“A package from House Albion? For me?” asked Clara.

  Emma nodded. “Yes, Miss. The servant who delivered it was very insistent that you open it tonight.”

  Clara’s first instinct was suspicion. What could Warren want? Was it some kind of trap?

  “How curious,” said Iris, her earlier brooding gone in an instant. “Emma, bring the package here.”

  “My lady, it was addressed to me. I can open it in my room.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Clara. A mysterious package from the opposing side, delivered the night before a battle? This is clearly a matter of strategic importance, and as your liege, I must be involved.” She waved at Emma. “Go on, then. Quickly.”

  Emma curtsied and hurried out. Clara crossed her arms. Iris’s motivations probably had less to do with strategy and more to do with her being intensely nosy, but Clara wasn’t about to argue that point. A few minutes later, Emma returned and put down a rectangular parcel wrapped in dark blue paper on the bed near Iris.

  Clara approached the package cautiously, then untied the silver cord around it. The paper fell away to reveal a sturdy wooden box, and nestled atop its lid was a folded piece of paper. She picked up the note first.

  Counsel Casewell,

  One in a position such as mine can seldom hope for competent opposition. Though I am not as yet sure you meet my high standards, I have found myself invigorated by our exchange.

  However, I must also confess that our session left me with a persistent discomfort. Outside of court, you may be merely the von Rhenias’ servant, and that is none of my concern. But inside, you are my opponent. And it reflects rather badly on the future Duke Albion to cross words with a maid.

  I trust you will find the enclosed to be an improvement over your current courtroom attire. Consider it a professional courtesy.

  Do try to give me a proper challenge next time.

  W.R.

  Clara’s lips twisted into something she didn’t quite recognize. She reread the note, then read it one more time, because her feelings kept getting in the way of processing the words.

  The sheer audacity. She could practically hear his voice dripping with irony. ‘It reflects badly on the future Duke Albion to cross words with a maid.’ The mix of condescension and backhanded compliments was so characteristic of him she almost forgot he didn’t remember the person he used to be.

  “Well?” Iris craned her neck, trying to read the note upside down. “What does it say?”

  Clara handed it to her silently, then turned her attention to the box. She lifted the lid and gasped.

  Inside it was a suit. A woman’s suit. She lifted the jacket first. It wasn’t fussy or high-collared; it was a clean design of finely woven charcoal-gray wool, fitted at the waist and with narrow lapels. The buttons were matte silver. Underneath it was a white shirt, and under that was a matching pair of high-waisted, straight-legged trousers.

  Clara ran her thumb along the jacket’s lapel. The stitching was impeccable, to the level she would have seen at a high-end store in London. And it was exactly the kind of suit she would have worn in their world.

  “What.” Iris’s voice was flat. She had finished reading the note and was now holding it at arm’s length as if it were dirty. “What is this?”

  Clara set the jacket down carefully. “It appears to be a suit.”

  “I can see that it’s a suit, Clara. A hideously plain suit, without a single embellishment worth noting.” Iris’s cheeks began to redden. “What I mean is: what is the meaning of this?”

  “I believe the note was fairly explicit, my lady.”

  “Oh, it was explicit, alright.” Iris waved it in the air. “It reflects badly on him to cross words with my maid. Who does he think he is? If anyone has standing to comment on your wardrobe, it is I, not some northern lordling who thinks a cravat is a substitute for a personality!”

  Emma, who was standing quietly by the door, took a very small step backward.

  “Furthermore! If you needed proper attire for court, you would obviously come to me. I would have given you something befitting House von Rhenia. Something with taste and color. Not this—this—” She gestured at the suit. “This drab rectangle.”

  Clara bit the inside of her cheek.

  “Emma! Take this package and dispose of it. We’ll commission something proper from—”

  “No,” said Clara.

  “No?” Iris was scowling now.

  “I want to keep it, my lady.”

  “Why?”

  Because holding it reminds me of who I used to be.

  “Because it’s a well-made suit, my lady. And it may help increase my credibility in court.”

  Iris narrowed her eyes. Clara met her gaze steadily, and the silence stretched for several seconds. Then Iris let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Let’s see it.”

  “My lady?”

  “Put it on,” said Iris, crossing her arms. “Let us judge how it looks.”

  Clara took the box behind the dressing screen on the corner of the suite. She undid her apron, folded it neatly out of habit, and changed. The trousers fit as if they’d been measured for her, the shirt was crisp against her skin, and the jacket slid perfectly into place when she buttoned it.

  Clara stepped out from behind the screen. “I don’t understand. How does it fit so well?”

  At that, Emma’s gaze fell downward to the floor, and she pressed her hands against each other. Clara raised an eyebrow. Did Warren ask her for help? Is that why she was late the other night?

  Iris tilted her head one way, then the other. She stood up and circled Clara slowly, examining her from every angle with a critical eye. “The cut is… better than expected.” She tugged at the sleeve. “The shoulders sit properly, at least, and the fabric is not terrible.”

  “High praise, my lady,” said Clara.

  “Don’t push it.” But Iris’s scowl had softened into something closer to a pout. She turned to her vanity, opened a small drawer, and pulled out a thin strip of burgundy lace. “Lower your head,” she ordered.

  Clara complied, and Iris reached up and tied the lace under her collar, lacing it in a neat bow, just above where the shirt buttoned. She stepped back and examined her work.

  “There. Some color.”

  The amphitheater at Westwick’s city hall was fuller than it had been on Tuesday. Word must have spread about the novelty of an actual back-and-forth trial, because the front seats were nearly packed.

  Clara adjusted the cuffs on her jacket as she took her place behind the defense’s desk. Professor Morris stood beside her, only marginally more presentable than last time. And on her other side was Lady Marcella, wearing a quiet determination. Clara had gone to her room early to prepare her for what to expect, and she’d listened to it all without flinching. Iris had stayed back at Claves, though Clara wasn’t sure if it was because she genuinely didn’t want to miss class, or if she was still mad about the suit.

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  Across the platform, Warren was already seated. His gaze flickered to her suit, then their eyes met, and he inclined his head to the barest degree.

  “Ah, good morning, good morning!” Bishop Dicton shuffled to his seat with considerably more energy than he’d shown on Tuesday. “I trust both sides are prepared? I confess I’ve been rather looking forward to this. My wife says it’s all I talk about these days.”

  Wife? So clergymen can marry, like in the Anglican Church, even though there’s a Pope. Clara wondered if this meant the current Pope was the previous one’s daughter.

  “The defense is ready.”

  “Counsel, you are looking very spruce today.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency,” said Clara. Warren grinned, and she felt her cheeks redden.

  “The prosecution is also ready,” said Warren smoothly. His gaze moved to Marcella. “Though I wasn’t aware the defense had expanded its cast. I do hope there’s a program.”

  “You’ll find it’s a short one,” said Clara. “But I think you’ll remember every scene.”

  The bishop nodded. “Well then! Let us begin. The court is now back in session for the continued trial of Emmet Morris under the eyes of the Goddess.” He turned to Clara. “Miss Casewell, I believe you had requested additional time to investigate. The floor is yours to share what you found.”

  Clara stepped out from behind the desk, and the low murmur of the gallery faded. She could feel the weight of the room now—the eyes of the spectators, the bishop’s curiosity, Warren’s sharp gaze. Then she glanced down at her jacket and felt readier than ever to face it all.

  “Your Excellency, when this court last convened, Prosecutor Righton argued that Professor Morris’s actions were the only plausible explanation for the victim’s condition. That to suggest otherwise was misguided and conspiratorial. Today, I intend to show not only that there is another possibility, but that it is the only correct one. That Professor Morris was not responsible for the Memory Void, and the true culprit was lurking behind the scenes.”

  The bishop’s eyes widened. “That is quite a bold statement to make, counsel. I expect you have evidence to back up these claims?”

  Clara nodded. “The defense calls Lady Marcella Skerrington to testify.”

  Marcella walked to the center of the platform meekly, with her gaze bouncing haphazardly around the room and her hands clasped. Clara gave her a reassuring nod before beginning.

  “Please state your name for the court.”

  “I…” Marcella breathed in, then out. “I am Marcella Skerrington, daughter of Count Skerrington.”

  “Lady Marcella, you are a second-year student at Claves Academy and a member of the Spellweaving Club, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in that capacity, you came to know the victim, Forrest Lorne?”

  “I did. We practiced together often.” Marcella’s voice was small but steady. “He is very talented, and he helped me with my exercises.”

  Clara paced slowly, keeping the tone conversational. She wanted to build a gradual picture in the bishop’s mind.

  “Would you say you and Forrest were close?”

  Marcella looked down, and Clara felt a pang of guilt for putting the girl in this position. “We were friends. Good friends.” She paused. “Forrest is kind to everyone, but especially to those of us who struggled.”

  “Lady Marcella, were you aware that Forrest went to speak with Professor Morris on Sunday after the Spellweaving Club’s practice?”

  “Yes. I—” She swallowed. “I knew he was going to see the professor.”

  “And do you know why?”

  “Because of something that happened between us right before that.”

  “I object to this line of questioning,” said Warren sternly. “Counsel is once again trying to expose an innocent teenager’s irrelevant personal troubles in open court.”

  “Your Excellency, I assure you these personal troubles are of the utmost relevance. If you’ll allow me to continue, you will shortly see why,” said Clara.

  “Hmm.” The bishop closed his eyes, deep in thought. “I will allow it. But let it be noted that if I find this to be ultimately irrelevant, there will be court-imposed consequences on the counsel.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency. Lady Marcella, could you tell us what exactly happened between you and Forrest before he went to Professor Morris?”

  “Right after the practice session, Forrest pulled me aside and told me he had something important to say.” Marcella’s gaze dropped to the floor. “He confessed his love for me.”

  The bishop raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “And how did you respond?”

  “I rejected him.” Marcella tightened her fingers against each other. “Harshly. I said cruel things about his birth and his station. I told him he was being presumptuous.”

  Clara nodded gently. “That must have been difficult for you.”

  “Objection. The defense is comforting its own witness. If we wanted pastoral care, the good bishop ought to be the one providing it.” Warren smirked.

  The bishop blinked. “Indeed. If the young lady requires spiritual counseling, I am happy to speak after the trial. It is the duty of a bishop to tend to his flock.”

  “Counsel Casewell, do you intend to tie this to the case anytime soon, or shall I call on a servant to bring out some tea for us?” asked Warren.

  Clara glared at him. “I was just getting to that.” She turned back to Marcella. “Lady Marcella, were your words reflective of your true feelings towards Forrest?”

  Marcella quickly shook her head. “No! I didn’t mean any of it. Forrest is—” her voice cracked. “He’s wonderful. I was cruel to him on purpose, because I was trying to protect him.”

  “Protect him? From what?”

  Marcella’s eyes were reddened, but there was resolve beneath the fragility. “From Reginald. I mean, from Viscount Vainglory.”

  A murmur spread through the gallery. Warren furrowed his brow.

  “Could you explain to the court what you mean by that?”

  “The viscount has been courting me since our first year at Claves. Over time, his attention became… controlling. He monitored who I spoke to and demanded explanations when I was seen with other boys. And when someone expressed romantic interest in me, there were consequences.”

  Warren slammed his desk. “This is nonsense. The viscount may be prideful, but he would never—”

  Clara shot him a glare. “Prosecutor Righton, I am questioning my witness. A gentleman ought to know to wait for his turn.”

  Warren’s frown turned into a grimace, but he backed down.

  “What kind of consequences?” asked Clara.

  “Last year, there was a student who confessed his feelings for me, Lord Seamus. I turned him down, but Viscount Vainglory found out regardless. Within weeks, Lord Seamus withdrew from Claves. My father later told me that—”

  “Objection,” Warren cut in. “That is hearsay. The witness is not her father.”

  “Lady Marcella, please keep your statements limited to what you yourself observed,” said the bishop.

  “My deepest apologies, Your Excellency.” She rubbed her hand over the corner of her eye. “What I meant to say is that, after the viscount found out, Lord Seamus withdrew from Claves.”

  “So when Forrest confessed, you believed he might suffer some sort of consequence, like Lord Seamus had?”

  Warren had crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

  “I thought it might be worse. Seamus was a baron’s son, so he had some protection. Forrest is a commoner. So I thought if… if I broke his heart completely, he would walk away, and Viscount Vainglory would have no reason to act.”

  Clara glanced at the bishop. He was watching the witness intently, hand stopped mid-stroke of the beard. Then she continued. “Lady Marcella, do you know what happened after you parted ways with Forrest?”

  “Reginald was watching. He saw the confession, and he was irate. He followed Forrest, and I followed him in turn. When he saw Forrest walking together with Professor Morris, he mumbled something about memory magic, and his face went red. I was… I was scared, so I went back to my room.”

  Clara let the words settle over the silent amphitheater.

  “Your Excellency, I believe the witness’s words just showed us the real truth behind what happened to Forrest. That Sunday, he confessed his love to the witness. Viscount Vainglory, a man with a history of control and territoriality, saw what happened, and decided to exact revenge on Forrest. He followed Forrest to Professor Morris’s office, then heard their exchange from behind the door, which the professor has a history of leaving ajar. When the professor and Forrest left the office after the spell, the viscount snuck in.”

  She reached into her pants pocket and took out the brooch and the notebook. “He found the professor’s notebook, then ripped off the pages related to Forrest’s spell. Unbeknownst to him, that is when he dropped this brooch. A diamond one, with a high-quality gem like those mined by House Vainglory, and similar to the one he wore Tuesday in this very court.”

  Clara glanced at Warren. He sat in the same stillness as before, arms crossed and eyes closed. How odd. I thought he’d be panicking by now, or at least have some reaction.

  “The following morning, the viscount snuck into Forrest’s room before dawn. Using the professor’s notes and his established knowledge of magic as captain of the Spellweaving Club, he cast memory magic on Forrest. I cannot say if his goal was to create the Memory Void, or if he meant for something else and the Void was an unfortunate consequence, but…”

  Clara looked straight into the bishop’s eyes. “The viscount himself can. Once we bring him here and put him under the Blessing of Truth. The defense requests a full interrogation of Viscount Reginald Vainglory!”

  The bishop’s jaw dropped. There was silence for a moment, and then murmurs from the audience. They soon turned louder and louder, until eventually the bishop cleared his throat. “Order! Let us have order!”

  But the chatter didn’t stop; it only kept growing. The bishop seemed at a loss.

  Professor Morris raised his hand from behind the defense’s desk. He opened his mouth, and there was a glow coming from the ring on his finger. “Fiat fragor.” And then—

  A crash thundered through the room. It was a harsh noise, as if all the windows had snapped at once. The crowd fell silent instantly.

  “There we go, Your Excellency,” said Morris with a grin.

  The bishop slowly came up from behind his desk. “Right. Thank you, Professor. Do warn me next time. And perhaps one of the guards should confiscate that ring.”

  He cleared his throat, then continued. “The defense has made a very serious accusation. Before deciding whether to summon the viscount, I would like to hear the prosecution’s questions to the witness.”

  Warren opened his eyes. “The prosecution has no questions.” His voice had an eerie calm to it.

  Clara almost flinched. What? Is he just accepting defeat?

  “Erm…” The bishop looked confused. “Does that mean the prosecution accepts the defense’s theory?”

  Warren shook his head dramatically. “Of course not. It is a fantastical tale of nonsense concocted by an overly imaginative teenage girl and a defense grasping at straws, and it has no relation to the truth whatsoever. Without even getting into the glaring logical contrivances, the good viscount was a ward of House Albion for years, and I refuse to believe he would demean himself thus. I would stake the honor of the Albion name on the fact that Reginald Vainglory had nothing to do with the Memory Void.”

  He stared at Clara. There was no grin, no competitive snark. Just a pure scowl. She didn’t recall ever getting a look like that from him before.

  “I am disappointed in you, Counsel Casewell. Still, there is one thing I agree on: let us call Viscount Vainglory here, put him under the Blessing of Truth, and expose these lies for what they are,” he said.

  “Very well,” the bishop nodded seriously. “Guards! You are to head to Claves Academy and escort Viscount Reginald Vainglory back to this court. And I do not mean this as an invitation.”

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