She approached the professor, who was rubbing his temples, the golden light around his chest having dispersed just moments ago.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’ve been better, Miss Casewell. Thank you for your efforts.”
“Save the gratitude for when we survive whatever Warren has planned.” She lowered her voice. “Do you have any idea who the new witness could be?”
Morris shook his head. “No. I didn’t tell anyone about the spell aside from Forrest himself, and he’s currently…” He trailed off, his expression darkening. “Do you really believe there might be another culprit? That it wasn’t me who caused the Memory Void?”
“I don’t know.” She wasn’t going to lie to him, but she still wanted to reassure him. “What matters is that Warren hasn’t proven it was you. There are still other possibilities, and we have other cards to play. I’ll do my best, Professor.”
There were hints of a smile around his lips. “You know, when you asked to defend me yesterday, I was quite baffled—I had never heard of anything like this before. But now… whatever happens next, I’m glad I trusted you.”
She smiled back.
“Clara!” A familiar voice rang from the amphitheater’s entrance. Iris swept in, the burgundy ribbon on her collar slightly askew as if she’d been running. Behind her, a mildly panicked Emma followed at a half-jog.
“My lady, I told you the break might be too short to come all the way here; we’ll be late for—”
“Nonsense, Emma. A von Rhenia is never late; everyone else is simply early.” Iris stopped in front of Clara and Morris, then gave him a once-over. “Professor, you look dreadful.”
“Your… support is appreciated, Lady Iris,” he replied, trying to fix his hair with his hands.
Iris ignored him and turned to Clara. “I came as soon as my lecture ended. Tell me everything. How bad is it?”
Clara guided the group to a bench in the hallway outside the amphitheater, away from the lingering spectators. Emma took out two small bundles from her bag and handed one to Clara and one to the professor—they contained bread rolls and some apples, wrapped in cloth napkins.
“Thank you, Emma.”
The girl gave a quick bow. “Of course, Miss Casewell. I had a feeling you’d be hungry.”
“The short version,” said Clara between bites, “is that the permit violation is done. He’s guilty on that, and there’s nothing we can do about it other than hope for leniency on the sentencing.”
Iris nodded gravely. “And the Void?”
“I managed to poke enough holes in their case that the bishop hasn’t ruled yet. The professor’s checks showed Forrest was fine in the hours after the spell, and the timeline doesn’t fit how Memory Voids normally work.”
“But?”
“But the prosecutor claims he has another witness. A student. We don’t know who,” Clara admitted.
“The prosecutor.” Iris’s eyes narrowed. “From what the spectators were mumbling when we came in, you mean the son of Duke Albion?”
Don’t remind me that he’s going to be a duke. “Yes. You know him?”
“I know of him. The Albion family has always been the most secluded of the ducal houses, so I’ve never met Lord Warren directly. They’re also deeply entangled with the Church, while Papa prefers to avoid all that. But Conrad saw him at a social gathering last year and came back calling him a ‘boorish recluse’.”
A recluse? That hardly matched the Warren that Clara saw in court today. Was that the personality of the ‘original’ Albion heir, which got overwritten by Warren, just like how Clara replaced Stella?
“I thought he was rather well put together,” the professor offered.
Iris and Clara both stared at him.
“What? I have eyes,” he muttered.
“Moving on.” Clara cleared her throat. “My lady, do you know of any students who might bear a grudge against Forrest?”
“Hmm.” Iris tapped her chin. “Forrest is quite popular, the kind of person everyone likes. Friendly with students of all backgrounds, which is rarer than you’d think at Claves.”
“So he’s popular with nobles despite being a commoner?”
“Mmm. Somewhat. He is—or was—apparently very charming, in a harmless sort of way. I haven’t heard of any grudges. That said, I’ve been away from the rumor mill while I was at the capital.”
“My lady, if I may?” asked Emma.
Iris scoffed. “You may not. Can’t you see we’re in the middle of talking?”
“Yes, but—”
“I said, not now. I don’t want to hear anything else about being late for class.”
Clara shot Iris a sideways glare. After pouting for a moment, Iris turned back to Emma. “What is it?”
“I-I heard some talk earlier today while working in the kitchen at the dorms. I think it involves the student you’re talking about. Forrest.”
Iris frowned. “Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?! What did you hear?”
“Some of the other servants…they said Forrest had confessed his love to someone, and that it caused quite a stir.”
“Confessed his love? To whom?” asked Iris.
“That part I didn’t hear, my lady. I had to go do the laundry and—”
“Emma, listen to me carefully. This is a matter of the utmost importance.” Iris stood up seriously. “If there ever comes a time when you must decide between listening to gossip and doing laundry or any other chore, I hope you don’t make the wrong decision again. Clothes can be bought; secrets are priceless.”
Ironic, from someone who was going to have her lashed over dresses.
“Yes, my lady! I’m sorry, my lady!” Emma bowed, and the edges of her eyes were reddening.
“Professor. Was the reason Forrest asked to have his memories altered related to this love confession?” asked Clara.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
He nodded slowly.
“And you still won’t give us the details?”
“I am sorry, Miss Casewell. I know you’re doing all you can for my sake, but I’ve made a promise to Forrest, and given what happened to him… I can’t bear to go back on my word.”
Clara sighed. She had dealt with her fair share of stubborn clients, but this was really something else. Withholding information from your lawyer that might be material to your defense… It was incredibly foolish, despite the noble sentiment behind it. Yet, like every other time a client had refused to listen to her, she’d just have to work around it.
“My lady,” said Clara, “do you think you could find out more about Forrest’s confession?”
“Need you even ask? Are you questioning the abilities of Iris von Rhenia? My grasp of the attention-seeking young ladies at Claves is exquisite. Oh ho ho!” Iris grinned smugly.
“Thank you, my lady.” Clara smiled back. “I’ll need to make sure the bishop doesn’t reach a verdict today so you can work your magic.”
Iris swayed her head, as she often did when she was about to be mischievous. “If the witness is a student… You may need my support to achieve that. And I definitely don’t say that just because I have Professor Harwick again this afternoon.”
“Ahem.” The bishop cleared his throat. There was a small piece of cheese stuck in his beard. “We shall now resume the trial of Emmet Morris. Is the inqui—” He stopped himself and thought for a moment. “I mean, are the prosecution and the defense ready to continue?”
“The defense is ready, Your Excellency,” said Clara. Next to her were both Professor Morris and Iris, who’d insisted on staying. Now that her fate wasn’t on the line, she seemed excited to be at a trial.
“Naturally, the prosecution is ready, Your Excellency.” Warren was talking to the bishop, but his eyes were looking right into hers.
“Excellent,” said the bishop. “Lord Warren, you mentioned a second testimony. Let us have it.”
Warren nodded. “The prosecution calls its witness.” He gestured to the doors at the side of the amphitheater. “Viscount, you may come in.”
The young man strode through like he was gracing the room with the honor of his presence—or at least, that was clearly what he thought he was doing. He wore the standard Claves uniform, but only in the loosest sense. The jacket had been re-cut to sit closer at the waist, the brass buttons had been swapped for gold, and a silk cravat in black matching his short hair replaced the standard white ribbon. His leather shoes had been polished to a mirror shine, and even his lapel glistened when he adjusted his jacket.
Iris narrowed her eyes as the witness climbed to the top of the platform. He’s well-dressed, and considering her reaction, she ought to know who he is. It might actually have been good that she stayed, though I am a bit worried about her catching up on studies for the midterm exams. Tests at Claves, of course, used the typical novel method of ‘publicly exposing every student’s scores in the hallway’. Iris wasn’t anywhere close to the top, but she wasn’t at the bottom either, and a fall could damage her reputation even further than the Crown Prince had.
“State your name for the court,” said Warren.
“Hmph. If there are any in this city who don’t know my name, they would do well to learn it quickly.” The young man tilted his chin upward. “Viscount Reginald Vainglory. When I am not attending to the many duties of my domain, I am a second-year student at Claves Academy and captain of the Spellweaving Club.”
“He’s a viscount while still being a student?” Clara whispered to Iris.
“Yes. His father passed away over a decade ago, so he’s technically been a viscount since childhood.” Iris whispered back. “Don’t underestimate him, Clara. The Vainglorys are only viscounts in title. Their lands up north sit on half the gemstone mines in the Kingdom. Their raw wealth could rival even most ducal houses. Most.”
“Thank you for coming today, Viscount Vainglory,” said Warren. “I know how valuable your time is.”
Reginald chuckled. “I normally wouldn’t concern myself with a petty affair like this, but seeing it was a personal request from you, Lord Warren, I had to make an exception.” Then he turned to Iris. “Oh, I see the daughter of the von Rhenias has also deigned to join this quaint gathering. Well met, Lady Iris. I do hope you are not too distraught over the whole situation with His Highness.”
Clara reached for Iris’s arm, but the girl was already smiling. “How kind of you to concern yourself with my personal affairs, Viscount. I assure you, I’m quite well. Some betrothals end because of incompatibility, yet others never begin at all, despite how much one may chase after the object of their affections. I suspect you are more familiar with the latter.”
He recoiled, but quickly recomposed himself. “I see you remain as charming as ever.”
“I believe that is enough socialization,” Warren’s voice cut through. “Your Excellency, if I may begin questioning the witness?”
The bishop, who’d been clearly flustered by the exchange, nodded quickly. “Yes, please. Let’s keep things civil. The Goddess is watching, after all.”
“Hold on,” said Clara. “The viscount hasn’t been put under the Blessing of Truth yet.”
But Warren shook his head. “Counsel Casewell, the viscount stands here of his own free will. He has not been accused of any crime. What grounds could there be for forcing the Blessing of Truth upon him? Surely the word of a peer of the Kingdom can be trusted.”
“Indeed,” said the bishop. “The Church places strict rules on who should be subjected to the Blessing of Truth.”
Clara knew she wasn’t in a position to challenge Church policy, so she backed down into her seat. She didn’t need the Blessing, anyway; she’d done just fine without it for her entire career.
Warren rose and walked towards the viscount. His bearing was much different from how it had been when he interrogated the professor. Instead of the predatory circling and the pointed questions designed to corner, Warren’s tone was conversational and collegial.
“Viscount, I understand you were the one who discovered Forrest Lorne’s condition. Could you walk us through what happened?”
Reginald examined his nails briefly before answering. “It was yesterday morning. A Monday. I passed by Forrest’s door and saw it ajar, which struck me as unusual. I thought perhaps something was amiss, so I looked inside.”
Clara raised an eyebrow.
“And what did you find?” asked Warren.
“He was sitting on his bed, staring at the wall. I called his name several times, but he didn’t respond.” Reginald paused, and something that might have been genuine discomfort crossed his face. “It was all quite unsettling. I immediately called for the hall monitor, who then called for the authorities. When the Church officials came, they confirmed it was a Memory Void.”
“That must have been truly distressing to witness,” said Warren. Clara wanted to roll her eyes at how genuinely empathetic he sounded.
“It was. And I must confess, I had my suspicions right away. I told the authorities as much.”
Warren tilted his head as if he didn’t know exactly what the viscount would say. “Suspicions? What do you mean?”
“Well, it was a Memory Void, wasn’t it? And even a halfwit would know that comes from memory magic. There’s only one person who does that at Claves.” Reginald gestured lazily toward the professor.
“Besides his field of study, did you have any other reason to believe Professor Morris was responsible for the victim’s condition?”
“Yes.” Reginald smirked. “I am captain of the Spellweaving Club, after all. Any of us in the club could tell you that our dear supervisor, Professor Morris, has a history of misfiring his spells—it’s practically regular entertainment.” His expression turned dark. “Though I suppose it’s all rather less amusing now.”
Clara glanced at the professor. Morris’s jaw was tight, but he said nothing. If their brief interaction in his office was anything to go by, the viscount was probably telling the truth here.
“Misfiring? Could you elaborate on that, Viscount?”
“Oh, where to begin? The professor’s lofty ambitions with the Sacred Tongue far exceed his ability to control it. I won’t deny his talents, but more often than not his experiments result in mishaps. Explosions, objects flying across the room, the occasional bystander sent tumbling into a wall… As we say in the club: ‘every time Morris casts a spell, the Goddess flips a coin’.”
Warren let the quote linger in the air. The professor looked genuinely hurt, like he’d just been betrayed. Then Warren turned to the bishop.
“Your Excellency, before the recess, the defense argued that the prosecution’s case had gaps. That we had established that the accused used memory magic on the victim, but not sufficiently connected that with the resulting Memory Void.” He began to pace again. “I acknowledged those points, then. However, I believe we now have our answer to them.”
He gestured toward the viscount. “The Viscount Vainglory—the captain of the Spellweaving Club, someone who has witnessed the professor’s work firsthand—has testified that Professor Morris routinely misfires his spells in ways he neither expects nor controls.”
Warren stopped pacing and faced Clara directly. She held his gaze until he turned back to the bishop.
“The defense’s argument rests on the assumption that a Memory Void caused by the professor’s spell should have manifested immediately. And that may have been the case, were we dealing with a standard spellcaster. But the accused is not prone to producing predictable results; he is a man who creates magical outcomes that defy expectation as a matter of course. Is it so difficult to believe that his memory spell misfired on Sunday, but it manifested in a way that his own checks—designed for conventional outcomes—failed to detect, producing catastrophic results only discovered on Monday morning?”
It was a sound argument—infuriatingly so. He’d taken the timeline, her strongest point, and turned it into a weakness by reframing Morris’s incompetence as the very reason the Void didn’t behave normally. It was elegant in its simplicity: you can’t predict what an unpredictable man’s magic will do. Clara’s mind was racing, weighing every possible counterargument she could think of.
“Well put, Lord Warren,” said the bishop. “I suppose it’s now time for the defense to take its turn, yes?” He looked genuinely interested in what Clara might say. Could it be that he was enjoying the experience of a proper trial?
Clara took a deep breath and rose from her seat. Now, how do I turn this around?