Book 2, Chapter 42: Constitutional

Clara pulled her hand off Professor Morris’s shoulder with her best attempt at grace. Yet judging by Warren’s amused smirk, the result had been clumsy.

“Righton.”

“Casewell. I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. Then again, I also didn’t expect to stumble upon such a passionate discussion about blow—”

“His mind! I was about to blow his mind. With grammar.” Heat crept up her neck. “Some tidbits on the Sacred Tongue I picked up at Mont Sainte-Michelle.”

“Naturally.” He strolled toward them, his hands behind the tail of his scarlet frock coat. “Professor. I see you two have developed quite the rapport.”

Morris studied the two of them before responding, wearing the inquisitive look of an academic formulating a theory. Clara stared at him. If you say anything, I’m never talking to you about Latin again.

The professor finally lowered his head. “It is an honor, Lord Warren. I believe Dame Casewell sought to share some orthographic knowledge with me, as we both are bound for the von Rhenia estate.”

“I see. Well, far be it from me to get in the way of… grammar, but there are matters I’d like to discuss with her.” He adjusted his cuffs, then turned to Clara. “If you don’t mind postponing your departure slightly, it is nearly noon, and I know a decent establishment that should be open for lunch.”

I love how specific he can be. Still, she was starving after the journey, and there were things she wanted to talk to him about.

“Alright, I can do lunch.” She pulled Morris aside and lowered her voice. “Professor, go on without me. When you get to the estate, tell the duke to keep the knights on high alert for potential intrusions. I’ll explain everything later, and, uh, don’t tell Lady Iris about Righton being here. If they ask, just say I had some business and will be there soon.”

“Consider it done, though I expect to continue this conversation later.”

The professor went to hail a hackney, and Warren didn’t ask what she’d whispered, which Clara appreciated. She fell into step beside him, and they walked down a boulevard lined with lush lime trees, a sweet fragrance hanging in the air.

The boulevard opened into the city’s central district—which held the High Court and other administrative buildings—and Warren led her to a cream-colored townhouse. Presumably, it was a restaurant, but there was no signage besides a discreet brass plaque with the address, and the curtains on its tall windows were drawn.

So it’s the kind of place where, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. Well, I told myself I was going to treat him as thanks for helping with the knighthood, so it’ll have to do. She didn’t like being indebted to anyone, least of all to Warren Righton, even if the other side wasn’t keeping track.

The inside was lit by candles, and the rich smell of meat made Clara’s stomach rumble, to which she could only offer a sheepish shrug. A mustachioed man in a crisp black waistcoat approached them.

“Lord Warren.” The restaurant manager bowed, then his eyes moved to Clara. “And you must be Dame Casewell. Forgive me, my lord, I wasn’t expecting the two of you until next week.”

Huh?

“Plans changed,” said Warren without missing a beat. “I trust you can accommodate us regardless.”

The manager hesitated only briefly. “Of course, my lord. If you’d give us just a moment to prepare, I’ll escort you to your table.” Then he vanished up the stairs.

Clara looked at Warren.

“Next week?”

“Did he say next week? He must have been mistaken.” Warren’s smirk was even more lopsided than usual, and his short beard did little to soften it.

“You made plans for us.”

“The canonization is next week,” he said, moving to examine a painting on the wall with tremendous interest. “There will be a number of visitors from the duchies and from abroad, and they will all seek the finer pleasures Elysia offers. It is only prudent to secure a slate of reservations as a contingency.”

“Reservations specifically for the two of us?”

“Among others. Foresight and thorough planning are some of my many virtues.”

Before she could poke him on this, the manager returned, taking Warren’s coat and Clara’s satchel to the coatroom. He then led them to the private salon upstairs—a cozy room with a table set by the window. She settled into the chair, her hands brushing the soft tablecloth. Her reflection looked back at her from the immaculate silverware.

Goddess, my hair is a mess.

A server brought the menu, which was a fancy handwritten card. Of course, there were no prices mentioned anywhere.

“They do classical Arcadian fare here,” said Warren. “Properly, not the poor imitations they have in Westwick or the pedestrian stew we had aboard the Esperança.”

“That sounds like something Iris would say.”

“Even I can admit that Lady Iris has discerning taste, whatever her flaws.” He glanced at her over the menu. “I recommend the filet. They do it with a butter and truffle sauce, with a side of the pommes purée.”

The notion of eating a proper steak for the first time since her transmigration was enough to make her mouth water.

“It does sound delicious. Is that your favorite here?”

“It isn’t. I’ve always been more partial to mutton.” His eyes fell back to his menu. “I simply had a feeling you’d like it.”

A feeling.

Steak with truffle sauce and mashed potatoes had been her regular order at Caine, Polis & Smith’s firm dinners. It was the part of the day she most looked forward to when she’d had to stay late to work on a deal, and she’d probably ordered it in Warren’s presence a dozen times. Back then, they had barely acknowledged each other, except to exchange barbs.

Another thing that his body knows, even if his mind doesn’t. You’re still there, Righton, and one day, after we’ve sorted out this memory-wiping mess, I’m going to drag you out.

They ordered, and the server withdrew.

Warren relaxed in his chair and looked her over. “How did you find your spiritual purification at Mont Sainte-Michelle? Frankly, you seem about the same to me. Should I be disappointed?”

“It was the usual.” This time, it was Clara’s turn for a sly smile. “Some reading, some chores, a murder investigation. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Murder? Casewell, you were there for two weeks. How did you manage to get yourself into trouble in the most secure fortress in Arcadia?” He softened, leaning forward. “Are you alright? Did anything happen to you?”

“I’m fine, just sore. You may not believe me, but I didn’t get myself into trouble. A senior clergywoman died, and I helped uncover the truth. It turned out that she was killed by the custodian because of a dispute over seating arrangements for the canonization ceremony.”

This version was taken from the page the author publishes on without permission; reading the chapter there supports the writer.

“The clergy now kill each other over seating arrangements?” He closed his eyes and mouthed a Fiat a Dea. “People have murdered for less, I suppose, but not by much.”

“It might be hard for you to imagine, given your position, but sometimes people take workplace recognition veryseriously. It can lead to intense emotions. I could picture a version of you having deep workplace squabbles, in a life where you weren’t a noble.”

“You wound me,” Warren protested. “I would never lower myself to such pettiness.”

“If you say so.”

“Quite. And how was the seclusion, aside from you managing to turn a religious retreat into a criminal investigation?”

She took a sip of her water to give herself a moment to think. This was an opening for her to actually talk to him, and she’d been half-hoping for it and half-dreading it.

“It was illuminating, in a sense,” she said. “You know they use the Blessing of Truth to screen their guests? Professor Morris said it’s a form of memory magic. And every time I go through something like that, I can’t help but think of how fragile everything is.”

“How so?”

She hesitated. “One spell, Righton. That’s all it would take for someone to wipe away everything I’ve learned, everyone I care about, everything that makes me who I am. And I’d never know it was gone.”

“Memory magic is highly controlled—you saw what the Church almost did to Morris over a single consensual spell. They would never allow such a thing.”

“Wouldn’t they? Didn’t Leofric show us that not everyone within the Church acts how they’re supposed to? And now the custodian, too.” She looked straight into his eyes. “Let me put it another way. What if it had already been done to you? What if there were a whole slew of memories you couldn’t remember because someone cast a spell on you? Would you still be you?”

She watched him. Some part of her, the reckless Clara who was tired of carrying this burden alone, wanted to see him hesitate, even for a second.

But Warren only shrugged with serene confidence. “In that exceedingly unlikely scenario, which I am pondering solely for the sake of indulging you, my charming disposition would doubtless come through regardless of whatever trifles I’d failed to remember. I find that some things, Casewell, are simply constitutional.”

Clara laughed despite the seriousness she’d intended the question to carry. It was a full chortle, but if asked under oath, she’d deny there was fondness in it. I wish you knew how right you are.

“Speaking of your charming disposition,” she said, “I never did thank you. For the knighthood. I know you were the one who brought it up to the King.”

“I merely made a suggestion. You were the one who earned it.”

“I did earn it. But we both know the value of a well-placed suggestion, coming from a source with… appropriate standing. So, thank you, Righton.”

“You’re welcome,” he allowed. “It will be useful. A knight of the realm, recognized by the King, makes a much better champion for reform than a former maid. And the timing was fortuitous—had you received the knighthood after the canonization ceremony, the world would only see it as a recognition of your religious significance. But with the order reversed, they’ll know you stood on your own merits, and with the backing of the Crown, before you were tied to the Church.”

She’d known the knighthood would help with the bill, but she hadn’t realized the order mattered so much.

“That’s a good point. Being recognized on my merit will make defending the bill easier, or as easy as the legislative process can realistically get.”

“Mm. Among other things.” He picked up his wine and took a sip.

“Other things?”

“You’ll find that standing has many uses,” he said. “Which brings me to my actual purpose in calling you here. I’ve been working with the northern lords while you were locked away, feeling out who could be persuaded to abstain, who’s too deep in the scriptures to be moved. Reginald agreed to help immediately, incidentally.”

“Viscount Vainglory did?”

“He’s seen what a misused chalice can lead to. That, and he holds you in bizarrely high regard for someone you once accused of a heinous crime in open court.”

“You neglect to mention the part where I stopped him from being wrongfully convicted when even you lost faith. I’m glad to hear that at least one northern lord has a functioning memory. Do pass my thanks to him.”

“You can do that yourself,” Warren said. “There’ll be a royal reception after the ceremony, and we’ll introduce you to some of the other lords who could be convinced. Don’t expect it to be smooth—local aristocrats are always worried about new Parliament initiatives, because half of them involve centralizing power at their expense. The Church and the barons—”

“Righton, wait. Before you go on.”

He paused, eyeing her curiously. “What is it?”

“I appreciate all this work that you’re doing—lobbying with the northern lords, setting up meetings. But I wanted to make sure that it’s not causing problems with your father. You told me you two have been distant, and I know Duke Albion is the Church’s staunchest ally. Is this going to drive a wedge between you and your father? Sorry, I should have checked before I asked you to help me in the first place.”

“There is no wedge to speak of.” Warren’s reply was a touch too quick. “As far as anyone is concerned, I am involved in this matter purely as a private person, acting on my own initiative, without sanction from the duke.”

A private person. Was he taking pages out of Bel’s book now?

“That’s a tidy line to draw, but in my experience, family is anything but tidy,” Clara said. “Still, if you say it’s fine, then I’ll withdraw my objection. Though I’d like it on record that if things ever stop being tidy, that’s something you can tell me about. I’m here for you, Righton.”

“Hmph. Duly noted. And what of your family, Casewell?”

“Right now, the only family I have is the one I made.”

“I see. I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be. It’s a good family.” And so was my last one. The thought woke a craving for brigadeiros.

He nodded. “Now, as I was saying earlier, the Church and the barons are close partners in hoisting the flag of local autonomy, but meeting a miracle recipient can go a long way, so you’ll have to be on your best behavior when we make rounds at the royal reception.”

“I’ll be ready. But we don’t have to worry about full opposition from the Church. The Sacred Ministry, at least, will remain silent on the bill.”

“What?” Warren’s left eyebrow climbed higher than Clara had ever seen it, and that was saying something. “How could that possibly be the case? You must be mistaken—”

“You continue to underestimate me. Now I’m the one who’s wounded. I’ll have you know I struck a deal with the Cardinal Primate herself.”

“What kind of bargain could have persuaded Her Eminence to stand down while the Church loses influence? Even if we are to keep bishops as judges, she must see that excluding the inquisition will have an effect on the institution as a whole.”

“The kind where she needs my help to make a spectacle out of the miracle. You’ll find that standing has many uses, Righton.”

Clara winked, and Warren sighed dramatically. But underneath, he was smiling.

“You’re incorrigible,” he said. “Yet if you’re right and that bargain holds, it will be a great boon with both the Lords and the Commons. And on that, have you given any thought to how you’ll handle the lower chamber?”

“In fact, I have. I want to start by talking to Edward—maybe at the reception—and seeing if he’ll introduce me to his father.”

“You mean to approach the leader of the opposition directly?”

“Indeed. I figured I could probably get an audience with a local Westwick representative if I wanted to, but might as well try the big fish first, right?”

“That’s bold, even for you.” He considered it, then gave a slow nod. “Nonetheless, your instincts are sound. With the way he campaigned against the Optimates’ disastrous corn laws, Lord Pemberton’s Civic Party has its first real chance of winning a majority in the upcoming elections. If you can get Pemberton behind this before then, your bill could become part of his campaign platform, especially if it comes with the endorsement of a miracle recipient.”

“Careful, now. That almost sounded like you think I had a great idea.”

“Hah. Don’t grow accustomed to it, Casewell.” Yet he raised his glass, and she found herself doing the same.

The food arrived, and the filet hit just right. It was still pink inside, and though the sauce was stronger than her palate was used to, the mashed potatoes were so smooth that the dish came together beautifully.

They chatted through their meal—about politics, about Bel misbehaving in the capital, about the increasing furor over Iris’s upcoming birthday party, and so on. When the plates were cleared, Clara dabbed her mouth with her napkin and rose.

“Excuse me for a bit. I have to visit the ladies’ room.”

“By all means.”

She slipped out of the salon and made her way down the stairs, where she found the manager by the coatroom.

“Do you require any assistance, Dame Casewell? Perhaps I could direct you to the powder room? I hope our service has been acceptable.”

“Everything’s been great, my compliments to the chef. Actually, I came down here to settle the bill. For both of us, please.”

The man’s mustache twitched, and he glanced up the stairs to check if Warren was coming down behind her. “Dame Casewell, Lord Warren has an arrangement with—”

“Not today, he doesn’t. If you could just pass me my satchel, I can get my cheque book. How much was it?”

The manager cleared his throat. “…Seven marks and four pence, madam.”

Clara held back a wince.

Seven marks was almost two months’ wages for a lady’s maid, and more than a month’s rent, all for a single (very good) lunch. But she signed the cheque without letting her face betray anything.

Worth it.

Then she did go to the ladies’ room, and when she came out, Warren was mid-argument with the manager.

“You paid?” He turned on her. “I was the one who invited you. I’m the heir to a duchy, for goodness’ sake. A gentleman cannot permit—”

“A true gentleman accepts a lady’s thanks gracefully,” she countered with glee. “Consider us even.”

“That—” His voice came out high, and he stopped himself, glancing at the manager. The tips of his ears had gone pink, and he adjusted his cravat as he approached her. “The next one is mine,” he whispered.

Clara smiled. Next one, he says.