“In fact—it occurs to me—even if Spinet House and the rest of its contents are confirmed legally hers, Miss Debenham really should be required to hand over the knife. Along with, of course, any other pieces of the contract she might currently possess.”
“Any other…？” Prest frowned at Violet.
“Do make up your mind, Mr. Courcey.” Violet had found her poise. “Am I in illegal possession of a private inheritance, or am I hoarding public property? It seems to be whichever gets you what you want.”
Singh’s frown had deepened too. “Indeed. Courcey, if the point of this is an inheritance hearing—”
“You’re right,” said Walter. “We’ve wandered from the point. But I can’t allow these accusations to muddy the waters. I can assure you all that we’re nowhere near knowing how to use the Last Contract to pool the power of many magicians. Which, I will remind you, is an important goal. We don’t know precisely what darkness is gathering on the horizon for the magicians of Britain, but we do know we should all be working for the common good. Not selfishly hoarding the keys to power.”
“Selfish?” said Robin. “You and Bastoke are the ones turning murderer in the name of power, Courcey. You tried to kill Edwin.”
No poise there at all. All of Robin’s hatred bubbled up like bile, and the effect on the panel was obvious. He sounded desperate and looked unstable. It was unfair; he had every right to be. But this wasn’t that kind of battle.
Walter let Robin’s untidy emotion sit there like a spreading pool from where an untrained puppy had messed on the rug. Jack pressed his lips together and tried to think. In the pause, however, Edwin stood with enough force that his chair skidded on the floor, and marched stiff-legged to confront his brother, face-to-face.
It was a terribly brave act and Jack was almost certain it was going to make things worse.
“Hit me,” demanded Edwin.
Walter let out a brief, incredulous laugh. “I beg your pardon, Win?”
“Fuckfuckfuck,” breathed Robin.
“Go on. You have my consent. Lift a hand and try to hit me. Let them see you can’t, because you’re under blood-oath. The same oath that’s the only reason the Assembly has access to Robin’s foresight in the first place.”
Walter exchanged a look with Prest. Then looked back at Edwin, in whose face the hurt of the past was blossoming like a bruise. And Walter, like Jack, had always enjoyed knowing exactly where to press down. A hint of self-disgust curled up within Jack. He despised Walter Courcey and always had.
“Don’t be absurd,” said Walter gently. “You’re my brother, Edwin. Why would I want to strike you? Why would I ever need to give blood-oath not to hurt you? We’re family. Our parents’ blood is in the soil at Penhallick. It means something to me, even if it doesn’t to you.”
That was more than pressing a bruise; it was twisting a knife. Edwin flinched.
“Robin, stay put,” Jack growled without even looking over.
“You’re evading,” said Edwin. A thin, whip-crack whisper.
“But perhaps it doesn’t mean anything,” said Walter. “You had to go off and get your hands on another property instead. Just like Miss Debenham over there.”
It was like that Oscar Wilde story about a painting: Walter Courcey looking calm and reasonable on the exterior, forcing all of his own viciousness to appear on Edwin’s face as Edwin fought to keep his balance in front of the brother who’d tormented him for their entire childhood.
“Stop it,” Edwin hissed. “Stand there under a truth-spell and declare you haven’t let this project of yours run to kidnapping, torture, and murder.”
“There’s no such thing as a truth-spell,” said Walter. Even Jack was tempted to gasp at that. Walter had used a truth-spell on Edwin, when trying to get the coin.
Edwin looked molten with indignation and lifted his hands to begin a cradle, even without string.
The panel’s reaction was instant.
“No unauthorised magic in the Library!” snapped Prest. “Have some respect for this institution, young man!”
Jack was contemplating just hauling the lot of them out of there before any more damage could be done—respect be damned—when the only person to so far escape the fiasco made an abrupt reentry.
Overlapping footsteps came from behind them as Arthur Manning strode back into the Library with another person by his side.
“Kitty?” said Edwin.
Now accompanying Manning was one of the lovelier women Jack had ever seen, with a wealth of blue-black hair, glowing brown skin, and an elegant profile. She held a few leaves of yellowing paper.
She was also extremely, visibly pregnant.
Even Jack, who was usually in favour of throwing convention out the window, felt a stab of startled displacement. One didn’t usually see women outside the house when they were this far along. Cowling had turned red; Prest’s entire face was folded into an expression of deep discomfort, and he seemed unable to make his gaze focus on the newcomer.
“Ahmph,” said Cowling. “I say. Hardly the place to be—my dear madam—”
“Catherine.” Singh’s tone was faintly querying.
“Good afternoon, my dear,” said Catherine Kaur. “Assemblymen. Evers.” A slight, masterful pause. “Courcey.”
Edwin managed to stop staring at Mrs. Kaur and escaped back to the desk. Manning joined them.
“I was going to tell you,” Manning murmured. “Mrs. Kaur practically trained me. She was never allowed to stand dicentis, but she did a lot of work with the Coopers. She knows some parts of magical law better than anyone. She’d heard about the hearing and dug up the papers on inheritance law for me. I thought she might still be in the Barrel, and”—a helpless nod to where Mrs. Kaur was making her slow, swaying way up to the dais—“she was. Is.”
And she might have prodded her husband into volunteering for the panel so there’d be at least one semi-friendly face. Or at least one not actively primed against them.
Mrs. Kaur apologised for intruding and somehow managed to give the impression that Arthur Manning had not in fact ducked behind his teacher’s skirts, but called upon her as a research assistant. She then unfolded her pieces of paper and laid out a concise summary of a case heard in the Library some forty years ago, where a magical estate in Wiltshire had been the subject of a tedious inheritance dispute. It included a brief note that the current residents, including one of the disputing parties, were deemed able to remain in place during the nearly six months that the case dragged on.
She punctuated the whole with the occasional wince or hand in the small of her back. Jack wanted to invite the entirety of Parliament into this room to learn by example.
He didn’t know much about Catherine Kaur. She had worked with the Coopers. And then stopped working with them and moved to a different role, in a different part of the Barrel. He wondered why—and wondered if it had coincided with his cousin George assuming control. The Coopers weren’t an army, but they were damn close to one, and Jack knew how armies worked. Atrocities were committed first and legitimised later, if the high brass were forced to acknowledge them at all. Perhaps Prest and the Assembly didn’t know what George had been doing on their behalf, but Jack was quite sure they preferred it that way.