That Tuesday, Clara woke to the unfamiliar luxury of having nowhere to be.
Twenty-eight years old. Or was it? Even Iris hadn’t been sure exactly how old Stella was, since there weren’t exactly detailed birth records for orphans raised by the Church. Clara decided not to think about it; as far as she was concerned, today was simply a day off, and she would treat it as such.
Emma had already left for her duties. But on their nightstand, tucked under a small vase with a wildflower that must’ve been picked up from the courtyard, was a folded piece of paper. Clara opened it and found wobbly letters scratched in fresh ink.
‘HAPI BERTDAY CLARA’
Clara pressed the note against her chest and smiled. So that’s why you wanted to start the lessons by learning to write our names. Not bad for just a week of practice, Emma. Then she changed into the only set of casual clothing that Stella had owned: a simple cotton blouse, a brown ankle-length skirt, and a wool shawl.
She’d barely made it out of Ashford Hall when a voice called out to her.
“Miss Casewell!”
Clara turned to see Captain Ricardo in his usual uniform, dark hair pushed back from his brow.
“I was just on my way to find you,” he said.
“Captain Ricardo.” Clara gave a short bow. “I thought you’d gone back to Elysia after the trial?”
“I did, but with the duke going back to the east for a while, I’ve been asked to remain in Westwick for the foreseeable future.” He ran his hand down the back of his neck. “And it’s Major, now.”
“Then it appears congratulations are in order, Major Ricardo. What will you be doing here at Westwick?”
His easy expression turned serious. “I’m not entirely sure, myself. His Grace seems to have grown… uneasy. For now, I’m to keep watch over Iris, yourself, and Emma, and help with the training of the martial track students at Claves.”
Uneasy? Was political instability on the horizon?
“Well, I’m glad you’re here, Major. It’s good to have another friendly face around.”
“As am I.” His smile was warm and earnest. “There was something else. His Grace asked me to pass on his thanks—he appreciates your efforts to keep him informed, particularly regarding the trial and the situation at Claves.”
“Of course.”
“He also asked me to convey that your consecutive exploits in court have attracted a certain degree of attention. Nothing to be concerned about for now, but you should know that the trials have been noticed in higher circles.”
She raised an eyebrow. It was hard to know whether that was good or bad. If Clara wanted to ever be a lawyer again, this world needed to accept adversarial justice. But she couldn’t say how the church might react to it—would they see it as a challenge to their authority? The bishop and the Pope, at least, didn’t seem opposed to the concept.
“I will keep that in mind.”
“Good. Call for me at the garrison if you need me. And Miss Casewell—many happy returns.”
Clara waved to him as she continued along the road to Westwick.
Clara moved through Westwick’s high street with her hand over her pocket. Last night, Iris had pressed a pouch with ten marks into her hand with express orders to ‘buy something nice—and not a book’. It was a generous sum, given Clara’s monthly wages were only about four marks.
She browsed the shops along the street with no particular urgency. There was a milliner with an impressive display of bonnets, a tobacconist that she steered well clear of, a bookseller whose window she lingered over for far too long before reluctantly moving on.
It was a small leather goods shop, wedged between a tailor and a smith, that finally caught her eye—specifically, a chestnut-brown satchel with a wide shoulder strap on its display. She asked the well-dressed shopkeeper to inspect it, and found that it had a structured interior with multiple compartments, was stiff enough to hold papers flat, and even had an ornate golden clasp that ought to satisfy Iris.
“How much?”
“Five marks, Miss. It’s lined with cotton and waterproofed with beeswax. Should last you twenty years, if you treat it proper,” he said.
It was expensive. Very expensive. But at least she wouldn’t have to carry evidence in her pockets anymore.
“Four marks. Or five, if you throw in the gloves,” said Clara, pointing at a pair of dark riding gloves clearly meant for a woman.
He agreed, and she left the shop with the satchel over her shoulder and the gloves inside it. Between this and the suit, I’d almost be able to pass for a half-decent lawyer. Satisfied with her purchase, she turned east, heading into the quieter part of the city. After wandering through a row of modest townhouses that gave way to a small green, she saw it.
A spire.
It rose out of a simple stone chapel with a peaked roof. Compared to the church buildings she’d seen in Elysia City, not to mention Europe, it was a modest affair. And yet her feet carried her towards it as if it were the most striking thing in the world.
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The sensation was difficult to describe. There was a warmth in her chest that grew as she approached. Her hands wanted to clasp together, and even her head wanted to bow as she walked inside.
Clara had never been religious, so these weren’t her feelings. Therefore, they must have been Stella’s.
The chapel’s interior was small and unadorned. Wooden pews lined either side of a narrow aisle, and at the front stood a simple stone altar beneath wood-carved keys crossed on the wall. There was a lingering note of citrus-pine in the air, likely from incense left over from the morning service.
Clara sat in the last pew and let herself feel it. The peace that settled over her wasn’t truly hers, but she’d been carrying so much tension for so long that even borrowed comfort was welcome. She closed her eyes.
Stella. How important was this to you?
“I rarely see young women here after morning service.”
Clara’s eyes snapped open. A man stood at the end of the pew, hands folded inside the wide sleeves of his white clerical robe. He was perhaps fifty, with a close-cropped beard and mild, gray eyes.
“Father,” Clara greeted him. “I didn’t mean to intrude. The doors were unlocked, and I felt…”
“Drawn?” he offered gently.
She nodded.
“There is nothing to apologize for. The Goddess’s house is open to all, at all hours.” He settled into the pew across the aisle from her. “I am Father Leofric. I tend to this parish.”
“Clara Casewell.”
If the name registered, he hid it well. “Tell me, Miss Casewell, do you come to services regularly? I’ve only recently been assigned here, so I haven’t yet met all our regulars.”
“When I can, Father.” Clara heard the words leave her mouth and wondered if they were true.
“It gladdens me to hear it. The Goddess values constancy in the faithful.” He paused just long enough for the words to carry weight. “These are trying times for the devout, Miss Casewell. So many young people lose their way, chasing worldly pursuits. Yet those who are lost may find their way home, and be welcomed back into the flock.”
Clara rose, clutching the strap of her new satchel. “That’s a lovely sentiment, Father. Thank you for the chat.” Her pulse had quickened.
“I hope to see you again, Miss Casewell,” said Leofric.
She walked out of the chapel, but she could feel his eyes on her until she turned the corner.
For lunch, Clara found an inn off the market square called The Kettle & Key, which seemed popular with local tradesmen and the odd Claves professor. She ordered the beef pie with pickled cabbage, with a side of bread and butter, all for eight pence. The taste wasn’t anything to write home about—food in this world used a lot less spice than she was accustomed to—but it was the very first meal since she’d gotten here that she didn’t have to serve for herself.
Afterwards, she wandered through a small public garden that overlooked a nearby river and sat on a bench for a while, watching the water. Some children were playing along the bank, tossing bread to the local ducks.
“Just like we used to…” She sighed.
“Talking to yourself, Casewell? I hear that’s the first sign of madness.”
Warren Righton leaned against the low stone wall that separated the garden from the riverbank, arms crossed nonchalantly. He wore a dark riding coat, and his hair was slightly mussed.
“Righton. Where does stalking rank on that list?”
He scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve been at the garrison sorting out Marcella’s affairs. She’s to be imprisoned by the Church indefinitely. A harsh sentence for a count’s daughter, but the bishop was hardly in the mood for kindness.” He pushed off the wall and sat on the bench next to her. Uninvited, of course. “You look almost relaxed. What’s the occasion?”
“Day off.”
“A servant’s day off? On a Tuesday? How progressive of the von Rhenias.” He glanced at her satchel. “New bag?”
“Birthday present to myself.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is it, now? Many happy returns.”
“Thank you.”
Warren gestured down a side street she hadn’t noticed before. “There’s a coffeehouse down that way. Albrecht’s. Tolerable brew. And I have a modicum of time before I’m due back at the garrison.”
“Are you inviting me for coffee?”
He shrugged. “I’m informing you of the existence of a coffeehouse. Whether you choose to enter it at the same time as me is entirely your own affair.” He’d already stood up and started walking. “Besides, I’m sure we have questions for each other.”
Clara pretended to hesitate just enough to maintain her dignity.
The interior of Albrecht’s was dim and warm, paneled in dark wood, with a few small round tables—though they were all empty. The rich aroma was nostalgic, and Warren aside, she was excited to have finally found coffee amidst this ocean of tea lovers.
He claimed a table near the back, ordered two cups without consulting her, and settled into his chair with the air of someone who owned the building and was generously allowing her to come inside.
“So,” he said, once the coffee arrived in small ceramic cups. “The brooch. When did you actually know it was hers?”
Clara took a sip. The coffee was dark and wonderfully bitter. “I didn’t. Not until the viscount told me. When I first found it, your friend was the obvious suspect.”
“And you presented it in court as evidence against him.”
She set her cup down. “You would have done the same.”
“I would have done it better.” He smirked, but it faded quickly. “I should have seen through Reginald’s confession immediately. I was too angry at his words to think clearly. How did you determine he was lying?”
“It was Iris who pushed me to look harder.”
“The von Rhenia girl. She’s sharper than I assumed,” said Warren.
“Much sharper.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “And you, Casewell. Where does a lady’s maid learn to argue like that?”
“I read a lot,” Clara gave the habitual excuse.
“You read a lot.” He repeated it without inflection. “I’ve read a lot, too. Tertullian, Justinian, the Canon Bulls, even the Elysian Codex. That doesn’t teach you how to cross-examine a witness in real time, or how to read a room’s mood and adjust your rhetoric accordingly.”
“Then enlighten me, Righton. How did you learn to do all that? Why is the heir to Duke Albion acting as a prosecutor? Where did you even hear the term cross-examine?”
Silence followed.
“I… I don’t know.” He stammered. “I’ve felt inexplicably drawn to legal matters recently. It’s why I asked the Ecumenical Council to allow me to stand for the inquisition, and considering how much the Church owes to my family, they could hardly refuse me. But the underlying factors that drove me to that are rather vexing, even to myself. And when I’m in court, it’s as if—”
“As if the words leave your mouth before you realize what you’re about to say,” she completed.
“You say that as though you’re familiar with the sensation.” He studied her across the table, searching her face for something. “There’s something about you that feels familiar, Casewell. I find you far more interesting than a maid ought to be.”
Clara almost spat out her drink. Interesting? Did the heir to the Duke of the North just call a woman interesting? It would be almost comically cliché, if she didn’t know exactly what Warren meant.
“Interesting enough to buy me a coffee, apparently,” she said.
“It’s merely a professional courtesy, like the suit. Which, I notice, you are not wearing today.”
“It’s my day off. I don’t have to dress like a maid or a counsel.”
“You looked better in it.” He’d said it so matter-of-factly that it took Clara a moment to register the compliment and feel the heat on her cheeks. Then the town bell rang three times, and Warren stood, tossing coins onto the table.
It was only after they’d said their goodbyes and parted ways that Clara realized how natural their conversation had been. And that, the entire time, they’d only called each other Casewell and Righton, just like they used to.
Pictured: Warren, thinking about how cool he is for how he invited Clara for coffee.
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