Chương 52: Stella

Clara waited outside Westwick's main coaching office at the crack of dawn. After speaking with the duke, she'd booked passage back to Elysia City for the next day, where she'd hire a hackney to take her to the von Rhenia estate and speak with Head Maid Priscilla. The stagecoach that eventually pulled up was a far cry from the von Rhenia carriages Clara had grown accustomed to, or even the local hackneys for travel within Westwick.

It was a squat, dusty brown vehicle with yellow wheels that, to her modern sensibilities, seemed almost like a clown car. A team of four horses stood ahead of it, their breath fogging in the cool morning air.

"Elysia, miss?" asked the coachman, a burly man with a pipe hanging from his mouth.

"That's right."

"Inside or up top?" She handed over her ticket.

"Inside, please." He took it, grunted, and gestured toward the cab.

"Mind the step. She's a bit loose on the left." Clara ducked through the narrow door and squeezed herself onto a bench between a merchant with a bundle of ledgers clutched to his chest and a middle-aged woman who smelled faintly of lavender and more strongly of manure. So this is how 'the commons'—as Iris would put it—travel. Clara put her satchel on her lap. It was packed tighter than usual thanks to a change of clothes she'd brought in case she had to stay the night.

She tried to find a comfortable position, but soon resigned herself to the fact that the four-hour trip ahead of her would make an economy seat on Ryanair feel like a luxury experience. At least it can't get any worse than my last flight. The driver cracked his whip, and the coach lurched into motion, Westwick's paved streets soon giving way to the packed earth of the road to the capital. The scenery, at least, was pleasant.

Spring had bloomed in full, and the fields on either side of the road were a lush green, dotted with occasional flowers and small farmhouses. A part of her wanted to appreciate it more, as she often did with these quiet moments of peace. Another part couldn't stop thinking about the case, and about what Iris said to her.

'If there really is something more going on here, if you really believe the absurdities you spouted in court, then you must make sure the truth comes out.' Clara mouthed a silent ' Yes, my lady' in response. The coach stopped twice along the way—first at a roadside inn to change horses, then at a tiny village where a few passengers disembarked and a trio of farmhands were picked up. By the time the towering walls of Elysia City came into view, the sun was well on its way to its highest point.

Clara disembarked at a busy terminus near the city center. She took a moment to stretch her back, then approached a man in a flat cap.

"Hackney, Miss? Where to?"

"The von Rhenia estate, in the suburbs. A return trip, please." His eyebrows rose.

"Von Rhenia estate, you say." His tone made it clear he was reassessing his initial impression of her. She hadn't been wearing her suit, instead opting for Stella's simple cotton blouse and brown skirt, so he was probably wondering what business she'd have taking a private hackney somewhere like that.

"That'll be two and three, Miss. Upfront, at that distance." Clara knew it was too expensive, but, tired as she was from the trip, she paid without haggling. The hackney ride was mercifully smoother than the stagecoach, and the familiar silhouette of the von Rhenia mansion rose against the early afternoon sky. There was an ache within her as she looked at the two-headed eagle banners.

She'd left this place not even two months ago, riding west towards Claves with Iris, in a carriage full of luggage where they'd exchanged secrets and reassurances. Coming back alone, in a hired cab, with no apron and no liege, felt like returning to a place she'd dreamed of rather than one she had lived in. It was sad, nostalgic, and freeing all at the same time.

The hackney pulled up at the entrance, and the guards on duty recognized her immediately, helping her step down and escorting her inside once she asked to speak with the head maid. They didn't leave her alone, though, making it clear that the news of her dismissal had traveled faster than she had. Priscilla came down the main staircase, wearing a long white dress that made her look rather austere.

"Miss Casewell. I must say, I didn't expect to see you all the way here." Her tone was severe, but there was an exhaustion behind it.

"Head Maid." Clara lowered her head respectfully.

"I came with His Grace's permission, looking to review some documents." She handed over the duke's envelope. Priscilla took it with both hands and broke the seal cleanly. Her eyes moved over the duke's words without expression, but her thumb pressed a little too firmly against the corner of the page.

"I see." The head maid folded the letter and tucked it into the pocket of her dress.

"Follow me, Miss Casewell. The records you seek are in His Grace's study." She turned and began climbing the stairs, and Clara followed. The two guards fell away once it was clear the head maid had taken charge of the visitor. The estate was quieter than Clara remembered, with none of the usual bustle of servants between the rooms. Decreased activity made sense, since none of the family were here, but Clara thought there was something else in the air.

When she passed a maid dusting a side table and noticed the white ribbon tied around her sleeve, she understood. The household was in mourning. And Priscilla, with her eyes heavy and dressed in full white, most of all. What kind of relationship did she have with Ricardo? Goddess, what did I cause…?

"I'm sorry." The low words came without thinking.

"For Major Ricardo. He was a good man, and he was only ever kind to me." Priscilla continued walking.

"Yes. Ricardo was kind to everyone. Often, more than he should have been." Clara didn't have an answer to that. They went into the duke's study, and Priscilla moved directly to a cabinet on the far wall, opening its lock with a small iron key. Her hand moved to the rightmost drawer, and her fingers flicked through the folders with efficiency. She extracted a thin binder and laid it on the duke's desk.

"Here." A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Clara flipped through the documents. There were notes about her initial placement, her wage records over the years, and, tucked behind those, a thick, cream-colored paper bearing the crossed golden keys at the top.

It is my pleasure to recommend and endorse, for your consideration for the position of domestic servant at the von Rhenia household, a young woman of proven diligence and excellent character, raised in our institution and educated in all the duties applicable to the position. In the light of the Goddess, Mother Mirabelle, Matron Saintess Brigid's House for Orphans, Elysia City And with that, Clara had her next destination.

Saintess Brigid's House for Orphans was tucked into a quiet corner of Elysia, outside its inner layer of walls. It was a modest stone building with a tiled roof, and the only signs that it belonged to the Church were the keys carved above the doorway. A garden ran along the side of the property, where a handful of children chased each other under the red sunset. The chapel in Westwick had felt warm and familiar to whatever remained of Stella inside Clara.

The orphanage produced that effect one thousand times over, and the nostalgia rushed into her as if every brick had been carved into her soul.

"Miss, is there anything we can do for you?" A young novice in a gray habit approached her, her eyes tilted with the appropriate amount of concern for someone who'd been gazing intently at the doorway.

"Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought for a moment," said Clara.

"I used to live here." The novice smiled gently.

"Please, come in. Those who were raised here are always welcome to visit." Clara followed the novice into the entrance hall. The indoor air carried the smell of bread and soap, and the walls were lined with plain wooden benches facing a pulpit in an arrangement that could've passed for either a small church or a lecture hall, depending on who was speaking. Clara politely asked the novice if she could speak with Mother Mirabelle.

The girl's eyes widened slightly at the name, then she disappeared through a side door with quick steps. Clara sat down to wait, and the heavy sensation from before magnified even further. This time, there wasn't only a pleasant warmth—there was also a chill underneath; a bitter tug, like an over-salted dessert. The novice returned and gestured for Clara to accompany her. They passed several doors, and Clara knew exactly what was behind each one without having to look. Then the novice pushed one open carefully.

Mother Mirabelle's study was a small, sunlit room at the back of the building, with a window looking out onto the garden. Clara remembered this room fondly, but it felt off somehow. Where there'd once been mountains of paperwork, there were now only the rays of the afternoon sun over an empty desk. The folders on the cabinets were replaced with books. When Clara looked at the small woman sitting in a worn armchair, she understood.

What little showed of Mirabelle's hair under her habit had grown sparse and gray, and her gentle dark eyes had been worn down by time. A simple wooden key dangled from a leather cord wrapped tightly around her thin wrist. Clara recognized instantly that Mother Mirabelle had changed from the person Stella once knew—the matron was supposed to be tall, beautiful, and safe, like an anchor that tethered Stella to this world.

"Little Clara," said Mirabelle, with an affection that could have come from Clara's own mother. How many years had passed? It couldn't have been more than fifteen, but it felt like a lifetime.

"Don't stand in the doorway, child," she said.

"I've poured us some lemonade. I do hope you still enjoy that." The armchair creaked beneath Clara as she sat. Up close, she could see the faint tremor in the old woman's hands, and the way her eyes had gone slightly milky at the edges. Mother Mirabelle lifted one of the glasses on the small tea table with both hands, and Clara took it automatically.

"There now," said Mirabelle softly, "you are home." Those three words were enough to crack her, and tears sprang from under Clara's eyes.

"Mother Mirabelle, I—""Drink your lemonade, child. There's plenty of time to talk." Clara drank. The lemonade was far too sweet, and she could easily see a kid loving it.

"There. That's better." Mother Mirabelle settled comfortably into her armchair.

"You look troubled, my dear. Would you give this old Mother the honor of hearing what ails you once again?" And Clara, to her own quiet surprise, answered. She spoke of House von Rhenia, of her fight with Iris, without giving away specifics. She talked about her life at Westwick, about Professor Morris and Emma and the students of Class 2-A.

Mother Mirabelle's eyes crinkled with fond attention, and she occasionally made a small sound of approval or amusement, refilling Clara's glass from a pitcher without being asked.

"You've grown so much, Little Clara. Sister Teresa would be proud."

"Sister Teresa?" Clara said. A blurry image formed in her mind, a silhouette of a woman she couldn't fully recall, but she could tell had been important.

"Is she still here?"

"She went to the Goddess seven winters ago. Peacefully, in her sleep." Clara set her glass down.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," she whispered.

"Hush, child. We all have our own paths to walk. The Goddess does not keep a ledger of visits, and neither do I." The conversation continued after that, with Mother Mirabelle regaling her with stories of the children currently in Saintess Brigid's. By the time Clara noticed, it was dark outside, and she remembered why she'd come here in the first place.

"Mother, there was something I wanted to ask you." Mirabelle tilted her head curiously.

"My hiring into House von Rhenia. How did that come about? I know you wrote me a letter of recommendation. Do you remember anything about that? Was there some reason you recommended me for that specific position?"

"Mm." Mother Mirabelle looked toward the window.

"It was not the usual way of things, I will tell you that much. Most of our children eventually go into the service of the Church, or end up recruited by one of the various noble houses during the Elowensday festivities. Rarely do we recommend someone directly into service like that."

"Then why?"

"You see, we were asked by the senior officials of the diocese to select someone capable to recommend to House von Rhenia. Something about their rocky past with the Church."

"Is that why you picked me?"

"Me? Oh no, that credit isn't mine to claim." Mirabelle chuckled.

"It was young Leofric. After all, he was the one responsible for the domestic education of the children, back then. Ah, the duties of a young Father. I do wonder where he is nowadays." Leofric. When the name came out of Mother Mirabelle's mouth, Clara felt sick. She already suspected him of having something to do with Ricardo's death, given his skill with magic and that he was the last one to see Rowena prior to the incident.

But to learn that he'd been responsible for Stella's placement at House von Rhenia ten years ago confirmed that there was much more at play, a dangerous conspiracy Clara didn't have all the pieces of but that started even before the trial at the High Court. And there was more: now that she thought about it, Leofric had been at Claves helping with the martial exams the day the second threatening letter was found in her room.

There was no way to know if she could fully trust Mother Mirabelle, but if what she said was true, it would all add up. The duke needed to know all this. It was too big for just Clara. She hurriedly made an excuse to leave and rushed out of the orphanage, hoping to get back to Westwick immediately. The last thing she wanted was to spend the night alone in a city with no familiar faces. It was already past ten, so there'd be no more regular stagecoaches making the journey.

She made her way to Elysia City's central post office, hoping to hitch a ride on a mail coach—when there weren't a lot of deliveries, those sometimes took a few paying passengers inside. Clara quickened her pace, keeping close to the streetlights. The capital was by all accounts a safe place, but unease crept further up her spine with every shadow. At one point, she even thought she was being followed, but that was probably just her mind letting the darkness play tricks on her.

Fortunately, she reached the post office in time to catch the night coach scheduled for eleven thirty. After paying far too much money, she was directed onto the small cabin of the postal coach. It was clearly built for speed rather than comfort, with only two narrow benches facing each other, both of which had been partly filled with packages. She set her satchel on her lap and exhaled. The bench was hard and the legroom was pitiful, but at least she'd be moving soon; they told her it'd only be a few minutes.

She could be back in Westwick by five in the morning, though she wasn't sure she'd feel safe at the Kettle & Key. She might have to get a room at the Plaza, or, Goddess forbid, ask to stay at Warren's ma— The coach door opened. Father Leofric ducked inside, his gray cassock brushing the frame. He settled onto the bench across from her, folded his hands in his lap, and smiled as the driver shut the door.