It was Friday afternoon, the day after the tea party, and Clara and Iris were heading to Marcella Skerrington’s room at Ashford Hall. The trial would continue tomorrow morning, and Marcella might have potentially vital information. What happened when Forrest confessed to her—and why did it lead to him asking for memory magic? And more importantly, were the rumors about Viscount Vainglory true?

  Yet, unlike the day before, when Iris was supremely confident and entirely in her element, right now the girl looked very much uncomfortable. Her usual graceful smile was slightly twisted, and her brows were set in a scowl reminiscent of her brother’s.

  “What’s wrong, my lady?” asked Clara.

  Iris clicked her tongue. “I don’t like her.”

  “You haven’t even spoken to her yet.”

  “I don’t need to. I’ve seen quite enough from across the lecture hall and the dining room.” Iris crossed her arms as they climbed the stairs. “She’s one of those.”

  Clara raised an eyebrow. “Those?”

  “The sweet ones. The ones who smile at everyone, never have a harsh word, and appear to possess no self-interest whatsoever.” Iris said this as if she were describing some kind of nasty parasite. “Cecily said it herself yesterday—‘ever so kind’. That’s exactly what they said about Helena, too, before she swooped in and stole my fiancé while the whole world took pity on her.”

  “My lady, not everyone who is kind has an ulterior motive,” said Clara carefully.

  “Name one.”

  “…Emma?”

  “Emma is terrified of me. That doesn’t count.” Iris waved dismissively. “I know how young noble ladies think; I’ve been dealing with their games my whole life. They all have their desires, and as long as you know what it is, you can trust how they’ll act, regardless of how duplicitous they may seem. But you can’t trust someone who appears to not want anything for themselves—that’s when the knife will be plunged into your back.”

  Clara studied her. Beneath the haughty dismissal, there were traces of a pained smile. “I understand your caution, my lady. Just make sure you act civilly with her, so that we can find out what we need.”

  “I am always civil. I am the picture of civility,” Iris huffed. “I simply reserve the right to be civil while also being deeply suspicious.”

  Clara nodded, and soon they found the door bearing Marcella’s nameplate. Iris knocked.

  “Come in!” called a bright voice from the other side.

  Iris pushed the door open, and Clara followed her inside.

  The room was noticeably smaller than Iris’s suite, but no less well-kept. There was a pleasant smell of fresh flowers, which sat in a glass vase by the window.

  Marcella herself rose from her reading chair the moment they entered, putting down a half-finished embroidery hoop. She was a slender girl with chestnut hair that fell in soft waves past her shoulders, and warm olive eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled. She wore the standard Claves uniform, the only thing of note on it being a quaint lavender ribbon with a small pearl brooch.

  “Lady Iris! What a lovely surprise. I don’t believe you’ve ever visited my room before.” There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in her tone; she seemed genuinely delighted at the surprise.

  “Lady Marcella.” Iris’s smile was polished, but there was a subtle tension in the corner of her lips. “I hope I am not intruding.”

  “Not at all! I was just working on some embroidery, but I could use a break.” Marcella’s gaze moved to Clara, and something extraordinary happened.

  She didn’t look past her. Instead, she smiled at her, just as she’d smiled at Iris.

  “And you must be Miss Clara,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you. The trial at the High Court—you were remarkable, from what they say.”

  “Thank you, Lady Marcella, that’s very kind.”

  “Please, both of you, have a seat.” Marcella gestured to the upholstered chairs near the tea table, then turned to the small cabinet near the window. “I’m afraid I don’t have tea, but could I offer you lemonade and biscuits? One girl in my study group was gracious enough to share a fresh batch of lemons with me yesterday.”

  Iris opened her mouth, almost certainly to say something about how lemonade was a drink for the rabble, but Clara gave her a look, and she settled into the chair with only a slight pursing of her lips. Clara took the seat next to hers. Marcella brought the lemonade over with three cups, and poured one for Iris, then for Clara, and finally for herself.

  Clara took a sip, and something loosened in her chest that she hadn’t realized was tight.

  When was the last time I wasn’t treated like a servant?

  It had only been a few weeks since she’d arrived in this world, but she’d slipped into the role of Iris’s maid so naturally that she’d almost forgotten how things used to be. What it was like to live in a society where your standing wasn’t determined by your birth. Well, for the most part. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the corner of her eye.

  “Are you okay, Clara?” asked Iris.

  “Yes, my lady. Something must have caught in my eye.” Clara turned to Marcella. “The lemonade is wonderful, my lady.”

  Marcella clasped her hands together and smiled. “I’m so glad to hear you say that! I do apologize for the humble spread. If I’d known you were coming, I would have asked my maid to pick up something nicer from the bakery yesterday.”

  Iris’s eyes scanned the room. “Speaking of which, where is your maid?”

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  “Oh, I gave Nell the day off. It’s her birthday today, and I thought she’d rather spend it with her friends in town than fussing over me.”

  Iris stared at Marcella for a long, unblinking moment. Clara could practically hear her searching for the trap behind the girl’s behavior. “How… thoughtful of you,” she finally managed.

  “It’s the least I could do. Nell works so hard, and she never complains about anything.” Marcella took a biscuit and broke it neatly in half. “I sometimes worry I don’t appreciate her enough.”

  Clara took another sip from the lemonade, which was quite refreshing, even if it wasn’t as cool as she would’ve preferred. She caught Iris glancing at her cup with a conflicted expression, as if enjoying it would constitute some form of immorality. Then Clara set down her own cup; they’d exchanged enough pleasantries.

  “Lady Marcella, I hope you’ll forgive me for being forward, but we didn’t come here just for refreshments.” Clara kept her tone gentle. “We wanted to ask you about Forrest Lorne.”

  The change in Marcella was immediate. Her smile faltered for a moment, and she lowered her eyes to the biscuit in her hand.

  “Forrest,” she repeated quietly. “I was wondering if someone would eventually come to ask me about that.”

  “You were close with him, weren’t you?”

  “We were in the Spellweaving Club together. He helped me with my earth magic exercises—I’m rather hopeless with anything that isn’t light-based.” A small, sad smile. “He was always patient. Never made me feel foolish for struggling.”

  “There is no delicate way to broach this,” said Clara, “but we heard he confessed his feelings for you shortly before the incident. Could you tell us what happened?”

  Marcella’s hands tightened around her lemonade. She looked toward the window, then back at Clara, then down at the floor. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I haven’t spoken about this to anyone, and I’m not sure if I should. Why do you want to know?”

  “Lady Marcella, I’m not sure if you were aware of this, but Professor Morris is on trial, accused of causing Forrest’s condition,” Clara answered. “But we believe there’s a possibility he wasn’t responsible. Whatever you share might help us understand what really happened to Forrest—I know it’s painful, and I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to help.” Marcella let go of her cup and pressed her fingertips together. “It’s that some of this involves other people, and I would hate for my words to cause trouble for anyone. Especially when there’s so much I’m uncertain of, myself.”

  Clara nodded sympathetically. “I understand your reluctance, my lady. Rest assured that anything you share with us will only be used to seek the truth.”

  Marcella took a slow breath. “Yes. You’re right. Professor Morris has only ever been patient with me, and I owe him that much.” There was a fragile resolve in her eyes. “Forrest did confess to me. It was Saturday morning, right after the Spellweaving Club’s practice session.”

  “And how did you respond?” asked Iris.

  A long silence. “I was… I was unkind to him. Very unkind.”

  Clara couldn’t even imagine the girl in front of her being cruel. “What do you mean by unkind?”

  “I told him it was inappropriate. That he was being presumptuous. That a commoner had no business harboring feelings for a count’s daughter.” Marcella’s voice had dropped to a whisper, and something tugged at her lips. “I said many things I didn’t mean. Terrible things about his family and his personality. I made sure he would never want to approach me again.”

  Clara frowned. This must be why Forrest asked for the professor’s help. “That doesn’t sound like you, my lady. At least not from what I’ve heard.”

  Marcella sighed. “It doesn’t sound like me because it isn’t me. But I was desperate, and I couldn’t think of another way.”

  “Desperate? Another way to what?”

  “Miss Clara, what I’m about to tell you…” Marcella closed her eyes. When she finally opened them again, there was something raw in her expression. “I need you to understand that I’ve never said this to anyone. And I’m only saying it now because a boy I care deeply about is lying in a bed somewhere, unable to even remember his own name.” Her voice cracked.

  Clara leaned forward. “Take your time.”

  Iris, for her part, had barely said a word since the conversation began. She sat still, her lemonade untouched, watching Marcella with an expression that could have been carved from marble.

  “It’s about Viscount Vainglory,” said Marcella.

  Clara’s pulse quickened. “What about him?”

  “Reginald has been… courting me. Since our first year.” Marcella’s fingers twisted against the fabric of her sleeve. “At first, it was flattering. He’s wealthy, influential, and he can be quite charming when he wants to be. But over time, it became something quite different.”

  “Different how?”

  “He became possessive.” Her tone sounded almost as if she were sorry for saying it. “He started paying attention to who I spoke to, who I studied with. If a boy so much as offered to carry my books, Reginald would find out about it and demand an explanation. And last year… There was a problem.”

  Clara raised an eyebrow, and Marcella gulped. Then she continued. “Last year, a boy confessed to me. Lord Seamus, a third-year. I rejected him—I didn’t know him well enough—but when Reginald found out, he was furious. Lord Seamus withdrew from Claves soon after. I thought that was strange, so I asked my father to look into it, and it turned out Seamus’s father, a baron, had gone bankrupt after being harshly undercut in the precious gem trade. A market mostly controlled by the Vainglorys.”

  The pieces were falling into place, and Clara felt a swell of sympathy for the girl trapped between her genuine feelings and the threat of a jealous, powerful suitor.

  “So when Forrest confessed, you rejected him as harshly as you could,” said Clara. “To make him stay away, and in doing so, protect him from Viscount Vainglory.”

  Marcella nodded, and a tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand. “I thought if I was cruel enough, if I made him believe I was truly disgusted by him, he would give up. He’d be hurt, but he’d avoid a fate like Seamus’s.” Her voice broke. “But instead, Reginald saw him going to Professor Morris, and now he’s—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “If only I’d been honest with him, told him about Reginald and the danger…”

  “This is not your fault, Lady Marcella,” said Clara. “You were only trying to protect him. You say Reginald saw Forrest going to Professor Morris?”

  “Yes.” Marcella slowly nodded. “He was secretly watching when Forrest confessed, and followed him afterwards. I tried to stop him, but when he saw Forrest going to the professor, it was like Reginald became a different person.”

  Clara took her handkerchief and wiped away Marcella’s tears. “Lady Marcella, you’ve been very brave sharing this with us. Do you think you could share it with the court?”

  Marcella took a deep breath. “If that’s what it takes. For Forrest.”

  They stayed a few minutes longer, during which Marcella composed herself, and they chatted about less depressing topics. When they finally rose to leave, Marcella held the door open for both of them.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said, looking at Clara. “I’ve been carrying this alone for so long… Thank you for listening.”

  “Thank you for trusting us, Lady Marcella.”

  The door closed softly behind them, and Clara and Iris walked in silence down the corridor, heading toward Iris’s suite in the opposite wing. Clara’s mind was racing ahead, considering the best way to connect all the information and present it at the trial.

  When they reached their destination, Clara turned to Iris. “That was quite a productive afternoon, my lady. We are much better prepared now.”

  “Mmm,” mumbled Iris.

  Clara blinked. That was it? No comments about what just happened? “My lady, are you alright?”

  Iris sat down on her bed before answering. “I’m fine.”

  “Fine? What about everything Marcella told us?”

  Iris didn’t respond. Her jaw was set, and her eyes were slightly narrowed.

  “You don’t believe her,” said Clara.

  “I said no such thing.”

  “Then what do you believe?”

  “I believe this is all tied up rather cleanly. And I’ve learned to be suspicious of conveniences when it comes to people like her.”

  Clara frowned. Iris had sharp instincts, but she’d need to learn not to let her biases cloud them.

  The silence stretched for a moment, then there was a soft knock on the door.

  “What is it?” asked Iris.

  Emma came into the suite. “Apologies for the intrusion, my lady. Miss Casewell, a package for you just arrived at the servant’s quarters. It was delivered by a servant of House Albion. They said it was very important for you to open it before the trial.”

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