Clara pressed her face into the pillow and screamed.

  It wasn’t a long scream—the hectic mornings at Ashford Hall’s servant’s quarters had proven the walls here were painfully thin—but it was visceral all the same. It had been building up since Warren Righton walked into that amphitheater with his stupid grin and his pretentious suit and his insufferable finger-wagging.

  She flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. A crack ran along the plaster above her bed, faintly illuminated by the last traces of evening light seeping through the curtain. Emma hadn’t come back yet, so Clara was alone in the room. If the girl wasn’t here soon, Clara would be worried; for now, she decided to give her some privacy. All teenage girls have their secrets, after all.

  She sighed.

  Warren Righton was here. In this world.

  Yet he didn’t recognize her. She was certain of it. Clara had spent years reading his face across conference tables, and she would definitely have spotted some sort of tell in court. Which meant that, somehow, he might not have the memories of his previous life, like a twisted mirror of her own situation.

  Clara had all her memories of the modern world, yet none of Stella’s memories. What if Warren had the memories of this world, and not the other? And just like Clara had inherited Stella’s skills—she hadn’t had any trouble with her maid work, hadn’t needed anyone to teach her—Warren could have kept the skills from his modern life.

  Now that I think about it, I wonder if that’s why I suddenly started liking fish. Maybe Stella favored it? Oddly, it was a comforting thought, and Clara felt a bit closer to the woman who used to exist in this same body.

  She turned the pillow over to the cool side and pressed her cheek against it.

  Warren was still an asshole. That much clearly hadn’t changed between worlds. ‘Let’s dance, shall we?’ Who says that? Who actually says that in a court of law? Warren Righton, apparently.

  And the finger-wagging. She could not get over the finger-wagging.

  Yet for all his theatrics… Clara felt something else underneath. It was the one part she didn’t want to think about, hiding underneath the irritation and the competitive fire.

  If Warren was here, that meant she wasn’t the only one.

  She was not the sole outsider in a world that ran on magic and pompous nobles and drill-haired villainesses. There was someone else who’d have the same kinds of thoughts she did, even if he didn’t recognize it. Someone who knew her.

  Her chest tightened, and she laughed softly into the dark.

  Would it be possible to restore his memories? The Blessing of Truth had let her peer into Stella’s, so maybe…

  Then she pressed her face into the pillow and screamed one more time, for good measure.

  After their morning routine of breakfast, hair brushing, and extended deliberation over which shade of burgundy ribbon best complemented today’s necklace—the answer, apparently, was ‘the third one from the left, obviously, Clara, have you gone blind?’—Iris handed her a folded piece of paper.

  “The guest list for the tea party tomorrow afternoon. I’ve selected the five ladies from our year who are most likely to know something about Forrest’s little confession. We’ll need to book a tea room at the Westwick Plaza,” said Iris. “That’s the hotel right outside Claves.”

  Clara unfolded the paper and scanned the names. She didn’t recognize any of them, but Iris had helpfully added small annotations next to each one. ‘Notorious gossip, knows everything’. ‘Top of her class, friends with Helena’. ‘Part of the Spellweaving Club’. ‘Owes me a favor’. ‘Insufferable, but her maid is secretly dating a boy in Forrest’s dorm’.

  “This is very thorough, my lady.”

  “Naturally. Now, I have classes all day, so I’ll need you and Emma to handle the preparations. I’ve written down a list.” Iris handed over a second, much longer piece of paper. “The stationer on Kettle Street does the best card stock for invitations. For tea, go to Hargrove & Sons Imports near the market square—ask for their Oriental Flowery Pekoe, and if they say they don’t have it, tell them I’ll have their cousin dismissed from Papa’s guard.”

  Clara gulped. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.

  “Remember to taste-test the pastries. They need to be better than anything from the academy kitchen; I wouldn’t serve those to Viscount Vainglory’s parrot.”

  Clara looked at the list, which went on for quite a bit longer than she’d expected.

  “My lady, is all of this really necessary for six people? Fruit scones? Miniature cakes? Ten different varieties of macarons?”

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Iris glared at her as though she’d just suggested they serve the tea in buckets. “Clara. This is not merely a tea party. It is a carefully orchestrated social event designed to extract sensitive information from the daughters of minor noble houses while they believe they are simply enjoying my impeccable hospitality.” She paused. “So yes, the apricot macarons are indispensable.”

  Experiencing the Westwick city center in the morning spring light was a pleasant reprieve from the looming trial. It reminded her of Leuven, where she’d gone to university: a cozy university city lined with quaint shops and cafés. Except Belgium smelled of waffles instead of horses.

  Emma walked half a step behind her. At first Clara thought the girl was just slow, but then she realized it was deference. She stopped.

  “Emma, there’s no need for that. You can walk next to me.”

  “Erm…” Emma hesitated. “Are you sure, Miss Casewell? You’re a lady’s maid, and I’m just a junior servant.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. And call me Clara, at least when it’s just us.”

  The girl blinked, then nodded cautiously. “Clara.”

  Clara smiled. “Our first stop should be to the left of here, the stationer on Kettle Street.”

  They walked a bit more, passing by what looked like a train station under construction, until they found the narrow shop, tucked away in the side street. It smelled wonderfully of ink and fresh paper, and the shelves were filled with rolls of parchment, wax seals, and an assortment of pens and quills.

  “We need five invitation cards and five place cards,” Clara told the shopkeeper, a stout woman with dark-stained fingers. “Cream card stock, if you have it, with burgundy seals. And we’ll need the invitations printed with—” She pulled out Iris’s note and read the wording aloud, which was essentially a summons followed by a reminder of House von Rhenia’s importance in roughly forty words.

  While the shopkeeper got to work with her small hand press, Clara browsed the shelves. To her, this was almost like being in a rare antique shop; she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had to do any real writing that wasn’t on a keyboard. In college, I suppose.

  Emma hovered near the doorway, looking at everything with wide eyes but touching nothing.

  “Have you been to Westwick before, Emma?”

  “Only once, Miss—Clara. My family’s village is about a day’s ride south, and there was a year we came for the holiday market.”

  Clara closed her eyes and tried to picture it. What would Christmas look like, in a world without Christ? Given the roots of this region, maybe something like the Roman festival of Saturnalia? She remembered her first time at the Leuven Christmas Market. Her first Christmas after…

  “Do you miss them?” asked Clara.

  Emma’s expression flickered. “Sometimes. But they need the wages, so I try to do my best to help them.”

  Clara put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure they miss you, too.”

  The shopkeeper called them with the finished invitation cards—Clara had to admit the quality was excellent—and they moved on to Hargrove & Sons. The tea shop was a far grander affair, with glass-fronted cabinets displaying dozens of labeled tins. They walked inside, and Clara inhaled. The scent was quite unlike anything she’d ever smelled before: layered and floral, with a hint of citrus underneath. She was more of a coffee person, so she’d never been able to tell teas apart in her old life. Were these Stella’s senses?

  “The Oriental Flowery Pekoe, please,” she told the young boy behind the counter.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Miss, I’m afraid—”

  Clara cleared her throat. “Emma, remember to be careful while carrying those invitations. Lady Iris would be furious if they were crumpled.” Emma nodded.

  “L-lady Iris?” The boy’s eyes widened. “One moment, Miss.”

  The boy went to the back of the shop, and moments later a burly, mustached man came out. “Welcome, honored guests. I’m Jack Hargrove. How can I help you?”

  “As I was saying, we’re looking for Oriental Flowery Pekoe. Enough for a dozen.”

  “Ah, excellent choice.” He nodded and pulled out a tin from under the counter. “While I prepare that, would you like to have a taste of our new jasmine oolong blend?”

  Emma looked at Clara, then back at the tin, then back at her again. Clara chuckled.

  “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  They took a seat, and soon after, the boy from earlier brought two small porcelain cups filled with a clear, amber tea. Emma took a careful sip, and her entire face lit up. “It’s sweet! I didn’t know tea could be sweet without honey!”

  “It’s naturally sweet from the blossoms,” said Jack from behind the counter, looking pleased.

  From there, they went to the confectioner and placed a large order for tomorrow, to be delivered straight to the hotel under Iris’s name. As instructed, Clara asked for samples, so they were directed to a small adjoining salon, where they sat down and waited.

  “Emma, while we wait, shall we write out the place cards for tomorrow?”

  It was a simple enough task, but Emma’s face fell. “I…” She looked down at the parcels in her lap. “I can’t, Clara.”

  “Can’t? Why not?”

  “I don’t know how.” Her voice was very small, and her cheeks had gone pink. “To write, I mean. Or read.”

  Ah. Clara wanted to slap herself—that was an inconsiderate thing to ask. She’d been so immersed in nobles and libraries and Latin that she’d forgotten to consider the obvious: in a world like this, of course a poor girl from a countryside village would be illiterate.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma added quickly.

  “Don’t apologize,” said Clara, more firmly than she intended. “You just haven’t been taught.”

  The confectioner soon brought out a tiered tray of beautiful treats—tarts, pastries, candied fruits, even a small sponge cake on top, and Emma’s mood quickly improved. They tried each and every one of Iris’s chosen sweets; Clara thought they were all quite good, though not as refined as what you’d find in a modern artisanal bakery. She bit into a thick, creamy custard tart and raised an eyebrow. I wonder if I could make ‘that’ here. Emma might love it.

  After they approved and finalized the main order for the tea party, Clara placed a small ‘extra’ order of her own, to be delivered to Claves tomorrow morning. They paid and left the shop.

  “Come on,” said Clara, gesturing back to the side streets.

  “Clara, that’s the wrong way. The hotel is on the other side.”

  “We’re not going to the hotel yet.”

  “Huh? Then where are we going?” asked Emma, confused.

  “Back to the stationer.”

  “But we already picked up the invitations—”

  “We’re not going for invitations,” said Clara. “We’re going for a notebook, a pen, and some ink. I’ll write the place cards tonight, but starting tomorrow, I’m going to teach you how.”

  Emma stared at her. “You’d teach me? But why? I’m just a—”

  “If you say ‘just a junior maid’ again, I’ll make you carry all of Lady Iris’s luggage next time we travel. By yourself.”

  Emma let out a sound that was a half-laugh, half-hiccup. “Yes, Miss! I mean—Clara!”

  Patreon: When it comes to structuring cases, I like to leave subtle nudges and clues and foreshadowing in my chapters very early on. So I'm trying to push farther ahead on my writing where I have the whole entire next trial concluded before I open up a Patreon (that's actually a pretty large number of chapters, because we have the whole midterms + school gala arc before even getting to that!), so I can make sure I left breadcrumbs I'm happy with. Sorry it's taking a bit long! I just want to make sure the quality is as good as it can be.

  Discord: On parallel with that, I was wondering if it's worth it opening a Discord for this story. Does anyone have thoughts on this?