Chương 67: Book 2, Chapter 6: Sea Winds and Travelers

Spiced fish stew and the noise of heavy machinery, it turned out, were not conducive to a good night's sleep. Clara lay in the narrow bed in her cabin, staring up at the beams. The Esperança's engines thrummed—sometimes even hissed—as the ship cut through the waves of the Elysian Sea. She closed her eyes and turned onto her side, trying her best to let sleep finally take her. But when she saw the dark, her mind twisted the ship's cries into something else. Something decidedly unpleasant.

Clara groaned and stood up, reaching for the lightest of Madame Silka's outfits. It was a pastel green sundress of soft cotton, with a narrow waist and floral prints. Even at night, the Esperança was boiling, so this would hopefully be more comfortable than the suit she wore for dinner. She put it on, then put on her soulmate ring as well—she'd made a habit of wearing it, just in case.

Its matching pair was inside her satchel, so that she could easily slip the ring off her finger and Iris or Warren could find it and trace her. The corridor outside was lit by dim brass lamps, and the marines on watch nodded at her as she made her way up to the main deck. She went through the hatch, and the sea air hit her as soon as she stepped outside. The scent of salt drew the nostalgia from within her, and Clara found herself missing the beach.

Hopefully, swimming in the ocean was something she'd get to experience in this world. At this hour, most of the crew had retired, and the deck was quiet—or as quiet as a warship could be. Clara walked toward the railing, intending to relax while looking at the waves, and only then did she notice that she wasn't the only one with the same idea. A familiar silhouette stood near the bow, hands resting on the rail, looking out toward the dark water. Of course.

"Righton," she said, putting her hands on the railing beside his, but not quite close enough to touch. He didn't turn his head right away.

"Casewell. Couldn't sleep?"

"The stew had other plans for me. And what's your excuse?" When he finally looked at her, the moonlight caught his face properly, and Clara had to make a conscious effort to keep her expression neutral. His gaze traveled from her face down to her outfit and back up. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes, and the usual smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something more drawn and more tired than she was used to seeing on Warren Righton.

"You have a new dress," he observed.

"I've always said that one of the perks of being a woman is having the option to wear something that won't make me sweat to death."

"I see." That's it? Just 'I see'?

"Seasick?" Clara asked.

"I am an Albion. I am more than accustomed to the sea. Sleep has merely eluded me, as it has you." Warren turned back to the water." Eluded seems to be a bit of an understatement. How long has it been since you actually slept properly, Righton?" He didn't answer immediately. The wind ruffled his hair, and his fingers tightened on the rail.

"I sleep enough."

"That's not what I asked," said Clara.

"And yet it is what you're getting." Even when he's brooding, he's just as exasperating. The consistency is almost impressive. Clara sighed.

"I'll take a guess, then. I'd say three weeks, give or take. Am I right?" A muscle in his jaw moved, but he stayed quiet, which was its own kind of answer.

"What's keeping you awake? The bleating?" she whispered, lowering her eyes.

"Or Leofric? For me, it's both."

"Casewell."

"Or is it the Church in general? The idea of finding cracks in something you've always believed so much in?" He turned his head sharply, and for a second she thought he was going to snap at her. Instead, he just looked at her for a while.

"Sorry," she said.

"I got carried away. I didn't mean to be pushy."

"That has never stopped you before."

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Warren's mouth moved, not quite a smile. Then he spoke.

"When I'm trying to sleep, I close my eyes and… I see my father yelling at me. For standing against the Church. Then I see the light coming down, and I hear Her voice as She passes Her judgement for my sins." Clara wasn't surprised. Warren had spent his whole life believing in something, and then had made a rash decision to stand against it. Sometimes, when Stella's feelings got particularly intense, even Clara, who'd never cared much about religion, would feel a pull to obey the will of the Church and the Goddess.

For Warren, who didn't have his modern memories to ground him, his duty to the Church would probably be the source of significant inner turmoil. She held his gaze.

"There are no infallible institutions, Righton." It came across more like an opening statement than she'd meant to.

"What I mean is—even if you believe the Goddess is perfect, the Church is ultimately made up of people, who can be corrupted or even just fail. We've both seen the rot." She looked up, countless stars shining brightly across the vast expanse of the night sky.

"I would say that a healthy skepticism of any institution, regardless of one's beliefs, is important, especially when it comes to faith. Not even you could be presumptuous enough to believe you must be perfectly right about everything all the time." That earned her a faint laugh, and some of the tightness around his eyes eased. Without quite deciding to, Clara moved her hand on top of his and squeezed gently.

"I had a… friend. She was very devout, and while the Church brought her much-needed solace, it also inflicted indescribable pain. I don't want others to be victimized like she was, and I don't think a Goddess worth following would condemn anyone for standing up against evil, even if that evil is dressed in an inquisitor's robes. Serving the Goddess may even require opposing those who misuse Her Church."

On that note, Clara wondered how things were at the capital, and how Duke von Rhenia's efforts to dismantle the remnants of Leofric's conspiracy were going. She'd have to look into that when they returned from Istantinople. A faint smirk appeared on Warren's lips.

"You speak for divinity now, do you? That is a new level of arrogance, even for you." She chuckled.

"Only when divinity is being unreasonable."

"Insufferable."

"Just the way you like it." The words were out before she could weigh them.

"Casewell," he said, in a tone somewhere between mockery and something else entirely, "do you think a warship is an appropriate setting for flirting?" A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Flirting? Don't flatter yourself. I'm simply informing you of an empirical observation. How you choose to interpret it is entirely your own affair. As for the venue, it is merely incidental." He laughed—an actual, full laugh this time. Then they fell into a comfortable stillness. Clara didn't know how much time passed before he finally broke the silence. This was probably one of those moments that felt a lot longer than it actually was.

"Go to bed, Casewell," he said, finally pulling his hand off the railing.

"You've had a long day, and some rest will do you good."

"Not yet. I'm not that sleepy." Warren turned back to the sea.

"Alright. Do as you will." Clara waited for the follow-up. An observation about her stubbornness, or her professional conduct, or maybe how she'd get in the way of his perfect defense if she wasn't well-rested enough. Nothing came.

"Righton."

"Mm."

"Are the dreams you've been having connected to why you're acting so strangely with me?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't play coy with me. You're never this quiet." She didn't exactly miss his brash arrogance, but this shift felt uncomfortable in an entirely different way. Warren glanced at her, and a flicker of hesitation crossed his face. But whatever it was, he suppressed it and went back to staring at the horizon unblinkingly. Clara studied him. The collar of his shirt was buttoned tightly against his neck, and his breathing was ever so slightly ragged. He was holding something back.

If she had to guess, something related to her specifically, because he hadn't acted out of character with Bel or the others during the dinner. She could push again. It was tempting. Both out of curiosity and out of a desire to end the awkwardness that sat between them. Clara let the silence stretch instead. It was her way of telling him, ' I'm here if you want to talk about it,' without forcing him to.

Then she took her book from her satchel and cast Vivienne's illumination spell, ready to continue her journey through Byzottoman history. To make sure she didn't drop it in the ocean—it would reflect quite badly on the von Rhenias, who were the only reason she was still allowed to use the Claves library—she turned her back against the railing. Warren raised an eyebrow and slipped his arm behind her. Does he think I'm going to fall? I'm not a child. I've been on cruises before! But she didn't move away.

By the fourth day at sea, Clara had given up her suit for good. The green sundress had become a daily fixture, joined by a lighter cream cotton when the green needed laundering. She sat in her room, reading her book on Byzottoman history with unusual enthusiasm. Fortunately, she'd finally found a passage that recounted a historical legal proceeding. The case was from several decades ago, so Clara couldn't be sure how much of it was still accurate, but it was something.

Based on Professor Baird's description, the Byzottoman system was very different from the Arcadian system. There was no formal inquisition or even prosecution, and there was little difference between civil and criminal matters. When an illegal act was committed, it was up to the victim's family or any other private citizen with an interest in what happened to bring the matter to one of the Sultan-Basileus's appointed magistrates, called a kadi, who was essentially a judge, cleric, and inquisitor all-in-one.

The kadi would then hear the accuser's claims and take whatever measures were necessary to decide on a verdict. This included asking the Matriarch for divine guidance—which the text did not confirm to be the same as the Blessing of Truth—but the kadi was not obligated to do that, having what appeared to be mostly arbitrary power to render judgements. Not that the Blessing would really matter all that much, since Lord Pedro hadn't been apprehended by the Byzottomans, according to Bel.

In the case recounted in the book, the judge was one of the Sultan-Basileus's many sons, but Clara couldn't be sure if that would always be the case or if it was just a coincidence. Either way, it was clearly a highly politicized system. Unfortunately, there was no mention of advocates or defense lawyers in the text, so she had to assume they didn't exist in the Empire either.

"Miss Clara?" Clara had been so absorbed in the text she hadn't noticed Emma slipping into the cabin.

"Good morning, Emma. Sorry, am I late for our class? I thought we still had some time."

"No, it's not that. Lady Iris is asking after you. She said it isn't urgent. She also said, 'one must always keep in mind that timeliness is a virtue'." Of course she did. Clara closed the book and set it down.

"Lead the way." They made their way through the corridors of the Esperança until they reached the lacquered door of Iris's cabin. Knowing how picky the girl was, Bel had given Iris the largest of the guest accommodations, and even so, Iris had managed to fill it to the brim with dresses, boots, and books she'd been assigned for Claves's summer reading. Emma knocked once.

"Enter." Iris stood at the center of the room in front of a tall bronze-framed mirror. She was wearing the most elaborate dress Clara had seen on her since they'd boarded—a deep burgundy afternoon gown, with two parallel rows of brass buttons climbing the front of the bodice and gold chains draped between them. The sleeves were cream chiffon, and a delicate bow was tied at her throat.

"Lady Iris, are you trying to expire from the heat?" asked Emma.

"It is evening attire," said Iris confidently.

"Madame Silka assured me that the chiffon is breathable."

"I don't think Madame Silka has been inside an ironclad, my lady," said Clara.

"Hmph." Iris turned, and the skirt swished dramatically.

"What do you think?" Truthfully, Iris looked spectacular. The dress was just the right shade of burgundy to deepen her violet eyes, and the cream sleeves softened her serious little face.

"Very becoming, my lady. You'll be the most overdressed person on the ship by a considerable margin."

"Excellent. That is the goal." Iris waved her hand to Emma.

"Would you ask the kitchen for some lemonade for both of us, and see if there are any of those almond biscuits left from this morning?" Emma curtsied and left the room. Clara narrowed her eyes. Since when does Iris ask for lemonade? Iris settled herself into one of the two upholstered armchairs by the porthole. The Elysian Sea beyond the glass was a deep blue, broken only by the smoke of the rest of the armada on the horizon. She gestured for Clara to take the other chair.

"Clara."

"Yes, my lady?"

"It has been almost a month since that unpleasantness with Dame Rowena and Father Leofric." Iris folded her hands in her lap.

"You have had time to recover, to consider matters in their proper light, and to spend several evenings in Auntie Bel's company, which I am told is itself a clarifying experience. So I thought it appropriate to ask, now that we are speaking privately." Oh no. Here it comes. Iris looked sharply at Clara.

"Have you come to your senses yet?"

"About what, specifically?"

"About returning to House von Rhenia, naturally. I am ready to receive you back into my service as my vassal. It need not be as a maid—Emma has taken to her new role rather well, actually—but perhaps as some form of advisor, though I have yet to discuss this with Papa and—""Lady Iris." Iris stopped.

"No," said Clara gently.

"I'm not coming back. I'm sorry, my lady." There was a slight, surprisingly contained downward tug around Iris's lips.

"I see. You are still cross about how I dismissed you."

"No, it's not that. I'm not upset with you, my lady. I understand why you acted the way you did." Iris tilted her head in genuine confusion.

"If not that, then what?" It spoke to what sort of person Iris von Rhenia was that she couldn't fathom the existence of another reason for someone to decline the chance of being her vassal.

"I'm starting a law firm." Iris blinked.

"A what?" Before Clara could continue, Emma came back in with the lemonade and biscuits, but Iris glared at her so fiercely that the girl immediately scurried away. Then Iris gestured for Clara to go on.

"A law firm, my lady. An office of my own, for my work as an advocate." Clara watched Iris's face carefully.

"I've already chosen the building—a townhouse near the Westwick city center. I'll use Prince Lochlann's money to lease it through next year, and sit the solicitor's exam to register with the Traders' Guild. After that, I'll be able to take on commercial work. Contracts, deeds, wills, the unglamorous things. And then I'll do trial work alongside it, as cases appear and I build a name." The more she talked, the more Iris's stare intensified.

Clara continued, "My lady, you know there aren't trial advocates in Arcadia, and you've experienced what it's like to be at the mercy of the inquisition. I want to change that. I want to push for criminal justice reform—new procedures, requirements for evidence, rights for the defendants who aren't lucky enough to get a friendly bishop who happened to take pity. I can't do that from inside a noble house, Lady Iris. Not even yours.

The moment I'm a vassal of House von Rhenia, every case I argue becomes a political move on your father's behalf, and every reform I champion looks like a von Rhenia power play." The girl hadn't moved an inch since Clara started explaining herself.

"It seems you have been planning this for some time," Iris said quietly.

"That level of reform is a rather lofty goal, especially for a commoner. What put this into your head?" If you only knew. Well, maybe it was time for Iris to know. Clara had put it off for long enough.

"Lady Iris, there's something I need to tell you. But it might be hard to believe, and it may make you very upset with me." Iris waited. Clara scoured her mind for the right words, yet everything she thought of seemed to fall short in one way or another, faced with the gravity of the subject.

"This suspense is not improving my mood."

"I'm sorry. Let me get straight to the point, then." Clara swallowed.

"I'm not the original owner of this body. I'm not the one who used to be your maid. That was Stella. I took her place when she died. The truth is, you and I have only known each other for a few months." Iris's eyes went blank, and Clara felt the increasingly familiar, suffocating feeling of time being frozen in place. I had a feeling this might happen. She slipped her wand out of her satchel and pointed it at Iris." Aperiantur oculi mentis," Clara chanted. Let the eyes of the mind be opened.