Clara and Iris’s walk to Claves was a quiet one, and the weight of the trial and Marcella’s confession hung heavy in the air. They’d ended up walking back by themselves, as Professor Morris and Captain Ricardo had paperwork to deal with.

  Clara had wanted to speak to Warren after the trial. But when she’d looked for him outside the city hall, she’d found him standing with Reginald near an Albion carriage. The viscount’s shoulders were shaking, and Warren had a brotherly hand on his back. It wasn’t a conversation she had a right to interrupt, and she pushed away the pang of jealousy at the fact that, thanks to him apparently maintaining his memories of this world, Warren wasn’t truly alone like she was.

  When they were back in Iris’s suite, with the door closed and the curtains drawn against the setting sun, they settled into their familiar routine.

  Clara picked up the brush from the dressing table. Iris sat down at her usual spot in front of the round tea table, and Clara began working through the silver drills with slow, careful strokes.

  For a while, there was only the soft rasp of bristles through hair and the distant chatter of students in the courtyard below.

  “I owe you an apology, my lady.”

  Iris didn’t turn around. “For what?”

  “For not listening to you about Marcella. You saw through her from the start, and I dismissed your instincts because I thought you were being—” Clara searched for the right way to put this.

  “Petty? Paranoid? Irrationally suspicious of anyone who smiles too much?” Iris offered.

  “I might have preferred the term ‘overcautious’, but yes, those too.”

  Iris let out a small laugh, but it faded quickly. Clara continued brushing.

  “I suppose you may not have been entirely wrong,” said Iris. “About me, I mean. I am biased against people like her. It may not always be fair.”

  “It wasn’t unfair this time.”

  “No. But it could have been. If Marcella had truly been what she appeared to be, I would have pushed you to doubt an innocent girl.” Iris tilted her head slightly, and the drill Clara was holding slipped through her fingers. “What if I’m not right next time?”

  “That’s what I’m here for. Between the two of us, we should manage not to accuse too many innocent people,” said Clara.

  “Perhaps a few here and there would be acceptable.” Iris reached up and placed her hand over Clara’s, stopping the brush mid-stroke. “Clara.”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Seeing plots and puppet strings everywhere I look… It can be useful, but it’s rather lonely.” Iris’s quiet voice was raw.

  “Loneliness can be hard to deal with, my lady.” Clara sighed. “But you can always remember that you have a wonderful family. Few nobles would cancel an engagement with the crown for the sake of their daughter’s happiness, and every time I wrote to the duke to update him on the trial, his reply asked about you. Perhaps you could invite them to Claves for the gala after the midterms?”

  “Hmm. Perhaps I shall.” Iris finally turned her head. “Speaking of loneliness, I am reminded of what Marcella said. That you were ‘starved’. Do you feel lonely often, Clara?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. It was technically true, yet it was an understatement of such magnitude that it bordered on perjury. I wonder if I’d be able to say this under the Blessing of Truth.

  “You’ve been doing this a lot recently,” said Iris.

  “Doing what?”

  “Giving an answer that sounds honest but says nothing.” Iris turned fully around in her chair now. “I’m not an inquisitor, nor am I Marcella. I’m not going to force you to talk, and if you do, I won’t turn your words against you. But I do wish you’d stop treating me like this.”

  Clara hesitated. A therapist had once told her, ‘the only way to stop being lonely is to let others come in’. Back then, she’d ignored it, telling herself she was too busy with work to chase after friends.

  She set the brush down and took the seat next to Iris.

  “Yes,” Clara whispered. “I feel loneliness often. More than often. It’s—” She struggled for the right shape of the truth, one that was real without revealing the impossible. “After losing my family, I taught myself that the only reliable thing in the world was work. If I kept working, kept being useful, then I’d be too busy to feel the emptiness. And if I made myself indispensable… then I wouldn’t have to feel I’m just taking up space.”

  “That,” said Iris, “is the saddest thing I have heard today. Which is a surprisingly high bar, all things considered.”

  Clara laughed softly. “It’s not that dramatic, my lady.”

  “It absolutely is. You’ve just told me that the only reason you believe you deserve to exist is because you’re helpful.” Iris put her hand over Clara’s. “You’re not here just because you’re useful, Clara. You’re here because I want you here. Whether you’re defending me in court, or brushing my hair, or doing absolutely nothing at all. Do you understand?”

  Clara pushed away any thoughts that this affection didn’t belong to her, then pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “Good,” said Iris.

  “Lady Iris, there’s something I wanted to ask you. Do you feel I’ve been… different? Since my incident.”

  “Hmm.” Iris looked straight at Clara. First at her clothes, then her hair, then her eyes. “I don’t think so? You seem the same Clara as always. If I had to say something, I suppose you’re more proactive now? And you spend less time going to church. That was a rather unfortunate habit of yours.”

  So either Stella’s personality was remarkably like mine, or Iris’s memories of Stella somehow changed.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The softness in Iris’s face faded, replaced by the composure of someone who had decided that sufficient vulnerability had been exchanged for one afternoon. “Now. There’s something else.”

  “My lady?”

  “Next Tuesday is your birthday.”

  That would be March 30th in this world’s calendar.

  Clara was unsure how to feel about the fact that Arcadia’s months were named the same as in the modern calendar. She could accept most of them: the ancient Elysian Empire was clearly modeled after Rome, so names like January and March, based on Roman gods Janus and Mars, made sense. Or April, named after the opening—apriere—of spring buds. And of course, September and beyond were just numbers.

  Yet how could she reconcile July and August? Did this world have Julius Caesar and Augustus? Was this just a worldbuilding flaw in the original story, or did Clara need to go brush up on her Elysian history?

  She exhaled. Right now, there was something more important than ranting about the calendar.

  March 30th was her birthday. Clara’s. Was it Stella’s birthday, too, or did the forces that brought her here change even that? She couldn’t wrap her head around the mechanics of her transmigration.

  “I suppose it is,” said Clara carefully.

  “You shall have the day off.”

  “My lady, just because Marcella—”

  Iris scoffed. “I had, of course, intended to do this all along. A von Rhenia does not concern herself with the opinions of someone like her.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Clara couldn’t help but smile. “But who will take care of you?”

  “It won’t kill me to make do with Emma for a day.” Iris waved dismissively. “And I shall be busy, anyway. I must focus on the midterms. It wouldn’t do to fall behind.”

  I suppose a day off could be enjoyable.

  “Then, thank you for your generosity. And I am happy to hear you’re so motivated for the exams. How do you plan to catch up on what you missed?”

  “Oh ho ho!” she laughed heartily. “One might remember that a certain professor owes a favor to House von Rhenia. Or a thousand.”

  “Very shrewd, my lady.” Clara raised her hand to her chin. “If I may, could I observe some of your sessions with the professor?”

  “Oh, right. You did say you wanted to study. Yes, I suppose you may.” Iris raised her head, satisfied. “I wager not even the ever so kind Marcella would let her maid attend tutoring with her.”

  Whatever happened to not concerning yourself with the opinions of someone like her?

  Clara knocked on Professor Morris’s door on Monday just after lunch, half expecting to be greeted by another magical explosion.

  Instead, there was a pause, the sound of a chair scraping, and then the door opened to reveal the professor wearing a clean, uncrumpled vest. Behind him, the office was… well, it wasn’t pristine, but Clara could actually see most of the floor, which was a marked improvement over the last time she’d been here.

  “Miss Casewell! Come in, come in.” He stepped aside and closed the door behind her as she entered.

  He’s really trying to turn over a new leaf. Almost makes me want to give him a head pat.

  Morris gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Would you like some tea?”

  “I’ll pass, thank you.” Clara sat down. “I wanted to speak with you before Lady Iris arrives for her tutoring session.”

  “Ah, yes.” He settled into his chair in front of her. “I suspect you want to speak about something that’ll be beneficial for both of us.”

  “When we first met, you were examining my memory before the knights arrived. You said something about my magical energy. Or rather, the lack of it.”

  Morris leaned forward, and the absent-minded smile faded. “Yes. No detectable magical energy whatsoever. An impossibility, according to everything we know about life and the Goddess.” He picked up a pen and started tapping it against the desk. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since, truth be told, even in the holding cell.”

  “I thought you spent your detention optimizing spells.”

  “I can think about two things at once, Miss Casewell.”

  Clara took a breath. “Can you help me? With my memory?”

  The pen stopped tapping. “I want to be direct with you, because you deserve that after everything you’ve done for me. The answer, right now, is no. I can’t.”

  Clara’s chest tightened, even though she’d guessed this was coming.

  “Even though my sentence was lenient—thanks to you—my permit has been revoked, and odds are the Church will watch me closely. I suspect if I so much as even begin to cast a memory spell, I’ll face a rather harsher penalty,” said the professor.

  “I understand.” And she did, even if understanding didn’t make it sting any less.

  “However.” Morris held up a finger, and there was a gleam in his eyes as he pushed up his glasses. “Even if I can’t cast magic, that doesn’t stop me from theorizing on it. I’m sure you’re more than familiar with how a Memory Void works by now, yes?”

  Clara nodded. “From what Lady Iris explained, it’s caused by severing the magical energy used to create memories.”

  “That’s right. And yet, you obviously have memories even though you have no magical energy. If it’s possible for you, then it may be possible for him.”

  “Forrest,” she said slowly.

  “Yes. Miss Casewell, I would like to study you. If I can understand why you are functional despite the absence of magical energy, it may be possible to find a way to revert Memory Voids, as well as your condition. And when I build up enough knowledge, I will reapply for a research permit so I can execute it—or at least hand over my knowledge to someone who can.”

  She studied the professor’s face. Even though he wasn’t responsible for the Memory Void, there was still guilt in his eyes: that of a man who watched a disaster unfold and had been powerless to stop it.

  “And what would studying me entail?”

  “A mix of conversation and examinations, mostly. Check how your senses respond to certain magical stimuli, have you attempt basic exercises, that sort of thing. It should only take a few hours a week.”

  Clara leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She’d already decided to agree—the opportunity was too valuable to pass up, both for her own sake and Forrest’s. But what kind of lawyer would she be if she didn’t push for better terms?

  “I’ll do it. But I have two conditions.”

  “What are they?”

  “First, my identity stays protected. You can share whatever research findings you make to whoever you deem fit, but leave my name out of it.”

  “That is acceptable. I shall make sure your information stays out of my notes, and if there’s anything that could identify you, I’ll store it somewhere less accessible than—” He gestured vaguely at the surrounding office. “Well, somewhere locked, at minimum.”

  “Good.” Clara uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. “Second, I want you to teach me magic.”

  The pen slipped from Morris’s fingers and clattered onto the desk. “Teach you magic? Miss Casewell, did we not just finish talking about how you have no magical energy?”

  “Is that necessarily a prerequisite?”

  Morris opened his mouth, then closed it. He picked up his pen, put it down, picked it up again, and began tapping it. “It is possible for a spellcaster to infuse their magical energy into a gemstone, and have that energy be used to intensify someone else’s spells later. That is how even those with low magical energy can use simple spell-powered tools, and the basic principle behind enchanted objects like the floating chandeliers all around Claves.”

  He stood up abruptly and began pacing behind his desk. “But whether it would be possible for someone with no magical energy at all to use a gemstone as a conduit, even when invoking the Sacred Tongue… I have no idea. It could be feasible, depending on the principles under which your body operates.”

  “Is that a ‘yes’?”

  “It’s a ‘this is theoretically fascinating and I could hardly call myself an academic if I didn’t investigate it’.” He stopped pacing and turned to her. “Which, in practical terms, I suppose translates to a yes. But I’ll need some time to prepare.”

  “How much time?”

  “A week, at least. I need to review some foundational texts on magical channeling, select suitable gemstones, and design some safe preliminary exercises. Come see me next Monday, same time as today—before Lady Iris’s session.”

  Clara offered him a handshake.

  “We have a deal, then.”

  Morris took her hand, and she smiled. I almost can’t believe it. I might be able to use magic.

  Then an impatient knock came from the door, followed by it immediately swinging open.

  “Professor Morris!” Iris came in. “I trust you’re prepared for our session. I have a great deal of ground to cover before the midterms, and I expect your undivided attention. It’s the least you can do.”

  Morris shot Clara a look of help. She shrugged and mouthed ‘one thousand marks’.

  Then she settled into the corner chair with a notebook of her own, and, for the first time in what felt like forever, let herself simply listen and learn.

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