Chapter 30: Pro Who?
“You’re supposed to slam the table, Lady Iris.”
Clara stood in front of the tiered lecture hall, which had been repurposed as a rehearsal space for Class 2-A’s play. Three additional desks had been arranged next to the professor’s—or rather, the judge’s—for the prosecution, the defense, and a witness. She’d nitpicked more times than she cared to remember, and they had barely gotten through the first act.
Iris looked down at the desk she’d just tapped. “I did slam it.”
“It was too gentle. You need to let the audience feel it.” Clara walked over and demonstrated, bringing her palm down with a crack. Several students flinched.
“Isn’t that behavior quite brutish, even for a maid? I worry for the ears of our spectators,” said Lochlann from the back.
Clara resisted the urge to shoot him a look. It was amazing how much harder managing a group of kids became when most of them were your hierarchical superiors in a rigid class system. “Your Highness, the loudness is the point. It jolts the listener awake, so they know something important is about to happen.”
“If I hit a table that hard, my hand will bruise,” said Iris.
“My lady, you’re playing Advocate Valeria—a woman standing up against the ruthless Senator Chrysogonus, who framed an innocent centurion for patricide. She’s not delicate.”
Iris huffed, but there was determination in her eyes. She raised her hand higher this time and slammed down with considerably more force.
“Well done.” Clara nodded, satisfied.
She sat back and watched as the students continued running through their lines. The final script for the play had become quite ambitious, as Vivienne had suggested they base it on the historical trial of Sextus Septimus, one of the most famous murders in the old Elysian Empire—which explained why all of it sounded so Roman. It was a perfect fit for the concept Iris had come up with: it had a son framed for the murder of his father, a scheming patrician orchestrating it behind the scenes, and a brilliant advocate who dismantled the conspiracy piece by piece.
Since the story was set before magic existed, it also meant they didn’t have to work around the Blessing of Truth. On the one hand, that made it a lot easier to plot a satisfying murder mystery; on the other, it would have been good to expose a wider audience to the potential issues surrounding the Blessing. Still, it was a foundation to be built upon. Nobody could change an entire country’s legal system with one stroke, and openly criticizing the Church’s practices could lead to a counterreaction.
Clara thought some details sounded oddly familiar to her, but she couldn’t really place them. Still, the setting of the Elysian Empire, with all its—perhaps lazy—similarities to Ancient Rome, felt much more familiar to her than the current Holy Kingdom of Arcadia. She’d once read that a modern person thrown into the past might find life in Rome more natural than life in Medieval Europe, and she couldn’t help but agree, even though Arcadia also had significant Victorian elements.
Either way, the preparations for the play were a welcome distraction from the wait for the midterm results and Ricardo’s investigation. Between this, the Spellweaving Club’s exhibition, and her own magical practice, she felt almost as busy now as she’d been as a lawyer.
Except her salary used to be a lot better. But also, lawyers didn’t get to learn any magic. Pros and cons, really.
“I think we have room to improve,” said Charlotte from the side. Over the past few days of practice, the girl had grown into a sort of stage manager. “We are missing something. But let us try moving forward for now. Act Two, Scene Three. Your Highness, are you ready?”
Lochlann strode to the witness desk with more enthusiasm than Clara had expected from someone who’d initially refused the role. Just like Iris, he wore a makeshift toga fashioned from a bedsheet that Vivienne had dyed purple with berry juice. Iris had initially refused to wear the costume, but then Lochlann made fun of her for it, which quickly changed her mind. Clara had to admit she was curious to see how he’d perform—this scene was his first major appearance.
“Senator Chrysogonus,” said Edward from the prosecutor’s desk. “You stand before us as a man of impeccable reputation. Could you describe for this court your relationship with the deceased, Legate Septimus?”
“The legate was a dear friend. His death was a tragedy not just for me, but for all of Elysia.” As he spoke, Lochlann raised his hand to his forehead and contorted his face in grief, letting his voice drop at the end. He sounded almost too sincere, which was perfect for the character, and his mannerisms were magnetic. The prince was easy to like when he wasn’t being an insufferable brat to her or Iris.
“And is it true, Senator, that you were among the first to console the accused after his father’s death?” asked Edward sharply.
“Hold there,” said Clara, stepping between the desks. “Lord Edward, you sound a bit too detached here. Remember, you genuinely believe in the senator, so your questions should sound friendly. What you’re trying to do is build his credibility and the judge’s sympathy with him because you think it helps your case.”
Edward smiled ruefully. “So I’m being used without knowing it.”
“Exactly. The audience sees the manipulation that your character can’t; that’s what makes it compelling.”
They continued, and he sounded much more natural now. When Edward was done with his questions, Iris rose for her cross-examination. Clara could tell the girl was holding back a smile at the opportunity to put the prince on the spot.
“Senator Chrysogonus, you’ve told us of your friendship with Legate Septimus. A touching account. But I found myself curious about one detail.”
Lochlann narrowed his eyes.
“You say you rushed to console young Sextus after the murder, undertaking the two-day-long journey from Elysia City to the Septimus estate as soon as you heard. Yet witnesses state your carriage left the capital the very morning before the murder, when news could not have possibly reached you yet.”
“Objection,” said Edward seriously, though he appeared to be suppressing a grin. “The advocate is making insinuations without—”
“Your Honor,” Iris cut in, turning to Helena behind the judge’s desk. “I am merely establishing the senator’s whereabouts on the day of the incident. I am entitled to do so as advocate.” The way Iris was copying Clara’s courtroom mannerisms was frankly rather cute.
Helena, who’d been sitting still with her hands folded, looked at Edward, then at Iris. “The objection is overruled. The advocate may continue.” Her tone was perfectly neutral, a world apart from her usual happy-go-lucky naivety.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Iris, before turning back to Lochlann. “Senator, answer the question, please.”
“I happened to have business—”
“Your Highness, please wait.” Clara held up her hand. “If I may provide some feedback?” She had to be careful when dealing with Lochlann, since she wasn’t sure how receptive he’d be to taking feedback from a maid.
Lochlann crossed his arms. “Speak.”
“Don’t answer immediately after the judge allows the question. Take a beat so that the audience can see you squirm.”
“I don’t squirm,” said Lochlann flatly.
“Your character does. Or rather, he tries not to, and fails. That’s what makes it satisfying.”
Lochlann looked like he wanted to argue, but Edward nudged him. “A villain who cracks under pressure is more memorable than one who’s always impassive.”
“Fine.” Lochlann uncrossed his arms. “Run it again.”
They went through the scene twice more, and there was significant improvement with each repetition. Iris was beginning to find Valeria’s rhythm and make the character her own, and she was clearly drawing from what she’d observed at both trials.
After the third run, Charlotte called a short break. Clara walked over to where Edward was reviewing his notes near the window. “Lord Edward, are you ready for your closing argument?”
He set down his script. “I’m not sure. I can’t get the tone figured out. My character is asking for a conviction, but Sextus is innocent. How do I deliver it without making myself sound foolish?”
Clara pulled up a chair and sat across from him, but before she could answer, a pretentious voice came from the entrance.
“I see you’ve found yourself another protégé, Casewell. How charming.”
Clara turned around, already irritated. Warren Righton stood in the doorway of the lecture hall with a smirk on his face.
“Righton.” She straightened up. “What brings you to Claves?”
“I heard from Reginald that a certain maid was coaching an entire class of students in the art of trial advocacy. Naturally, I had to see this for myself and ensure it was being done properly.”
Telling on me after I helped you pick yourself back up? Et tu, Vainglory? And I can’t even glare at him for it, since he's not here. Reginald had asked to recuse himself from the play, citing a need to ‘focus on the Spellweaving Club’s exhibition’. The truth was more likely that the viscount just didn’t want to think about Marcella and the trial, which Clara thought was understandable.
Warren strolled toward the center of the room, looking at the makeshift togas and the scattered papers. Iris was frowning—she still hadn’t forgiven him for the suit.
“Mm.” He stopped next to Edward’s desk and picked up the script, flipping through it with one hand. “Pro Septimus. A fine choice, though I’ve noticed you’ve taken some rather generous liberties with the historical record.”
“It’s a play, not a lecture,” said Clara.
“Naturally, fidelity to the record yields when the goal is to be memorable,” Iris added.
“So it does. Which is why I must make sure the prosecutor isn’t written as a dupe.” He turned to Edward, set the script down, and tapped the closing argument. “That is your role, yes?”
The boy extended his hand. “Yes. I’m Edward Pemberton. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Warren.”
Warren shook it. “Then you must be Lord Pemberton’s son. Send him my regards when you next speak; becoming the leader of the opposition is no simple feat.”
So Edward comes from a political family. Clara made a mental note to get a better understanding of how Parliament worked in Arcadia, and what sorts of parties and factions existed.
“There are two parts to a good prosecutorial closing. The first is factual—you must convincingly and systematically paint any possibility other than the accused’s guilt as farcical. ‘If not the son, then who? A ghost, who left no trace and was seen by no one?’ Lead the listeners to presume any argument the defense makes to be a logical stretch.”
Edward nodded and began writing. “And the second?”
“An emotional appeal. Restate the gravity of the crime—a son murdering his father, an affront to the Goddess. Slow down and repeat the witness testimony, emphasizing the shock. ‘Sextus was the only one who could have moved freely through the estate. Sextus was seen leaving his father’s chambers. Sextus had blood on his hands.’”
Warren waited for Edward to finish writing. “Remember, Lord Edward: the stronger your closing is, the more it will feel like a miracle when the advocate breaks the case open.” Then he turned to Clara. “I trust you have no objection to my contributions?”
“I’ll allow it.”
Charlotte called for the rehearsal to continue. Clara and Warren watched, seated side by side. At first there was an awkward silence, and she was hoping he’d get bored and leave, but as the students went on, the two began exchanging comments with surprising ease.
“Lady Iris is telegraphing the gotcha moment too early,” Warren murmured, leaning toward Clara without taking his eyes off the stage. “She straightened up a full line before the reveal.”
“I was going to address that in the next run.”
“Of course you were.”
Clara ignored the implication. After that, Lochlann started to deliver an irritating monologue about the sanctity of patrician duty, to which Warren nodded along enthusiastically.
“Don’t tell me you agree with what he’s saying,” she ventured.
Warren scoffed. “Why wouldn’t I? The Empire may be gone, but one can still recognize value in the virtues they espoused. It is up to the nobility to guide the people to prosperity. Not that a maid would understand.”
Clara rolled her eyes. To say that the original Warren Righton had been from a posh family was an understatement, but this was something else. It didn’t surprise her that this was how he’d think if he had all his memories of being raised as a noble scion.
On stage, Iris launched into the cross-examination of a new witness—one of the household servants, played by a girl who kept forgetting which of the accused’s hands she’d supposedly found the gladius in.
“Right hand,” Clara and Warren said in unison.
They looked at each other. He raised an eyebrow, and she looked away first.
“This testimony needs tightening,” said Warren, as if nothing had happened. “If the detail is going to matter in the third act, the audience needs to hear it repeated at least twice before the advocate catches it.”
“Chekhov’s murder weapon,” Clara muttered.
“Whose?”
“Never mind. But yes, I agree.” She pulled out her copy of the script and made a note in the margin. “Lady Vivienne wrote the scene with that payoff in mind, but the setup needs reinforcement.”
“Your handwriting is atrocious,” he observed.
That’s not fair. I barely had to write anything by hand for a decade!
“It’s legible.”
He reached over and took the script from her lap, then added his own notes with perfectly elaborate—and pretentious—calligraphy. He handed it back to her with a grin.
And so they continued for the rest of the rehearsal.