room’s sole window, overlooking the inn’s back alley, and tried to picture the true culprit jumping from it, as they presumably had from Rowena’s room.
That is, if Clara’s theory were correct.
Who could it have been? If one considered a skilled illusion magic caster, there was Helena. Based on the trial in the High Court, the girl seemed to have ties to the inquisition and the Church, and she’d been at the core of the breakdown of relations between House von Rhenia and the royal house. It was worth confirming if she’d been with Lochlann at the ball the entire time.
Then there was Father Leofric, who, by Professor Morris’s judgement, was another proficient spellcaster, not to mention the last to see Rowena before the murder—he would have been in the perfect position to trick the drunken woman with an illusion, and he could potentially be involved in whatever conspiracy seemed to lurk around the Church, despite his image as a simple priest.
And there was always the possibility it wasn’t either of them, and the blame fell on some unseen third party, like Marcella. Or they’d acted together, and were both guilty.
Clara raised her hand toward the ceiling. Am I reaching? Is this just arrogance, blind belief that I must be right and everyone else is wrong?
A fair defense. A proper trial. That was why she’d done this, or at least what she told herself and Iris. Very principled. But principles couldn’t keep her company, nor could they get rid of the pressure pushing down on her chest.
In Clara’s old life, she’d never had to make a trade-off like this. Corporate law was relatively clean, and if she had a huge moral objection to a case or a relationship with someone on the other side, she could just say she had a conflict and hand over the case to another attorney at the firm. The closest she’d come to a moral crisis was the time she’d had to advise a client on a tax structure that was legal but ethically dubious, and even then, the worst consequence had been a mildly uncomfortable happy hour.
She gave in to the exhaustion and closed her eyes. But it wasn’t that late in the afternoon, and her restless mind kept churning through the case, plotting all the things she had to investigate while the uncertain deadline of the Ecumenical Council’s decision loomed over her head and Rowena’s neck.
Right. The Ecumenical Council. I told an entire courtroom that the Blessing of Truth isn’t as infallible as they think it is, and now that’s going to be taken all the way up to Her Holiness. Well, not just her—from what Clara had read, the council had twelve seats, including one each for the Pope, the Cardinal Primate, and the Grand Inquisitor.
Can’t imagine that last one will be pleased, but surely this couldn’t be the very first time something like this has come up.
Warren’s warning from the fountain echoed in her mind. ‘You are raising questions about the inquisition’s infallibility’.
She’d denied it then. But now…
Talk about raising the stakes.
And after that, they’d danced together. She felt her cheeks flush at the memory. Clara Casewell, a commoner and servant, and Warren Righton of Albion, son of a duke. If it weren’t for Warren being, well, Warren, it would have been a scene straight out of Bridgerton.
A knock interrupted the flurry of her thoughts. The bed creaked again when she stood up, and she smoothed her crinkled suit before opening the door.
Professor Morris stood in the narrow corridor with a paper bag in hand, his checkered scarf damp from the rain.
“Miss Casewell. It’s good to see you.”
“Professor.” She stepped aside. “Come in, if you don’t mind the accommodations.”
Morris ducked through the doorway and surveyed the room. “Cozy,” he said.
Clara couldn’t help but laugh at the state she found herself in. “Cozy indeed. What brings you here? Not that I don’t appreciate the company, mind you.” She pulled out the chair next to the nightstand for him and sat on the bed.
“Miss Emma told me of your… situation. She came to find me after my afternoon class.”
“Emma? And what did she say?”
“Well, she spouted a rather fanciful tale. Something about you defending Dame Rowena, being dismissed from House von Rhenia’s service, oh, and who could forget—challenging the Blessing of Truth.” He pushed his glasses up and gave a small smile. “I must say, even for someone who’s gotten used to being surprised by you, I wasn’t quite expecting this.”
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t disappoint.” She’d meant it as a joke, but her voice cracked midway.
“So it’s all true, then.” His expression turned serious.
Clara nodded.
“For what it’s worth, I think there’s a good chance you’re correct,” he said.
“Correct? About what?”
“About the workings of the Blessing. If one thinks of the Blessing not as a truth spell but as a combination of a compulsion charm with memory magic, the reasoning for the Church’s strict control on memory magic becomes clearer. They’ve always said it has to do with its volatility—and yes, it is volatile—but that can at least partly be attributed to the fact that it is so rarely researched. And yet they guard it under lock and keys. I’d always wondered why.”
He paused to smile at his own joke, then lowered his voice. “The Holy Inquisition controls when the Blessing is used, and what questions are asked under it. Thanks to that, most trials are resolved with little attention and in just two or three questions. Or at least they were, until you came along. If I had to think of a way to obfuscate the spell’s shortcomings from the wider public, I could scarcely have come up with a better one.”
That was a surprisingly astute observation. Well, it probably shouldn’t have been surprising—sometimes it was easy to forget how smart Emmet Morris was, beneath the silly puns and the meek attitude.
If the Blessing had been used widely and carelessly, surely its flaws would be common knowledge. Clara had initially attributed this weird piece of political worldbuilding to a plot contrivance of the original story, but… If the upper echelons of the inquisition knew of the Blessing’s weaknesses and purposefully worked to conceal them, using the Church’s teachings as cover, it would all make sense.
Her mind went back to Duke von Rhenia’s odd attitude on the witness stand. There was his half-smile, and then his questions that felt more like he was leading her. Could he have been coaxing her into challenging the Blessing on purpose? Clara suddenly felt tiny, like a pawn on the board of a dangerous game she couldn’t fully comprehend.
And pawns were known for being expendable.
“Everyone keeps telling me to be careful. I’m starting to think I should just embroider that on my suit,” said Clara.
“That may be suitable.”
Even Clara laughed at that one. “But Professor, how did Emma even know about what happened in court? She wasn’t there, from what I saw.”
Had Iris told her? Iris had never been particularly talkative with Emma, but if Emma had taken over Clara’s role as lady’s maid… Something about that opened a hole in Clara’s heart.
Obviously, Iris would need a new lady’s maid. I should be glad she’s stuck with Emma, the girl deserves it, and the raise will really help her family.
“Ah, yes. About that.” Morris set the paper bag on the nightstand next to the meat pie and pulled out a box. Inside were a dozen apricot macarons.
This…
“It seems Lady Iris conveyed the day’s events to Miss Emma with a request to pass them on to me, along with a message,” he cleared his throat and pitched his voice high, “even turncoats don’t deserve to be subjected to a diet composed entirely of tragic tavern food.”
Oh.
Morris took one of the pastries and handed it to her. “Of course, I would have come to check on you even without Lady Iris’s request. But I thought you might like to know she’s clearly still concerned about you, despite everything.”
Clara tried the macaron, and it was impossibly sweet. She ate one, then another, feeling lighter with every bite. After she was done, she looked Morris in the eye.
“Say, Professor. While you’re here, shall we work together on a new spell?”
The back street behind the Westwick Plaza was a narrow cobblestone lane, hemmed in by the hotel’s rear wall on one side and a row of quaint brick homes on the other. Clara and Morris stood beneath the fifth-floor window of what had been Rowena’s room. A thin mist clung to the ground, and the morning air was cool and damp—a fortunate reprieve from the constant rain of the past few days.
“Are you sure it’s okay for you to be here, Professor?”
He shrugged. “Teaching a class does not compare to the excitement of testing a new spell. How could I call myself a researcher and pass up this opportunity?”
Clara glared at him, and he smiled.
“I’m only kidding, Miss Casewell. I am not so irresponsible as that. Professor Harwick is covering my Claves duties this morning.”
“Professor Harwick? Lady Iris will be disappointed.”
Morris chuckled. “He’s a better teacher than the students give him credit for.”
Clara nodded and turned her attention to Rowena’s window. Looking up, it was clear just how considerable the drop was—four quite tall stories. But it was not insurmountable for someone with magic. According to Morris, a skilled caster could cushion a landing, or even slow their descent with the right spell. And at night, with guests inside at the ball, there would have been no witnesses.
“The rain would have washed away anything visible down here,” said Morris, confirming what they’d discussed last night. He was crouching near the base of the wall, examining the stones. “And I suppose the culprit would have landed around here.”
“Yes, I think so too.” Clara took the wand he’d prepared for her—a slender birch rod with a large sapphire fixed to its tip. Now that she had a bit more magical experience, she could feel the stored energy humming against her palm, much denser than the ruby she’d gotten used to. Morris had outdone himself with the charging.
She pointed the wand at the landing spot. “A visible stain can be washed away by rain, but trace residue is much harder to eliminate.”
Professor Morris straightened up, brushing dirt from his knees. “Are you confident in your visualization? I don’t think you’ve ever attempted anything this precise.”
Clara grinned. “Worst case, we’ll flip a coin.”
She closed her eyes and built the image. The rough surface of the cobblestone, magnified until tiny crevices became visible, and within them, the faintest, microscopic residue of iron. Clara pictured that very residue shining in response to the spell’s energy.
It had taken a while to come up with a suitable incantation, targeted enough to do what she needed it to. But after a lot of scribbling, they’d settled on something they were both happy with.
“Ubi ferrum sanguinis latet, luce responde,” she chanted. Where the iron of blood lies hidden, answer with light.