While the court waited for the knights to return with Viscount Vainglory, Clara used the time to review her notes and to check on Marcella. Having finished her testimony, the girl had stepped down from the platform, and was now sitting on the second row of the gallery with her hands folded in her lap.

  “You did well,” Clara told her quietly.

  Marcella responded with a thin smile. “I just told the truth.”

  Clara nodded and returned to the platform, only to find Professor Morris had somehow procured a stub of charcoal and was scrawling Latin on the back of her notes. She decided not to fight that battle today, and instead looked curiously over his scribbles. Ignis circumdare?

  “Playing with fire?” she asked.

  Morris nodded. “Indeed. I’ve been trying to combine two different spells in order to summon a ring of fire around an object—I think that would be highly amusing for the Spellweaving Club’s exhibition at the gala after the midterms.”

  “Hmm.” Clara raised her hand to her chin. She didn’t recognize the word circumdare exactly, but she could infer from the -are ending that it was probably an infinitive. “You may want to try a command form. For this it would be… circumdet, I think.”

  Morris blinked at her, then scratched out the phrase and rewrote it.

  A few minutes later, the side doors swung open, and the clank of armored boots announced the knights’ return. Two of them flanked a man in a Claves uniform: Viscount Reginald Vainglory.

  Clara had braced herself for furious bluster, for the indignity of someone who saw themselves as untouchably high and was in danger of being brought low. Instead, Reginald walked in with his head down, chin nearly touching his chest. His polished shoes scuffed against the floor with each step, producing a sound that was almost like a shuffle.

  Had the viscount resigned himself to his fate? This was what she wanted, but… Unease grew inside her. She glanced at Warren, who had also been watching the viscount’s entrance. During the break he’d been impassively calm, but now that the viscount was here, Warren’s crossed arms had loosened, and his lips had tilted down into a frown.

  Behind the knights and the viscount, another figure slipped through the doors, silver drills, burgundy ribbons and all.

  What is she doing here? Clara checked the position of the sun through the windows. It’s not even noon yet. How did she get out of class?

  As the knights stepped up to the platform with the viscount, Iris came behind the defense’s bench, then took the seat next to Clara’s as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Viscount Vainglory,” said the bishop. “Thank you for joining us.”

  Reginald said nothing. He simply stood at the center of the platform, staring at the floor.

  “Viscount? Are you—”

  “I am here, Your Excellency.” His voice was flat, drained of all presence. “I understand why I’ve been summoned.”

  Clara glanced at Marcella. The girl had gone rigid, her eyes were widened, and her hands were gripping tightly onto her seat. It was a natural reaction to being near one’s tormentor, but… why did it almost seem like she was looking at Iris, and not at Reginald?

  Warren stood from his seat. “Viscount, you have my apologies for this. I assure you that once your innocence is proven by the Blessing of Truth, you will be free—”

  “Warren,” Reginald’s voice cut through the chamber. “I am sorry for this.” He turned to the bishop and swallowed. “Your Excellency, I don’t need the Blessing. I’ll confess.”

  “C-confess?” the judge repeated.

  Warren swung his hand down. “You can’t be serious, Reginald. Is this some sort of jape? My patience has its limits.”

  “I assure you, it is no jape. It was me. I am the one responsible for the Memory Void.”

  The amphitheater erupted. The bishop had to call for order three times, and the noise only started to subside when the knights began to stamp their boots on the floor. This place really needs a gavel.

  Clara stood very still while silence slowly returned to the room. She should have felt triumphant. They’d won—the confession meant that Professor Morris would be found innocent of causing the Memory Void, and the true culprit would face justice. So why did she feel there was something else? Something she hadn’t seen?

  She pressed her hands against her cheeks. Don’t overthink it, Clara. You’re a lawyer. You’re here for your client.

  “Viscount Vainglory,” the bishop said slowly. “Do you understand the gravity of what you are saying? Causing a Memory Void is one of the very gravest sins! You would find yourself stripped of your title and lands, at the very least.”

  “I understand.” Reginald’s voice was the same flat monotone. His eyes didn’t sit still, though Clara couldn’t make out exactly what he was trying to look at. Somewhere behind him?

  Warren strode towards the viscount with long, furious strides. “Reginald, look at me.” But the viscount didn’t raise his head.

  “I said, look at me.”

  Slowly, Reginald lifted his gaze, and slowly his eyes met Warren’s. He seemed more apologetic than guilty.

  “You were a ward of my house,” said Warren, and his voice was low enough that Clara could barely hear it. “You lived under our roof. You sat at our table. And now you stand here and tell me you committed one of the most heinous acts of magic known to the Holy Kingdom?”

  “I… I apologize for deceiving you, Lord Warren.”

  Warren stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then he turned sharply on his heel and returned to the prosecution’s desk, a pained look on his face.

  “Viscount Vainglory,” said Clara. “You admit to sneaking into the Professor’s office, stealing the notebook, then using it to create a Memory Void on Forrest?”

  “Yes. I did… I did all of that.”

  “And what happened to Seamus?” asked Clara.

  “Ah?” The viscount blinked.

  “Lord Seamus’s suspicious withdrawal from Claves last year. Do you confess to being responsible for that as well?”

  “I confess to that, too.”

  The uproar started again.

  It was all so… strange. Why had Warren been so confident of Reginald’s innocence? The Warren Righton she knew rarely had such faith in people. And why had the viscount confessed so easily? Was it really just the threat of the Blessing of Truth?

  She pushed those thoughts away. I am a lawyer. My duty is to my client.

  “Your Excellency,” said Clara. “The defense moves for an immediate ver—”

  “Clara.” Iris was at her side, tugging at the sleeve of her jacket. “You’re making a mistake.”

  Clara leaned down, keeping her voice low enough that only Iris could hear, which was easy enough given the loudness in the court. “My lady, the viscount just confessed. Professor Morris is about to be exonerated. This is exactly what we wanted.”

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  “No. This is exactly what she wanted.”

  She? Was Iris still fixated on Marcella? Why was it so hard for Iris to believe that some people could truly just be good? In Clara’s entire time in this world, Marcella had been the only noble to treat Clara like a full person, not a servant, even if a beloved one.

  “My lady, we don’t have time for—”

  “You are still not seeing her for what she is.” Iris’s whisper was fierce. “You don’t know these people like I do. After what happened with Helena, I had hoped that you, at least, would believe me.”

  Clara’s jaw tightened. “Lady Marcella’s story matches the facts.”

  “Marcella’s story is so neat it practically has a bow tied on it. Do you really think she would have told us everything so easily, if she were truly a kind, scared girl? We are strangers to her, Clara, and she told us all of it with the slightest degree of prodding.”

  Clara opened her mouth. Then closed it.

  She thought back to the conversation in Marcella’s room. The lemonade. The smile. The tears at exactly the right moments.

  “Think about what we actually know,” Iris pressed. “We know Marcella is in the Spellweaving Club. That she had access to Forrest. That she was the last person who spoke to him before he went to the professor. And we know that every single piece of evidence pointing to Viscount Vainglory came from her mouth alone—and she wasn’t under the Blessing of Truth.”

  “The brooch,” countered Clara.

  “A diamond brooch with a gem like those mined by the Vainglorys,” Iris repeated her own words back to her. “Clara, are men the only ones who wear brooches? And does one not give gifts during courtship?”

  Shit. The pieces of the puzzle in Clara’s mind, which had previously coalesced so neatly, scattered like flies.

  “I believe we have reached a conclusion to this unfortunate affair,” said the bishop, with the noise in the amphitheater having finally been brought under control by the knights.

  But Clara’s mind didn’t stop racing. Yesterday, when they went into Marcella’s room… she was wearing a brooch. And the viscount’s reaction when Clara asked him about Seamus had been suspicious—as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

  She looked at Reginald again. At the way his eyes kept drifting somewhere behind him. Not at the exit, or at Warren. Somewhere in the gallery. Where Marcella was.

  Had Clara been deceived? In her loneliness, in her desire to be seen for more than a commoner and a servant, had she misjudged things?

  But even if she had, why did it matter? A lawyer’s duty was to their client. And her client was about to be found innocent.

  Ten out of ten trial lawyers would have called her foolish for what she was about to do.

  It was good, then, that Clara Casewell had never been a trial lawyer before.

  Before the bishop could continue, she slammed her desk with both hands.

  “Hold it!”

  He gasped. “I beg your pardon?”

  Warren’s head snapped towards her.

  “The defense is not satisfied with Viscount Vainglory’s confession,” said Clara. “We demand the use of the Blessing of Truth.”

  “What?” Fear spread across the viscount’s face. “I have already confessed! What more could you possibly—”

  Another slam, this time from Warren’s desk. “The prosecution agrees with the defense.” Some of the fire had returned to his eyes.

  “Lord Warren, you too? But why?” asked the bishop.

  “The details of his confession are insufficient. So far, he’s merely confirmed what we’ve asked him to. He hasn’t provided any new information that someone who committed those crimes would know,” said Clara.

  She pointed at Reginald. “Viscount Vainglory. You confessed to being responsible for Lord Seamus’s withdrawal from Claves last year. Care to share how you achieved that?”

  Reginald recoiled. “I… It was quite long ago, and I deal with many matters as viscount. I do not remember such petty details.”

  “I see. Then, let us talk about the current situation. You admitted to stealing pages from the professor’s notebook. Could you describe the contents of those pages? And be as specific as you can,” said Clara.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Marcella bite her thumb.

  Reginald shrugged. “There were incantations written in the Sacred Tongue. It’s not as if I’ve memorized them.”

  “How very vague, for someone usually so attentive,” said Warren. “It’s a good thing, then, that the Blessing of Truth can clear up foggy memories. Tobias!”

  The young inquisitor-in-training stepped forward from the gallery, with the same brown clerical gown. “Yes, Lord Warren?”

  “Prepare the Blessing of Truth. Immediately.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Tobias went out into a side room.

  “Your Excellency! Please! I object!” Viscount Vainglory had fallen to his knees, raising his hands in supplication. “It was me! I’m guilty!”

  “I admit this is all a novel experience for me, but from what I gathered, only the people behind the desks are entitled to object.” The bishop shook his head as he spoke. “And I’m afraid I’m inclined to agree with the defense and the prosecution. The details of this confession are far too murky for a matter of such import.”

  At the bishop’s words, Marcella stood up and hurried towards the exit. Clara was about to say something when Warren spoke up. “Guards, escort Lady Marcella back to her seat. I believe the prosecution shall have to call on her before this trial is over.”

  Looks like he’s caught on as well.

  Tobias soon returned from the side door, a wooden chest in tow. He approached the viscount carefully, then took out the chalice. Reginald’s face had gone paper-white.

  “In vino veritas,” Tobias chanted, and the chalice glowed with its familiar golden light. He held it out to the viscount.

  “Viscount,” said the bishop kindly. “Drink.”

  “Or you will be made to,” Warren added sternly.

  Reginald turned to the gallery, where Marcella sat rigidly in her seat, flanked by knights. There was no longer any fear or meekness on her face; only an unreadable seriousness.

  Clara glanced at Iris. The girl was smirking now, with her usual haughtiness elevated to new heights by the certainty she was about to be proven right.

  I should apologize to her. I thought she was the one being biased, when really, it looks like I was.

  Reginald turned back to Tobias and took the chalice. His fingers slipped on the metal twice before he finally grasped it properly. Then he drank, and the golden light bloomed from his chest.

  “The Blessing has taken hold,” said the bishop. “Viscount Reginald Vainglory, you are now bound to speak only the truth. Prosecutor Righton, you may proceed with the interrogation.”

  “With pleasure.” Warren rose from the prosecution’s desk and adjusted his cuffs. When he stepped onto the center of the platform, the stiffness that had settled over him since Reginald’s confession was gone.

  “Let’s get straight to the point, shall we? Viscount Reginald Vainglory. Did you cause the Memory Void on Forrest Lorne?”

  Reginald’s jaw clattered, as if he were exerting a tremendous amount of effort to keep his mouth closed. But Clara knew from experience that you couldn’t resist the Blessing’s compulsion. “No,” he whispered.

  “I didn’t hear you,” said Warren. “You are a viscount of the Holy Kingdom of Arcadia. You shall speak like one.”

  Reginald gulped. “No. I did not cause the Memory Void.”

  Warren faced Reginald directly. “Did you enter Professor Morris’s office on Sunday?”

  “No.”

  “Did you steal pages from his research notebook?”

  “No.”

  “Did you, at any point, cast memory magic on Forrest Lorne or any other person?”

  “No.”

  “Were you responsible for Lord Seamus’s, or any student’s, withdrawal from Claves?”

  “No.”

  “Did you witness a love confession between Forrest Lorne and Marcella Skerrington?”

  “No.”

  Warren continued asking questions regarding every detail of Marcella’s testimony, and each of the viscount’s ‘Nos’ came faster than the last. Every time Reginald opened his mouth, the panicked expression on his face softened like a man being relieved of a terrible burden.

  “Prosecutor Righton,” interrupted Clara. “If I may?”

  Warren met her gaze, then nodded. “The floor is yours, counsel.”

  “Viscount Vainglory.”

  Reginald turned to her, and his slanted eyes now held peaceful acceptance.

  “Why did you go to Forrest Lorne’s room on Monday morning?”

  “I was asked to.”

  “By whom?”

  He clenched his fists and took a deep breath. Clara was genuinely impressed that he managed to hold out for so long against the Blessing. But inevitably, he cracked. “By Lady Marcella Skerrington. She sent me a note through her maid before daybreak, stating that she had reason to believe Forrest was going through a difficult time. As I am captain of the Spellweaving Club, she asked me to check on him.”

  Wow. So it really had been noblesse oblige, at least in a way. Clara wanted to kick herself for getting it all so wrong.

  “Why did you confess to the court today?”

  “For the same reason: I was asked to do so by Lady Marcella Skerrington. Last night, she visited me personally and told me that, should I be summoned here today, I was to confess to everything that was attributed to me.”

  The spectators in the gallery all turned to Marcella and the knights surrounding her. Yet she held the same impassiveness as before.

  “You were asked to lie to the court? To confess to sins you didn’t commit?” asked the bishop. “Why would you humor a request like that?! A viscount ought to know better than to lie under the Goddess’s watch!”

  Despite the bishop’s apparent newfound appreciation for the adversarial system, Clara decided not to bring up the fact that he probably shouldn’t be asking questions to a witness during her cross-examination.

  Reginald straightened his back and raised his shoulders. Then his lips curved up—not the pretentious grin from before, but an earnest and warm smile.

  “Because I love her,” he said definitively, as if that was all the answer in itself. “Lady Marcella is the kindest, most gentle soul to ever grace this Kingdom. When she speaks, even the songbirds fall silent in shame. When she smiles, the Goddess herself ought to feel inadequate. And she loves me, too.” He reached out to the gallery. “Don’t you, my dear?”

  That’s it? Clara had expected some form of blackmail, some political power play behind the scenes. All this because he’d been desperately, madly in love?

  I fucking hate teenagers.

  Marcella scoffed, rolled her eyes, and then her face contorted into a mixture of annoyance and contempt.

  So that’s who you are with your mask off. Oh, I’m coming for you. You’re going to pay.

  Clara took out the brooch. “Viscount, you may remember I showed this to you the last time you were here. Do you recognize it?”

  “As I said last time, I deal with too many—” He stopped, and a flicker of Blessing-powered recognition crossed his face. “Yes, I recognize it. It was one of the many gifts I gave to Lady Marcella over the last year.”

  “But that brooch was found in the professor’s office… Then that means—Oh my,” said the bishop.

  “Prosecutor Righton,” said Clara. “I believe it is high time to bring our dance to a close.”

  “So it is, Counsel Casewell. And what a dance it was.” Warren stretched out his arm towards the crowd. “The prosecution demands the interrogation of Marcella Skerrington under the Blessing of Truth!”

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