Marcella didn’t resist when the knights directed her to the center of the platform. She walked with the same gentle steps Clara had seen in her room, and a graceful smile had returned to her face.
Tobias approached Marcella with the chalice and chanted, then held it out to her. There was sweat running down his brow, even though it wasn’t a hot day at all. Could it be exhaustion from performing the spell twice?
She took it without hesitation. Her olive eyes swept the room, pausing on Reginald, then Clara, then Iris, then finally on the bishop. Then she raised the chalice to her lips and drank, and the golden light began to pulse steadily.
“The Blessing has taken hold. Lady Marcella Skerrington, you are now bound to speak only the truth. Prosecutor Righton, you may—”
“That won’t be necessary, Your Excellency.”
Marcella’s voice was different now. It wasn’t harsher per se, but it… rang emptier, in a way.
“I’ll save everyone the trouble.” She tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear with a casual flick. “Neither the professor nor the viscount caused the Memory Void. I did.”
“So it was you,” said Clara. “You were behind all of it!”
“You may want to sit down for this, Miss Clara,” said Marcella, almost kindly. “It’s going to be a rather long confession.”
Marcella clasped her hands behind her back. “Let’s start with the part everyone seems so concerned about. Forrest Lorne.” There was a drip of venom in her tone when she said his name. “He confessed his love to me after Spellweaving Club practice on Sunday. That part of my testimony was true. What I neglected to mention was that I had been cultivating that confession for months.”
“Cultivating?” the bishop repeated.
“Oh, yes. It’s not terribly difficult, Your Excellency. You laugh at their jokes. You let your hand brush theirs when passing by. You ask them for help with something you claim you can’t do, and when they succeed, you look at them as though they’ve accomplished the impossible.” She examined her nails. “Forrest was actually one of the easier ones. Commoners are so desperately grateful for attention from a noble that they practically do the work for you.”
A whimper came from Reginald, who was now seated in the front row. Marcella didn’t look at him.
“The confession itself was even more delicious than I envisioned. He was shaking, the poor thing. Couldn’t even get the words out properly. And when he was done, I told him exactly what I thought of him. Every insecurity I’d catalogued over months of pretending to be his friend, served back to him in the most exquisite detail.”
Her lips curled into a wide smile.
“The look on his face when I was done… That’s what makes it all worthwhile, you see. That precise moment when hope collapses. There is nothing else quite like it.”
The silence in the amphitheater was absolute.
“This is also what happened with Lord Seamus, since Miss Clara was so curious about him.” Marcella waved a hand. “He withdrew because I made sure his life at Claves became unbearable after he confessed. A few well-placed rumors, a carefully worded letter to his mother suggesting her son had been making unwelcome advances on a count’s daughter…”
Warren, who had been sitting very still behind the prosecution’s desk, spoke. His voice was level, and his knuckles were white where his hands gripped the edge of the wood. “But why a Memory Vo—”
Marcella glared back at him. “I’m getting to that. Patience, Lord Warren. You ought to know not to rush a lady.”
She turned back to the bishop. “After Forrest’s confession, I followed him. I wanted to see how long the despair would last—sometimes they cry even more after you leave. But the boy stumbled his way to Professor Morris, saying he needed a favor. I followed them to his office and listened from outside the door, which the professor had helpfully left ajar.”
Marcella’s hands clenched beside her. “When I heard what he was asking the professor to do—to alter his memory of what happened, to replace it with a kindly rejection—I nearly screamed. Do you have any idea how much effort goes into a proper heartbreak? Months of groundwork, masterful manipulation, and for what? So that some bumbling academic can wave a staff and undo all of it in an afternoon?” Outrage bled into her voice. “It was like watching someone take a painting you’d spent months on and throw it into a fireplace.”
Something turned in Clara’s stomach.
“So I waited. The professor and Forrest left together, and I went into the office. I found his notebook and tore out the relevant pages about the spell.” Marcella reached up and touched a spot near her collar. “That’s when I must have dropped Reginald’s gift. Clumsy of me.”
“And then?” Clara’s voice came out harsh.
“And then, that evening, I went to Forrest’s dormitory. Knocked on his door, sweet as anything. He welcomed me, of course—why would he not, with his altered memories? Even made me tea. Such a gentleman.”
A scoff came from Clara’s side. Iris’s narrowed eyes were staring intensely at Marcella.
“I told him I wanted to practice a new spell I’d been working on and needed a willing subject. He agreed immediately.” Marcella’s expression flickered; for a moment, something almost like frustration crossed her face. “The intention was to reverse the professor’s spell. To restore the memory I’d worked so hard to create. But memory magic is…” she trailed off.
“Volatile,” Professor Morris finished, his voice barely a whisper.
“Yes. Volatile.” She nodded. “The incantation was complex, and I made a mistake. By the time the spell finished, Forrest was sitting on his bed, staring at the wall, and he wouldn’t respond to me no matter what I said.”
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She smoothed her sleeve. “I panicked, which I’ll admit was uncharacteristic. I left his room and went straight back to Ashford Hall. Come morning, I sent a note to Reginald through my maid, asking him to check on Forrest. I knew he would find him in that state, then make the logical connection to memory magic, and therefore to Professor Morris.”
“You led all of us to think it was the professor,” said the bishop, aghast.
“I ensured the obvious suspect would be the one investigated, Your Excellency. The professor did the rest himself by having actually cast memory magic on Forrest. I hardly needed to lift a finger after that.” She shrugged.
“And the story about the viscount’s jealousy? His controlling behavior?” asked Warren.
“Fabricated. Well—” She tilted her head. “Reginald is controlling, but in the way a puppy is controlling. He follows me around, buys me things, and looks at me with those enormous, pathetic eyes. I’ve never once felt threatened by him.”
There was a strangled sound from the gallery. Clara turned to Reginald, and his face was a ruin of tears and snot. Marcella noticed, too, and she turned directly to him.
“Don’t look so wounded, Reginald. You must have known, on some level.”
“Last night,” he whispered. “You finally said you loved me. For the first time.”
She snorted. “I said what was necessary to get you to confess. You were useful—an influential viscount with gemstone mines and political connections. My family benefitted enormously from your generosity, and I benefitted from the gifts and favors.” She paused. “But you were growing tiresome. The lovesick devotion, the constant neediness. It was suffocating.”
She turned back to the bishop.
“When I heard about what happened on the first day of this trial—the maid who stood up and challenged the inquisition, Reginald being accused of lying—I realized there was a chance the professor would not be convicted. So I needed a contingency. And I thought, since I’m tiring of Reginald anyway…”
A wry smile. “Why not make his last act of worship something truly spectacular? Confessing to sins he didn’t commit, under the threat of death—all because the woman he loves asked him to. That is devotion pushed to its most absurd extreme.” Marcella laughed softly. “I honestly didn’t expect it to unravel like this.”
Then her gaze found Clara. “When you came to my room, with your earnest expression, and asked me all the right questions, I realized you were quite starved and sentimental. I thought if I gave you a gentle nudge, you’d make sure Reginald took the fall for me. But I was only half right.”
Her eyes moved a little to the side. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
Iris, who had been sitting with her arms crossed, raised her chin.
“I must commend you. You were the only one who saw through my mask,” said Marcella. “I suppose it takes one to know one. I believe we’re rather similar, Lady Iris. We both understand how people work, how to pull their strings, how to wear the right face at the right time. The only difference is that you were born into a house powerful enough that you never needed to hide it.”
Iris flinched.
“You’re wrong.” Clara rose from her seat. “My lady couldn’t be more different from the likes of you. You may play similar games, but Lady Iris acts out of duty to her family and the people she loves. She may be prideful, she may seek retribution against those who wronged her, but she’d never stoop so low as to hurt innocents for sport.”
Marcella held Clara’s gaze for a long moment. The golden light at her chest pulsed once, twice—and then the corner of her mouth twitched, as if she wanted to say something cutting in return, but the Blessing wouldn’t allow a lie. She looked away first.
Clara turned to the bishop. “Your Excellency, we have now reached the full truth behind this case.”
“Indeed. I must say I am appalled by Lady Marcella’s actions. Guards, take her into custody immediately,” the bishop ordered. She followed the knights impassively.
After the girl had left the room, he continued. “Counsel Casewell, Prosecutor Righton, I commend both of you for your dedication to the truth. I cannot help but be impressed at what you achieved together. To think of how close I came to making a grave mistake… The clash between the two of you has produced a most virtuous result.”
Clara smiled. “Knights cross blades with adversaries to bring out the best in their skills. A courtroom is no different, Your Excellency.”
Warren chimed in with a grin. “Of course, in the future, one might wish to cross blades with an opponent that doesn’t waste the court’s valuable time shifting blame to an innocent man.”
Clara was about to speak up when he continued. “But even I can admit your performance was not… altogether unacceptable, Counsel Casewell.”
I suppose that’s as good a compliment as one can expect from him. She held back her retort.
“Your Excellency,” Clara said, turning to the bishop. “The defense moves for the immediate acquittal of Professor Morris.”
“Acquittal for the Memory Void,” added Warren. “The professor still broke the terms of his permit.”
Ah. We’ve spent so long on the Void I almost forgot about that. I hope they don’t punish him too badly.
“Indeed. I am ready to render my verdict regarding Professor Emmet Morris.” The bishop straightened in his seat, and for the first time, he looked every bit like the ecclesiastical authority his title suggested.
“On the charge of creating a Memory Void, I find the accused not guilty.” He enunciated the last two words slowly, then nodded at the professor with a kind smile. Morris let out a very long breath.
“However,” the bishop continued. “On the charge of using memory magic without a permit, I cannot help but find the accused to be guilty.”
Clara stepped forward. “Your Excellency, we do not dispute the verdict, but I ask the court to consider the mitigating circumstances for the purposes of sentencing. The subject consented to the spell. The professor acted out of compassion for a pupil put under impossible circumstances by a malicious third party. And the spell itself was performed competently.”
Warren, to her surprise, didn’t object. She was sure he was about to say something about a professor’s duty of care and lack of responsibility, but he simply leaned back in his chair.
The bishop stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Those are fair points, counsel. Given the circumstances, I am inclined towards leniency.” He turned to the professor. “Emmet Morris. Your research permit for memory magic is hereby revoked. In addition, you are forbidden from casting any kind of magic on a student without another adult present for a period of one year. You will also pay a fine of one thousand marks.”
That was quite a sum. On Clara’s wages as a lady’s maid, she’d have to work for decades to pay it.
“O-one thousand?” Morris sighed. “Your Excellency, I cannot quite afford that.”
The bishop shook his head. “I’m afraid that if you cannot pay the court-mandated fine, the law demands your debt be settled with service. Perhaps your talents would be suited for the magic corps—”
“Excuse me, Your Excellency,” came a deep voice from the very back of the gallery.
The bishop sighed. “This trial must have some special property for drawing constant interruptions. I even ate a rather large breakfast today, but we’ve been here for quite a while now. Can’t an old man have some peace?”
The interloper rose and stepped forward. He wore a burgundy dress uniform with a thin sword at his waist. But what was Captain Ricardo of the von Rhenia knights doing here?
“My deepest apologies, Your Excellency. I come in the name of Duke von Rhenia. All I ask for is a moment with the professor.”
“Papa sent you?” asked Iris. “What is this about?”
The bishop nodded, and the professor and Iris descended from the platform towards Ricardo. Clara couldn’t hear what the trio talked about, but Morris looked relieved, then hesitant, then relieved again. Eventually, they all turned to the bishop.
“Your Excellency,” said Iris, “House von Rhenia shall settle the professor’s debt.”
“Very well.” The bishop nodded. “In that case, and without leaving room for any further disturbances, this case is concluded!”
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What was your favorite character name joke from the trial of Professor Morris?
