“How—what—” Arthur Manning, son of the Honourable Pete Manning, turned a telling shade of pink. “How the devil didn’t I know you’re a magician?”
“I’m not,” said Robin. “Er. Long story.” This time his glance to Edwin was rather desperate. “Edwin, Manning and I were at Cambridge together.”
“Yes. Ah—how d’you do.” It was addressed to Edwin, but Manning continued to stare at Robin as if the sun were rising and setting in his face. Jack had never in his life felt the slightest urge to fuck Robin Blyth, but it was enough to make him briefly wonder if he was missing out on something.
Edwin did not return Manning’s greeting. His eyes narrowed.
“Your name is Arthur Manning? A. Manning? Did you write a thesis on visual illusions, a few years back?”
“Er…” Manning didn’t seem confident in his eventual answer of: “Yes?”
The next few sentences began sensibly enough but soon spiralled off into a level of judgemental detail about cradling minutiae that was extreme even for Edwin. Robin began to open his mouth, then closed it again.
Manning was clutching his books to his chest as if they’d save him. Finally he managed to interrupt—“Stop! I—look, I didn’t write it. It was my sister. Abigail. But you can’t tell anyone. Our parents don’t approve of her fiddling around with spells.”
“Well,” said Edwin sniffily, “you can tell her it’s sloppily argued and lacking breadth.”
“I’m sure it’s a damn sight better than anything I’d be able to do!” Manning flared. “And it’s not as if anyone gave her proper training!”
“Edwin,” said Jack, “you’re wasting time. Apologise.”
This was the most amusing thing to happen in weeks: a jealous Edwin Courcey trying to wield secondhand academic cattiness against someone who’d fucked his partner. Normally Jack would have enjoyed the show and mocked Edwin about it afterwards. But they needed Manning. Antagonising him wouldn’t help.
Edwin glared at Jack, but delivered a halfhearted apology that Manning accepted with relief.
“Lord Hawthorn. Pa sends his regards.”
“How d’you do, Manning,” said Jack. “Congratulations on your engagement are in order, I hear. This is Miss Violet Debenham. Violet, Manning here will be your dicentis.”
“I’ll do what I can. I don’t want you to think I’m stuffed full of experience.”
“As long as you don’t tell me this is your very first day on the job, I’ll take whatever help I can get,” said Violet.
“Er. Third?”
“Third day?” said Edwin, who’d unwound a tad at the word engagement.
“Third time standing dicentis for anyone. So … yes?”
“He’s not attached to the Assembly,” said Jack. “There’s no telling who they’d saddle Violet with otherwise, or even if they’d grant her a dicentis at all. I’m sure you’ll do very well,” he added to Manning, leaning pointedly into the words.
Manning swept another uncertain look around the group, but nodded. “We can use one of the preparatory offices. Follow me.”
He set his briefcase and books down to cradle and then sketch a silver rune on the nearest door.
“Oak,” murmured Edwin to Violet.
“Runes,” she said in return.
Translatable enough. Jack was going to be called on to help with the next part of their Spinet investigation.
The rune glowed, and Manning opened the door and ushered them all into a modestly sized office on one of the building’s highest floors, going by the view from the small window. They settled around a table.
Violet didn’t have a copy of Lady Enid’s will. She pulled out a letter from Lady Enid to herself, confirming the inheritance and telling her to do whatever she wished with it. It gave a sense of great personality in few lines.
“She signed it with her married name,” said Manning. “Mrs. James Taverner. Was that usual for her? Do you have any of her other correspondence?”
“No,” said Violet. “I suppose, if we searched the house … Why? Do you think someone might try to claim this is forged?”
“I’ve no clue,” said Manning. “If what she says here about the wax and runes on the will is correct, it all seems rather airtight. And she specifically mentions the possibility that someone else might try to contest the will. Hm. One could make an argument either way, about that. It’d be a convenient thing to put in such a letter if you did forge it.”
“I didn’t!” Violet snapped.
“Or if you asked her to write it—and the will—under duress or coercion,” said Manning. He shrank from Violet’s increasingly stormy expression. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m trying to anticipate what this could be about. Magical inheritance is hard to argue with, but some aspects of unmagical law still come into play.”
“He’s right,” said Edwin unexpectedly.
None of them had ever been called to a hearing at the Library before. Manning ran them hurriedly though the basic procedures. At a quarter past the hour, one of the Barrel attendants knocked on the door and told Violet that they were ready.
“I will be accompanied by my full legal team,” said Violet haughtily.
Jack was half expecting himself, Robin, and Edwin to be denied entrance, but the attendant shrugged and ushered them all down the hall. They went through a normal set of doors, this time, wider and taller than those in the foyer.
The room was windowless and circular. It held a dais with a long bench, behind which three men sat, and two wide desks with a few chairs each, facing the dais. A courtroom configuration. Two men stood at the leftmost desk, heads bent over a folder.
The walls were pale yellow, lit by plentiful lights in glass keepers set in brackets, and the ceiling was the night sky. Not just painted either. Above their heads was a soft, inky darkness within which a single constellation shone huge and bright, taking up the whole of the space within the ring of walls.
“I was expecting books,” said Violet. “I thought this place was called the Library.”
“It is,” said Manning and Edwin together. Edwin went on, “The constellation is Libra. Scales, for justice. The stars are called the Librae, and the name evolved over time.”
“I hope we’re not keeping you from anything more important,” said Walter Courcey.
Edwin’s head snapped around as if on a string.
Robin’s fingertips went steadyingly to the small of Edwin’s back. Violet only looked curious; she’d never met Walter. It had been a long time since Jack had. Time had ironically brought the Courcey brothers closer in appearance. Walter, one of the two men on the left, looked like a version of Edwin drawn in a more confident hand.
“Courcey,” said Robin in absolutely neutral tones.
“Blyth.” Walter smiled. “Not that the Assembly isn’t always delighted to cast an eye over our pet foreseer, but I don’t recall seeing your name on the summons. Nor yours, Win.”
“Nor mine,” said Jack, before Edwin could make the mistake of reacting. He prodded their group towards the empty desk. “And yet here we are. You seem to be in a hurry, Courcey. Why don’t you move us on to business?”
Walter stepped away from the desk, taking up a position in the centre of the room, and gave a nod of respect to the men on the dais.