Because of her classes, Iris wasn’t able to come. Clara thought that was a shame; Iris showed promise during their trial at the High Court, and could one day make a formidable debater if she put her mind to it. Still, the city hall was close to Claves, so she said she would try to stop by during her lunch break, time permitting.
They were directed to stand behind the desk to the left; the other two remained empty. Clara assumed the Bishop of Westwick, who’d be presiding over the trial, would take the central one, and the inquisitor would take the one opposite to hers. There was certainly humor in the fact that this repurposed amphitheater looked more like a proper courtroom than the cathedral-like High Court.
She wished she had a bit more information on the bishop and the inquisitor. Would a bishop be able to wield the same terrifying magic as the Pope? And what about the inquisitor—could it be Aldric they were sending over? Given his exchange with the Pope at the end of the last trial, that sounded unlikely; the man was probably getting a full colonoscopy. Plus, he isn’t nearly attractive enough to be a recurring character in a novel-inspired world like this, where everyone from the duke to Captain Ricardo to Professor Emmet could pass for a famous actor.
She glanced at the professor next to her. Well, on second thought… Even though he’d been allowed to bathe and Clara had gotten him a fresh change of clothes from his office, Morris was somehow just as unkempt as he’d been in the holding cell. The belt around his waist was loose, one leg of his pants hadn’t been properly tucked into his boot, and he’d missed a button on his jacket.
“Excuse me, Professor.” She fixed the last one, at least.
“Ah, thank you. I’ve been too distracted to pay attention to that sort of thing.”
Clara gave him a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry, it’s quite normal that all your focus is on the trial. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a defendant who was perfectly composed.”
“The trial?” He looked confused, then pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. “No, what I mean is that I convinced them to give me pen and paper last night, so I spent the night thinking about how to optimize some spells.”
Clara sighed. She’d never been great at dealing with eccentric academic types; the PhD life wasn’t for her. “Aren’t you worried about being found guilty? It’s not guaranteed that I’ll be able to win.”
“Nor do I expect you to.” The professor looked up wistfully. “Miss Casewell, I have no title or land to pass down, nor children to bear my name. If I am condemned, which seems rather likely, there’s only one legacy Emmet Morris will leave in this world: my research. So I may as well work on it for as long as I can.”
Her expression softened. No title, no land, no children… Had Senior Counsel Clara Casewell left any legacy behind? Did anyone in her old life remember her as anything more than a footnote to some deals, or as an overworked, distant family member? Ironically, out of everyone in Caine, Polis & Smith, it was Warren who’d probably seen her the most. Funny how easily a professional work mask can slip when you’re annoyed.
“Professor Emmet Morris,” came a voice from their side. Shoot, I got distracted. The speaker wore a black clerical garment, with an ankle-length cassock, a short shoulder cape, and a white sash wrapped like a belt. A circular ecclesiastical cap sat above his graying hair, and his long beard almost reminded her of Santa Claus. Clara and Morris turned to face him.
“I am Bishop Benjamin Ernst Dicton, and I’ll be presiding over today’s trial under the eyes of the Goddess. Now, who is that by your side?” The Bishop of Westwick’s eyes were crinkled at the corners, and Clara sensed wisdom behind them. Surprisingly, some kindness, too.
“I am Clara Casewell, Your Excellency. I’m here to defend the professor.”
“D-defend?” The bishop’s eyes darted around the room. “Are we in danger?! Guards!”
Okay, maybe the wisdom thing was wrong.
“No, Your Excellency, there is no danger to us,” she quickly corrected. “What I mean is that I am here as the professor’s representative to help find the truth behind the accusations.”
“Oh. Ahem. You had me scared for a moment there.” The bishop breathed out. “A representative… That is unusual, but I suppose I don’t see the harm in it. The truth is a virtue, after all.”
Huh. She’d expected to find at least some resistance to the notion of a defense attorney. This was convenient, but part of her was disappointed that the bishop seemed to have no idea who she was, even after her success at the High Court. What does a lawyer have to do to get famous around these parts?!
“Now, where is the inquisition?” he asked. The desk opposite to Clara’s was still empty. “It is most inappropriate to keep the court waiting.”
A young man in a brown clerical gown with a red sash came up from the audience, carefully carrying a small wooden chest. “Apologies, Your Excellency. The inquisition is finishing its preparations. You see, the… representative of the inquisition for this trial came all the way from the Duchy of Albion, so he’s only just arrived at Westwick. He will be here shortly.”
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Albion? That was the northernmost part of the Kingdom, if Clara’s memory served. I wonder if there’s a Duke of the North in this world, with brooding red eyes and pitch-black hair, cold, lonely, and misunderstood…
“And you are?”
“Tobias, Your Excellency, an inquisitor-in-training. I’ve been sent ahead to perform the Blessing of Truth.”
The bishop thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. The accused will step forward.”
Professor Morris made his way to the center of the platform, in front of Tobias. The young man opened the chest clumsily, almost spilling some of the wine from the silver chalice inside. Then he raised it high above his head and closed his eyes.
“In vino veritas.”
The chalice glowed, and Tobias handed it to the professor. Morris glanced at Clara before drinking. Then, just as expected, the soft golden light started pulsing from him.
“The Blessing has taken hold,” said the bishop. “Emmet Morris, you are now bound to speak only the truth until the interrogation concludes. Is the inquisition ready?”
The doors at the side of the amphitheater swung open as if they’d been purposefully timed.
“Naturally, Your Excellency.”
Clara heard his voice before she turned to him. It was confident, measured, with just a drop of mockery that would’ve flown over the head of someone less observant.
It was also familiar.
The man who strode toward the inquisition’s desk wore a three-piece suit cut with clean, minimalist lines and narrow lapels, with no ornate tailoring or high collars to be seen. That is to say, a decidedly modern suit. The type Clara would have seen every day on her coworkers and clients.
A white cravat sat at his throat, tied in a way that made it seem both effortlessly knotted and deliberately fluffed up. His wavy, light-blond hair had volume to it, even though it was neatly combed back. Below it was a short, well-maintained beard, closely trimmed along his chin and jaw.
He reached the inquisitor’s desk, and his blue eyes swept the room casually.
Clara’s blood turned to ice.
The man offered the bishop a lopsided smile that could have charmed the interest off a loan. “My apologies for the delay, Your Excellency. Westwick is a long way from the north.”
The bishop examined him, then his brows shot up. “You are… Duke Albion’s son!”
“That is correct, Your Excellency. Warren Righton of Albion, at your service.” He gave a short, almost theatrical bow, raising his left hand to his side.
No. That can’t be.
“But what are you doing here, Lord Warren? As far as I understand it, you are not an inquisitor.”
“You might say I have recently awakened an interest in matters of law. I petitioned the Ecumenical Council to take part in trial proceedings, and after some orientation, they assigned me here. Not as an inquisitor, but…” He paused. “A representative. You may call me a prosecutor, if you will.”
A prosecutor. It wasn’t possible. She had to be hallucinating.
But was she? Why would this be impossible? After all, Clara herself was standing right here, as a defense attorney. If she could do it, why couldn’t he?
“Hmm. The good relationship between the Church and the House of Albion is well known.” The bishop was stroking his beard. “And if the Ecumenical Council has approved this, far be it from me to question it. Still, first we have a representative for the accused, and now the heir to a duke stands as prosecutor for the inquisition… It appears today’s trial shall be full of novelties. Perhaps I should be thankful that life can still surprise me, even at my age.”
The man had the same grin, the same hair, the same eyes, the same insufferable posture. There were differences, of course. The hair was longer, and the beard was new; he had always been clean-shaven in her—no, their world. And the cravat wasn’t something he would have worn back then, either.
Yet there was no denying it. Warren Righton stood opposite to her. And he was, apparently, a high noble.
Why the hell does he get to be the heir to a duke while I have to be a servant!? Is it a canon event that Warren Righton must have a golden spoon!?
“A representative for the accused?” Warren raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t made aware of this. Is this some sort of quaint Westwick custom, like the foul-smelling cheese they’re selling outside?”
And then, finally, Warren turned to her, and their eyes met. He assessed her with curiosity: the maid’s uniform, the apron, the hands clasped in front of her. There was certainly the usual arrogance, too. But there was no recognition: no disorientation, no trace of the barely concealed panic of someone who just realized they aren’t the only outsider to this world.
Does he not recognize me?
“It is an emerging practice,” Clara finally said, and she was proud of how steady her voice came out. “I’ll be assisting the professor during his trial.”
“Assisting him how, exactly? Fetching his tea? Combing his hair? I suppose he does look in need of it.” Warren’s tone was light, almost playful, as if the oddity genuinely delighted him. “What is your name, Miss?”
“Assisting him in making sure the inquisition’s questions are unbiased and that the facts are presented fairly. You can think of me as counsel for the accused. And my name is Casewell. Clara Casewell.” She emphasized every syllable. “You ought to have heard of it.”
She examined his face. Watched for the slightest twitch, the barest hesitation.
“Ah.” Warren looked only amused. “You are the one who objected to an inquisitor’s question before the Pope. Remarkable. Truly.” He straightened up and began arranging papers on his desk. “Unlike that fool Aldric, I relish the chance to tangle with an opponent. Though I must confess I use the term ‘opponent’ loosely.”
I’ll show you ‘loosely’, you insufferable—
Clara took a breath. This was not the time to have a mental breakdown over the fact that the man she’d competed against for years had been reincarnated as a noble-turned-prosecutor with no apparent memory of her existence. She could have that breakdown later, in the company of a pillow.
This was a trial, and the fate of her client was at stake.
“I’m sure we can work together to find the truth, Prosecutor Righton,” she managed.
“Indeed, Counsel Casewell. And if that happens to involve running circles around you, well—I’ll consider it a fringe benefit.”
“Ahem.” The bishop cleared his throat. “If both sides are done with… whatever that was, I would like to begin the trial.”
Both Clara and Warren nodded.
“We are gathered here today…” The bishop started, then stopped. “Why don’t we dispense with the ceremony? I’ll already be late enough for lunch as is, and I’m quite tempted by that cheese allegedly being sold outside.” His tone grew graver. “This court is now in session for the trial of Emmet Morris. The charges are twofold: use of memory magic without permission from the Church, and creation of a Memory Void. Inqui—Lord Warren, you may interrogate the accused.”
Warren stepped out from behind the desk. Even his presence was familiar—the way he took the center of the platform without hurrying, the way he angled himself so as to address both the bishop and the spectators simultaneously. He’d always had the ability to make a room feel like it existed for his benefit.
Then he looked straight at Clara.
“Let’s dance, shall we?”
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