Chương 49: An Offer You Can Refuse

As soon as Clara finished chanting, the sapphire flared brightly. There was a sharp, greedy pull drawing energy from the gem towards the cobblestone as she steadied her visualization. Initially, there was no reaction, even though magical energy was clearly flowing. Then, faintly at first, like the stars in the dusk sky, a scattering of pale blue dots began to glow against the stone.

They were clustered perhaps two meters from the base of the wall, which seemed consistent with the landing zone of someone who'd jumped out the window.

"Professor, look." Morris was already on his knees, his magically empowered glowing yellow eyes wide behind his glasses. He took out a notebook and a pencil and began scribbling at a dazzling pace.

"I see it. The traces seem deeply embedded into the surface layer. What an ingenious way to employ the knowledge that blood contains iron. Wait, is that a…" The glow became more intense as Clara held the visualization and more energy poured out of the sapphire. Soon, several dots had grouped into an unmistakable shape.

"That's a handprint!" Clara could barely contain her excitement—it was almost as if she were in an episode of CSI. Maybe Professor Morris could take off his glasses and say a gritty one-liner?

"Miss Casewell, I'd say your attempt at creating this new spell was a rather glowing success." She nearly choked. Close enough. Clara held the spell for as long as she could, committing the pattern to memory so she could describe it in court. It was ironic that the same Blessing of Truth she was trying to question was also the very tool that would allow her to validate the authenticity of this piece of evidence, if needed.

The sapphire's warmth faded gradually until there was only a trickle of energy where there had once been a stream. The blue lights shimmered away, and the cobblestone returned to its damp, unremarkable state.

"Someone landed here." Clara looked up at Rowena's room.

"Likely with Ricardo's blood on them." Well, it was still not conclusive evidence. She could picture Warren's smirk as he argued that the blood could simply have resulted from an unrelated backstreet confrontation. But it was a significant start, and hopefully there would be more to pair it with by the time the trial resumed. Morris finished his writing and tucked the notebook away.

"Miss Casewell, I really must ask—what exactly did you base that incantation on? Some of the words you used are brand new to me. I don't think I've seen them in any chant before." Clara winked.

"Shouldn't you know by now? I read a lot, Professor." He sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Of course you do." After parting ways with Professor Morris, Clara tried to pursue the lead on the missing package from Priscilla, which she assumed contained the pills from Stella's 'incident'. First she stopped by the garrison, and after greasing a guard's palm with a twopence, she was let into Ricardo's room, but there was no trace of them—or anything else of interest—there. Then she visited the three apothecaries in Westwick to check if Ricardo had left the pills with any of them for analysis.

If he had, and she managed to recover them, then that might discredit her theory about the motive for his murder, but also ease some of her growing sense of guilt. Fortunately or unfortunately, an elderly chemist at her third stop confirmed that a knight matching Ricardo's description came in and asked about pills the day before his murder. But the chemist had said she needed time to analyze them, and Ricardo refused to leave the pills, so Clara was no closer to finding where they were.

At least this confirmed that Ricardo did get the pills. After stopping at a street stall for a quick lunch of skewered sausage and cheese, the next thing on her to-do list was speaking with Father Leofric. He had been the last one to see Dame Rowena before eight, making him a valuable witness—he could have noticed something that might show a potential third party hiding in her room, or sneaking in after he left.

But he was also on her suspect list: he had the magic knowledge, the opportunity, and at least a potential-if-flimsy motive thanks to his ties to the church. Clara felt something guttural protest inside her when she thought of Leofric as the culprit, some sense of wrong, as if the very notion of doubting the kindly priest offended her. She pushed those thoughts away and tried to focus on the tasks ahead of her.

Regardless of her feelings about Father Leofric, the idea of going to speak to a suspect on her own sent a shiver down her spine. She needed some form of protection, and in an aristocratic society like this, there was no shield better than blood. Specifically, noble blood. But she couldn't really ask Iris in this situation, even if she disregarded the fact that the girl was in class right now.

And so, Clara gritted her teeth and made her way to Westwick's upper district, where the manors of the most influential townspeople were located. After walking for twenty minutes, she found it: a three-story townhouse of dark stone and narrow windows that sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. A single banner hung from a window on the top floor, featuring a lion on a field of red. The sigil of House Albion.

It was the manor she knew Warren had been using during his extended stay in the city. Clara smoothed the front of her suit, adjusted the lace at her collar, and rang the bell at the side of the wide mahogany double doors. The man who opened the door was tall and thin, and wore an immaculate black tailcoat. There were scant few strands of gray hair above his ears, and his narrowed eyes inspected her up and down, after which his mouth settled into a small smile.

"Good afternoon," said Clara.

"I'm here to—""You must be Miss Clara Casewell. I am Aldous Shipper, head of Lord Warren's household. We have been expecting you."

"You have?"

"Indeed, Miss. Lord Warren gave precise instructions to that effect yesterday evening. Please, do come in out of the damp." He stepped aside with a graceful sweep of his arm, and Clara was ushered into a foyer of polished dark wood that smelled faintly of beeswax. A maid was dusting the floor, and another was cleaning the long dining table in the next room over.

"This way, if you would. Please excuse the state of this manor—it is only a rental, you see. Naturally, estates owned by House Albion would not be so barebones." Barebones? I mean, it's not the von Rhenia mansion, but this place is still… Aldous led her down a corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced men and women who should have been Albion ancestors, based on the plaques underneath. Except none of them looked anything like Warren. Did no one find this strange?

He opened a door at the end of the hall and gestured her inside. The office was small but well-organized, with shelves of ledgers arranged by some sort of color pattern. In the center lay a walnut desk with a lamp already lit against the gloom of the afternoon, and on it was a sealed envelope bearing the Albion lion.

"Please, Miss Casewell, have a seat. I have everything ready." Clara sat down slowly.

"Mr. Shipper, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not entirely sure what 'everything' refers to. I only came here hoping to request a small favor from Lord Warren."

"Oh my. And here I thought Lord Warren had…" Aldous shook his head, then settled behind the desk with the poise of someone who'd been running aristocratic households for longer than Clara had been alive.

"No matter. It falls to me to do the honors, then. You see, Miss Casewell, my lord anticipated that, following your departure from House von Rhenia's service, you might find yourself in need of certain arrangements. He instructed me to have a position prepared for that eventuality. It appears his foresight was, as usual, quite accurate." A position? Clara frowned. Did Warren Righton think she'd go to him to beg him to be his maid?

"What sort of position?" she asked carefully.

"Archivist and Librarian of House Albion. You would be responsible for cataloguing our correspondence, maintaining the family's collection of texts and historical records, and preparing research materials at his lordship's request." He pushed the envelope toward her.

"Archivist," Clara repeated." And Librarian," Aldous added gently.

"Lord Warren mentioned your fondness for reading, so we thought it a suitable post. And you need not be concerned about being tied to this small manor in Westwick—you would follow him to the main Albion residence in Dunvarrach on the conclusion of his work here." There was something about Aldous's tone that gave the impression he was particularly enthusiastic about that last part. Righton, I am going to strangle you. They'd been rivals for a decade, in this world and the last.

The offer was a step up from a maid, but did Warren really think what Clara wanted in life was to continue running errands for nobles? Was it too much to ask to be treated like an equal? She tried not to let her upset show. Rationally, she knew there was logic in the offer, at least in the way an aristocrat might perceive it. Clara was a servant in a difficult situation who'd lost her livelihood and the protection of a noble house, so it was natural to think she would seek a different patron.

She shouldn't be annoyed at him for not seeing the world the way she did, especially when he didn't even have his memories.

"Mr. Shipper, I do not wish to be discourteous, given the care that has clearly gone into this. But I must respectfully decline." His smile faltered for the first time.

"Decline?" She nodded.

"Miss Casewell." Aldous folded his hands atop the desk.

"Forgive me for pressing, but I wonder if I have perhaps conveyed the terms inadequately. The stipend alone is—""It's not an issue of compensation." Clara was starting to feel guilty about how crestfallen the butler looked.

"I am simply not seeking employment right now, as I am in the middle of representing a client in a trial. I actually came here because of that very trial, to ask Lord Warren to accompany me to speak with a potential witness."

"Ah," he said quietly.

"Of course. Then perhaps you can properly consider the offer after the conclusion of your present affair. If you would be so kind as to wait here, I shall confer with Lord Warren and return shortly." The door clicked shut, and Clara was left alone with the sealed envelope. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, then set it back down. She had to admit she was curious about what the stipend would be. How much did Lord Warren Righton think she was worth? No, Clara. You're better than this.

But is there really any harm in knowing…? She was debating whether to break the seal when the door opened.

"Casewell." Warren came into the room and sat on Aldous's chair with a smile.

"Righton."

"Aldous tells me you're still considering my exceedingly generous offer."

"Well, that's certainly one way to put it." She immediately regretted her tone. Clara Casewell and Warren Righton may one day have been equals, but right now, they very much were not. It was so hard to separate her attitude toward the man who was here now from her feelings toward the man he used to be.

"Hmph. You seem to hold yourself in rather high esteem, Casewell. Yet for some reason, I…" He crossed his arms.

"No matter. I'm told you seek a favor."

"Yes. I wanted to know if you'd accompany me to the chapel to pay a visit to Father Leofric. I imagine you're also keen to speak with him, since he was the last person to see Rowena before she woke up." He raised an eyebrow.

"While I do intend to speak with the good priest, I can't help but wonder why the defense wants the prosecution to join in on her evidence gathering." Clara sighed.

"I'm simply exercising some of the caution I've been repeatedly told to."

"Caution? Am I to understand you consider Father Leofric a suspect, then? Do you plan to make a habit of accusing everyone who testifies?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't." He stood up.

"Very well, I shall indulge you. Let us be on our way."