Chương 62: Book 2, Chapter 1: Some Things Never Change

"Miss, have you considered the savings bank on Vesta Street? They might be more suitable for someone of your… background." Clara frowned at the smug, tight-lipped teller who would have been right at home working for a DMV.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was just there, and they were the ones who told me to come here."

"I'm afraid their advice to you was incorrect, then. As I've repeatedly said, our time here at Mercer, Pemberton & Co. is quite valuable. Much too valuable to waste on clients without the proper credentials," he said. Clara was stuck. Not just stuck, actually, but well and truly trapped in the worst kind of labyrinth: bureaucracy. This is a nightmare. First I had to deal with Lovecraft, and now it's Kafka. Not sure which one's worse.

After a week of property tours, she'd chosen which house she wanted to lease—the two-story near the Westwick city center, the very first one she'd viewed. But to rent, she'd need money. And to get Lochlann to give her that money, she needed a bank account. Therein lay the problem. Contrary to her modern expectations of simply walking into any bank and opening an account, it turned out that getting a bank account in an aristocratic society was anything but simple.

To get accepted at a private bank, you needed to either be a noble or have proof of employment of a 'sufficient level' by the bank's standards, which Clara obviously didn't have. So they told her to go to a savings bank, the less pretentious alternative used by common people. Except when she tried those, she learned they set strict limits on how much money an account could hold, capping out at around a hundred marks. Since she needed space for a thousand, they told her to go to a private bank.

This was the fifth bank she'd visited, and she was running out of patience.

"I have one thousand marks to deposit. Surely that's something worth your valuable time," said Clara.

"One thousand marks, you say." The teller's eyes narrowed further, looking her over from head to toe, examining the tailoring of her suit and the leather of her satchel.

"You see, Miss, we at Mercer, Pemberton & Co. have a duty to satisfy ourselves that funds entering our vaults have been acquired through the proper channels. You must understand that it is difficult for us to put our faith in someone who walks in with a small fortune and no employment or lineage to explain its provenance."

"I already explained the provenance. I'm getting paid by Prince Lochlann for my services as an advocate. And I'm not unemployed, I'm planning to start a personal business." She found herself raising her voice without meaning to. She really didn't want to be the kind of entitled person who yells at a service worker, but it was getting remarkably tempting.

"Look, can you just get a manager? It'd save us both the trouble of going in circles."

"Right, Crown Prince Lochlann. And I get my salary paid directly by the King himself," he scoffed.

"I'm afraid all our managers are presently occupied. I will have to ask you to leave the premises." Was she going to have to march straight to Haverford Hall and get a letter from Lochlann written on royal stationery? It was Friday, and she wasn't sure if banks here opened on weekends, so that could mean delaying her plans for a few days, which would be unfortunate. But the prospect of watching this man's face when she came back might be enough to make it worth it.

She decided to try one more bank today, and if she didn't have any success, that would be her backup plan." Fine." Clara turned away.

"If I come back, I'm going to make sure your superiors know you're the one who dismissed me today." The teller gave her a thin smile.

"I look forward to it, Miss." I bet you do, you little— She bit back the rest of the thought and made her way to the exit through the polished marble lobby. The bank was as ostentatious as any European investment bank would have been: it had a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of merchant ships, gas lamps that flickered steadily, and heavy bronze-trimmed double doors flanked by guards in matching dark vests. She pushed through the door and—"Miss Casewell?"

Edward stood just outside, reaching for the door with his hand, a leather portfolio tucked under his arm. He wore a long charcoal coat over his Claves uniform, and his eyebrows rose in curiosity as he took her in. I guess this means the exams are over. I should probably go straight to the confectioner, then, or Iris will spend the whole afternoon complaining that I was late. The girl had spent days sending Emma to pester Clara about spending time together when exam week ended.

"Lord Edward." She curtsied.

"What brings you here?" he asked. Clara held back a sigh.

"I was attempting to open an account, but the staff and I had a disagreement." Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Edward chuckled.

"Let me guess—they told you to try the savings bank on Vesta Street."

"That they did. I tried to explain that the prince's payment goes over the cap for a savings bank, but the teller wasn't very keen on listening and implied that I was just lying."

"Ah." Edward stroked his chin.

"We really do need to train them better. Your story is unconventional, but they should know to be polite to any prospective customer, especially one that might have ties to royalty. If anything, they should've handed you the paperwork to open the account and asked you to bring it back together with a letter from Lochlann." Wait, we? Hang on a second. Mercer, Pemberton & Co. Edward Pemberton. She could practically see herself copying Iris's ' Oh ho ho' as the realization dawned.

"Why don't you let me help you with that?" He held the door open and gestured her back inside.

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose." Well, I actually do want to impose. Please say yes.

"Oh, it's no imposition at all. My father has little patience for employees who cost him good business. After you, Counsel." Clara nodded, then walked back inside with her best smile. The teller went through several interesting shades as she approached him with Edward. In this world or the other, there weren't many things as satisfying as watching someone realize they'd picked the wrong person to gatekeep. Some things never change.

"Bill," Edward said pleasantly.

"I trust you're having a productive day." Clara had never seen someone straighten as quickly as the teller had just done.

"L-Lord Edward! What an unexpected honor. I wasn't informed you'd be visiting."

"I wasn't aware I needed to inform tellers of my plans." The man yelped.

"No, of course not, my lord. How may I serve you today?" Edward leaned on the counter.

"Tell me, Bill. When the Crown Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Arcadia arranges to transfer one thousand marks through our bank, do you think His Highness expects that transfer to be completed promptly, or that the recipient should be turned away at the door like a beggar?"

"My lord, I assure you, had I known—""Had you known?" Edward's tone remained perfectly pleasant, which somehow made it worse.

"Counsel Casewell was in court to defend Dame Rowena, an acclaimed royal knight, just a few weeks ago. She's been in the Westwick papers quite a bit. We do expect the employees at our bank to stay up to date with current events." The teller gulped.

"My apologies, my lady. I will personally see to your account immediately. With the deepest apologies for the delay." Clara smirked.

"Thank you. Now, be quick, as my time is quite valuable." After finally opening her account and getting a cheque book, Clara opened the silver pocket watch Iris had given her last Sunday, which the girl described as 'a trifle, really, something I had lying about' while Emma silently mouthed commissioned last week behind her back. Half past two. Clara was decidedly late. She rushed down an oddly busy Vainqueur Street. The closer she got to the confectioner, the denser the crowd became, and the stranger it felt.

There was even a line forming outside. Maybe the students are all out and about to celebrate the end of the finals? Except when she got to the confectioner, it became immediately clear that the men and women crowding the shop's entrance weren't students. They were broad-shouldered, sun-browned, and dressed confusingly, with formal military attire worn in the most casual way possible—beige jackets slung around their shoulders, green sashes tied around their waists, and shirts unbuttoned at the top.

Clara went around the line and into the shop. Every single table was occupied. Burly men and women devoured macarons while sitting in dainty little chairs meant for teenage noble ladies. The air, normally a delicate blend of butter and vanilla, now had some pipe smoke, rum, and joyous singing mixed in. She made her way to the surprisingly composed maître.

"I'm here to meet Lady Iris von Rhenia. I believe she's somewhere inside. Probably."

"At the back, Miss Casewell." His voice cracked just a bit. Clara wove her way through the chaotic room until she reached the smaller back salon. Iris was at the corner table; her usual perfect posture was rigid, and a slight pink bloomed from her cheeks all the way to her ears. A terrified-looking Emma stood behind her. The reason Iris was so flustered was sitting right next to her—a woman in her late thirties, with her arm slung around Iris's shoulders.

The woman had bronze skin and a thick black braid threaded through a ribbon of deep green silk. She wore a yellow military coat that was recklessly unbuttoned, revealing a linen shirt and a sash bristling with several knives. What is this, a hostage situation? Is Westwick under siege by Disney pirates? The woman's eyes found Clara's, and she grinned so widely and unguardedly that Clara smiled back by pure instinct.

"Ah!" the woman cried.

"The famed Clara Casewell, at last! Come here, don't be shy!" Iris spoke up.

"Clara—" But the woman had already disentangled herself from Iris with a fluid motion, crossed the salon in three long strides, and seized Clara's shoulders. Before Clara could process what was happening, she'd been kissed firmly on one cheek, then the other.

"There. Properly introduced." The woman stepped back, still holding Clara's shoulders, and looked her up and down with frank, smiling appraisal.

"You wear that suit like you mean it. I'm Bel."

"Uh, Clara Casewell," she managed.

"Yes, I know!" Bel laughed, pulling out a chair for her.

"Sit, sit. Iris, scoot over, let's give the woman some space. Manuel!" The last part she shouted toward the front of the shop, without taking her eyes off Clara.

"Get us some more scones! And that bergamot tea Iris likes!"

"Aye, Admiral!" came a roar from somewhere outside, followed by the sound of someone enthusiastically threatening the maître. Clara allowed herself to be steered into the chair across from Iris, who looked completely baffled.

"Clara," the girl said, "may I present Du—"" Ai, ai, ai." Bel waved a hand dismissively as she dropped back into her chair.

"None of that. We are among friends, and sweets! Titles ruin sweets, little Iris, this is well documented."' Little Iris'? This is getting stranger by the minute.

"Such impoliteness is most certainly not well documented," Iris protested.

"It is in the only documents that matter, which are mine." Bel's grin sharpened at the edges, and for a fraction of a second there was something more underneath the easy warmth.

"So, Clara. I have been hearing about you for some time now. From Addie, from Maxie, and even little Connie in his letters to my Luisa, though I have to say he wasn't as enthusiastic as the rest of his family. In fact, Iris here has talked of nothing else but you since I arrived. It is very sweet."

"I did not —""—and I thought to myself, Bel, you must meet this woman. Because, you see, my Papai is in a bit of trouble." Clara glanced at Iris, who had buried her face in her hands. Addie? Maxie? Little Connie? Those couldn't be… Right?

"What kind of trouble?" Clara asked. Bel took a large bite out of a scone.

"The kind," she said brightly, still chewing, "where they want to put him on trial. Down in the Byzottoman Empire." Clara blinked.

"…The what?"