Chapter 38: Fairy Tale

The beer was ink-dark, topped with a thick, creamy head of foam that clung to the rim of the mug. Clara watched it settle for a moment before taking her first sip. It was rich and velvety, and the roasted bitterness reminded her of coffee, though there was a caramel-like undertone to it. All in all, quite unlike most beers she’d tasted before, not that she was a connoisseur.

“It’s a stout,” said Ricardo, noticing her expression. “There’s a monastery near the capital famous for brewing it. The Order of Saintess Guinevere at the foot of Mt. Ness, I think.”

Clara took another sip of the silky stout. It went down smoothly, and it didn’t surprise her that people might drink too much of it without realizing.

“—and that’s when the construct’s arm detached mid-swing and flew into the lake,” Morris was saying while waving around a bread roll. “The headmaster made me fish it out personally, even though it was December.”

“That is only natural,” said Harwick. “You know that lake is a historical landmark, where Saintess Elowen performed her first miracle.”

“It was also a freezing landmark. My fingers nearly got frostbite.”

“A fitting penance for academic recklessness.” Harwick’s mustache twitched in amusement.

Ricardo laughed louder than Clara had ever heard him. He was now well into his fourth mug of the dark stout, or possibly his fifth; Clara had lost count around the time Harwick started telling stories about the mishaps of his former pupils. The knight had gradually loosened over the past hour. His collar was undone, and his cheeks had taken on a ruddy glow.

“Major, perhaps you ought to have some water,” Clara suggested gently. He’d had more alcohol than anyone else still at the table.

He waved her off with a grin. “Miss Casewell, I have won a duel against the Kingdom’s strongest knight. Tonight, I am drinking in celebration. You may lodge one of your ‘objections’ tomorrow, if you wish.”

Celebration… I guess it’s okay, sometimes.

“The major has a point,” said Harwick. “Even the most disciplined among us must occasionally permit ourselves to be merely human.”

“Very philosophical.”

“The line between a historian and a philosopher is sometimes quite thin. One thing I can tell you is that every civilization I have studied, no matter how distant, eventually invented alcoholic beverages. It is a great constant of mankind.”

Ricardo raised his mug. “To mankind, then.”

They tapped their drinks together, and even Emma lifted her glass of apple juice to join in. Clara brought her mug up, too.

The conversation drifted from one topic to the next with an easy rhythm. Leofric rejoined them after having escorted Rowena back to her room, and regaled them with tales from his seminar days. Then Morris recounted accidentally setting his own research notes on fire, and Ricardo spoke about his previous match with Rowena years ago. Emma was mostly focused on the food, occasionally giggling or dropping anecdotes about her family.

Clara finished the last sip of her own stout—her second, and she was quite certain it would be her last. She wiped away the mustache of cream on her lip. There was a spreading warmth settling within her chest and the back of her neck, and she tugged at her collar. The music, as lovely as it was, seemed to press against her temples.

She rose from her seat. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll step outside for a moment.”

Emma looked up. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Just a bit warm.”

“I can come with you.” The girl was already half-rising.

“Don’t worry about me. Stay as long as you like,” Clara put a hand briefly on Emma’s shoulder, then made her way out of the banquet hall.

Clara pushed the door open and basked in the cool night breeze of the Westwick Plaza’s central courtyard. From here, the music was barely a hum, overshadowed by the soft burbling of the marble fountain. A few lanterns hung from iron posts along the stone path she walked through.

She looked around, and the only two others she saw out there were standing near the fountain’s edge. Their figures were only half-lit, but she recognized them even before she could make out their faces. Warren’s modern-style suit was as unmistakable as his perfect posture, and Reginald was given away by the glistening diamond pin he had on his lapel, which was connected to his pocket by a golden chain.

They were speaking in low voices, and Clara couldn’t quite make out what they were talking about. Without much thought, she stepped closer to them. Then Reginald noticed her, and whatever he’d been saying trailed off. He straightened, gave Warren a curt nod, and turned toward the entrance to the hotel without so much as a word to Clara.

Warren didn’t turn around immediately. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, looking at the spot where Reginald had been. Then he shifted his weight to the side and faced her.

“Casewell.”

She walked closer, stopping a few paces from the fountain. The cool mist felt pleasant against the warmth sitting on her cheeks. “Righton. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t. Reginald was just leaving.”

“How is he doing?”

Warren glanced at the door the viscount had disappeared through, and his expression softened briefly. “Better each day.”

“Good.” Clara meant it. She sat down on the low stone rim of the fountain. This wasn’t the attitude that a servant should take in front of a great noble, but she didn’t really feel like a servant right now. “I was worried he would fall into a slump after the trial, but he was great at the Spellweaving Club’s exhibition.”

“He was.” Warren’s voice was plainer than usual. “I’m pleased he has found something to hold on to at Claves. I hear you’ve helped with that.”

“I may have given him something of a pep talk.”

“Yes, and I’m sure it was very inspiring, full of folksy wisdom about perseverance and the common spirit.” He sat down on the rim as well, leaving a small gap between them. “Still, you have my gratitude.”

A sincere thank you from Warren Righton, with no caveats and just a small backhanded compliment? It was a rare occasion indeed.

Warren loosened his cravat by a fraction. A few fireflies floated lazily around the hedge. “You’ve been busy this week. The play, the Spellweaving exhibition, the full von Rhenia household in town. And yet here you are, at a banquet with color in your cheeks. Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking.”

“Two stouts. I may never recover.”

“A lightweight, then. How unsurprising.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Clara leaned back slightly, letting the water pass near her hair. “And you? Shouldn’t the future Duke of Albion be upstairs, mingling with the nobility instead of sitting by a fountain with the help?”

“I’ve done my networking. There are only so many times one can discuss the Corn Laws in a single night.”

Networking. The way he spoke reminded her that somewhere under the Albion heir was still her Warren Righton, Counsel at Caine, Polis & Smith. Well, not that he was hers. All she meant was the Warren from her time, and—

“Besides, it seems the company down here is more stimulating,” he continued.

It was a good thing that her cheeks had already been red.

“I mean the fountain, of course. One could stare at it for hours,” Warren added.

“I’m glad I could keep you company next to your favorite piece of plumbing infrastructure,” said Clara.

“You should be. Marble doesn’t come cheap.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Somehow, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“The play was good,” Warren said eventually. “Lady Iris has an instinct for rhetoric. The improvisation was reckless, but it made for a better end result.”

“That is quite a statement, coming from the man who spent ten minutes telling Edward his pacing was ‘pedestrian’.”

“It was. And then he fixed it. That’s the point.” Warren pulled his head back and looked up at the sky, then his tone shifted to something more measured. “Was it you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The play. I assume it was your idea, yes?”

“It may have been.”

“If taken together with the trials, one might begin to see a pattern in your actions. One that challenges traditional Arcadian notions of ‘justice’.”

Clara was a bit unsettled by how easily he’d seen through her. “That’s a generous reading of a maid who got lucky in court twice.”

“False modesty doesn’t suit you.” His voice was back to its usual sharpness. “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, Casewell, but I can tell you it’s a dangerous one.”

“Dangerous how?”

“You are a commoner with no title, no land, and no political protection beyond a duke’s goodwill—goodwill that, I might note, is contingent on the opinion of a rather mercurial daughter.” Warren’s gaze came down from the stars and settled on her. “And you are, whether you realize it or not, and I wager you do, raising questions about the inquisition’s infallibility.”

Clara’s fingers tightened against the stone. She knew this in abstract, of course, but hearing it laid out like this gave it gravity that made it feel like her quest had been both far more dangerous than she’d realized and ambitious to the point of lunacy.

“I’m not trying to dismantle the Church.” She turned to the side and ran her hand through the falling water. “And why are you telling me this, anyway?”

Warren was quiet for a beat too long. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its edge. “I merely wanted to extend a friendly warning. Watching a competent opponent be removed from the board by forces outside the courtroom would be deeply unsatisfying. If you’re going to lose, it should be to me.”

Clara laughed. “How chivalrous.”

“I’m serious, Casewell.”

Clara took a deep breath. She’d pondered doing this before, and the idea always gave her pause, but if there was a moment to ask it, it was now. “Righton. Since we’re being serious, I have a question for you.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, which she took as permission to continue.

“You are a representative of the inquisition. The inquisitor-in-training who performed the Blessing at the professor’s trial. Tobias. You have authority over him, I assume?”

“He was assigned to assist me, yes. Why?”

“Purely hypothetically. Would it be possible for him to cast the Blessing of Truth on me?”

Whatever Warren had been expecting, it wasn’t that. His composure slipped, and his eyes widened.

“Hypothetically,” he repeated, crossing his arms. “And am I to assume this hypothetical has nothing to do with a trial?”

She nodded.

“Might I ask why, or is this another one of your charming mysteries?”

Clara looked at the fountain. She didn’t want to reveal too much, but if she was asking for help, she needed to at least tell him some of the truth. “There are parts of my memory that seem to have become foggy. Things I should probably know, and don’t. But when I was put under the Blessing for my trial, I was able to recall them.”

Warren maintained a careful neutrality, his lips perfectly flat. “So you want to use it as a retrieval tool.”

“Exactly.”

He studied her. Warren was immersed in his own thoughts as the silence stretched.

“I wouldn’t ask if I had another option,” she added.

He uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on the stone rim, his fingers close enough to hers that she could feel the warmth radiating from them. Then he finally spoke, “I suppose that’s why you wanted to save the professor. You must have been quite disappointed at his sentence, then.”

“I helped the professor because I believed in his innocence.”

“Of course. I’m sure your need for memory magic was a complete coincidence.” He chuckled. “I will think on your request, Casewell. I can… mention the notion in front of Tobias, see how he responds.”

“Thank you. That’s more than I expected, if I’m being honest.”

“Then your expectations of me are insultingly low.” The familiar smirk returned. “I will have to wait for the right opportunity. Tobias is devout, and any suggestions outside the usual dogma will require a degree of finesse.”

“Finesse seems to be your specialty.”

“Among many others.”

They settled into the quiet again, until someone opened some of the ballroom’s windows, and the music turned from a hum into something much more intelligible. Clara began to tap her foot to the beat of the waltz.

“You are a fan of music, then?” he asked.

“I’ve always enjoyed dancing.” She stood up and twirled, then swayed lightly from side to side. “Didn’t you like it, too?”

“I don’t believe I ever particularly cared for it.”

“Come on, now. Don’t be such a bore, Righton. It’s not like you. You asked me to dance at the trial, and now you don’t want to?”

Clara leaned forward, took his hand and pulled it, but he didn’t budge. Then the touch of his skin registered, and reality crashed back into her.

She’d just grabbed the hand of a high noble and called him a bore.

She released him and took a full step backward. “I—my sincerest apologies, my lord. That was completely inappropriate of me. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She lowered her head. “The drink must have—I shouldn’t have—”

“Casewell.”

She stopped.

Warren was looking at her with an expression she had never seen on him before, in this world or the other one. His cheeks had reddened, and his lips were parted slightly, as if he’d started to say something and then lost the thread of it.

He stood up from the fountain’s rim. Then he straightened his jacket, adjusted his cravat, and cleared his throat.

“You are, as established, a lightweight,” he said. His voice was steady, but pitched a fraction higher than usual. “It would be unconscionable of me to let a woman without full control over her faculties stumble through a waltz alone in a courtyard, only to trip into the fountain and drown. I wouldn’t want to be in the awkward position of having to prosecute myself.”

He extended his hand toward her, with his palm up and his fingers slightly curled.

She took it. His fingers were long and thin, and his grip was firm.

Warren pulled her closer with a single motion, and before she could think about what was happening, his other hand settled on her lower back.

The waltz drifted down from the ballroom, and Clara tried her best to follow Warren’s steps. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like ballroom dancing was one of the many things Stella’s muscle memory was good for. But he led well, guiding her through the turns with ease as they moved in slow circles around the courtyard.

“I thought you didn’t care for dancing.”

“That hardly means I lack the ability to do it.”

The music slowed, and their steps adjusted naturally. There was a particular section where Warren pressed her close against his waist, and the hairs on her neck stood up when she felt the warmth of his breath.

She wanted to tell him. I know you. I’ve known you for years. You are the most infuriating person I have ever had the displeasure of working with, and yet you are the closest thing to home I have in this world.

But she couldn’t, and so she just danced, until the music above faded into faint applause.

She closed her eyes, trying to hold on to the moment just a little longer.

And then a high-pitched shriek came from somewhere above, and the spell broke.

The two split apart. Warren was already moving indoors, and she followed him, half a step behind. The lobby was in chaos, with guests pouring down the main staircase in various states of alarm. A cluster of hotel staff had formed a line in front of the main doors, arms spread wide.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm!” The concierge’s voice was unsteady. “We must ask everyone to cooperate and stay inside the hotel for the time being, until the garrison is notified of the incident. Our staff is working with House von Rhenia to secure the premises. Please, if you could return to your rooms or to the ballroom—”

“What do you mean we can’t leave?” A heavyset man in a silk jacket was jabbing his finger at one of the porters. “I have a carriage waiting!”

“Sir, please, until the city guards arrive, Duke von Rhenia has ordered—”

Warren cut through the crowd with the confidence of someone who expected people to move for him, and fortunately, they did.

“I am Warren Righton of Albion, representative of the Holy Inquisition. What happened here?”

The concierge turned to him with obvious relief. “My lord, there’s been an incident on the upper floor. Duke von Rhenia’s guards have secured the area, and they’ve asked us to keep everyone inside for now.”

“Clara!”

The voice came from the top of the staircase. Iris was descending two steps at a time, holding her dress up so she wouldn’t trip. Her face was streaked with tears. Behind her, Conrad followed with a saber in hand and two guards at his flanks, his scowl darker than Clara had ever seen it.

“My lady, what happened? Are you hurt?”

“Clara, he’s, he’s—” Iris stammered, her ragged voice barely holding together. “It’s Ricardo. He’s—”