Fallen Magic

An hour later, I'm half-convinced what we're trying to do is impossible. The story of a mother seeking justice for her murdered Malaina son is a tragic one. Roberta Jones represented herself in court, and not because she was a competent lawyer. There are a dozen notes criticising her for not following proper procedure and not understanding the legal details of what she was trying to prove. And a transcript of a speech she made that makes me feel for her.

I'm not a lawyer. And I should have one to represent me. You know why I don't? Because no lawyer would take a case like this without more money than I'll ever have in my life. But I know my son – I know he'd never hurt a soul – I know he didn't deserve to die. And I want justice for him.

The facts of the case agree with Roberta's assessment, too. The reasons for her son Edgar's Fall are unclear, and many aspersions were thrown on the mother for that. But after that, he had only a single active episode, which caused damage to nothing more than a window. I note however that the Prime Minister at the time (this was nearly twenty years ago) happened to be present to witness it. He was opening a new wing at the hospital where Edgar was staying (with a broken leg, obtained apparently in an accident unrelated to Malaina), and saw the window destroyed by the boy.

I find my teeth gritted with suppressed anger as I read his description of the incident. How twisted it seems, how certain he is that Edgar was dangerous. By that definition, I'm dangerous too. I deserve death. It scares me to realise there are people who would genuinely believe that.

And what if the magistrate we'll have to convince is one of them?

"Okay?" asks Tara.

I blink and shrug. "It's not…"

"Pleasant reading?"

"Yeah."

"We have a lot of advantages that Roberta didn't," she points out.

"I know. And it's unfair that she didn't."

Tara nods. "But we can – if we make this work, maybe that will be the first step. Towards change. So that the next Roberta has a real chance."

I can't tell if her words give me hope – or if her certainty that there will be a next time is disheartening.

But I return to my reading.

The afternoon passes quickly, if not pleasantly. Before I know it, another day is over. It hadn't really occurred to me before today, how precious these days are. How few I have left before I return to my other life.

I will miss this when I go back to the Academy, much to my surprise. I hadn't expected to, but… having my dad here, getting to know him better than I did before, has been nice. Perhaps we've repaired a little of what was broken between us, or perhaps we're building something new.

My dad and I walk home together again. Neither of us are particularly talkative: he's still half-lost in his work, and I'm half-lost in mine. It didn't get any better, Edgar's case. It makes me so angry just thinking about it. Edgar and John, both of them – it wasn't because of Malaina they died. That was a pretext. It was because they were just too inconvenient for powerful people to deal with. Through no fault of their own.

There's fear, too, mixed in with the not-quite-directed righteous anger. Lord Blackthorn tolerates me now, because Edward cares about me and he thinks I'm good for his son. But what if that changes? What if I too become an inconvenience?

I have no doubt that he would, perfectly legally, have me murdered.

And stars, I don't know what I could do about it. I don't like the person I might have to become to protect myself from that.

I barely notice when we reach the apartment. If my dad wasn't with me, I might have just kept walking down the street. He gives me a look of mild concern as he unlocks the door, but says nothing.

By the time we've eaten, the sleep deprivation is beginning to make its effects known. I find myself fighting to not yawn as I dry the dishes.

"You really didn't sleep well last night, did you?" my dad asks.

"No," I agree, trying to smother my guilt. Lying by omission – for a good reason – isn't that bad, is it?

"I'll finish the dishes, then," my dad says. "You go and get some rest."

"It's fine – I can finish – " I yawn mid-sentence, which rather defeats my point. "…fine. Thank you."

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It's only eight after noon, which feels too early to sleep, but I'm tired enough that it's tempting nevertheless. And if I go to sleep early, hopefully I'll also manage to wake up early and return to my normal routine.

I wash and change quickly, and then collapse into bed.

I wake at seven after noon the next morning. Reasonable, all things considered. I'm glad not every night is filled with adventure. Though my dreams were: I dreamt that I was racing through the streets of Ryk, fleeing some unknown danger, and I could trust no-one. My heart is pounding when I open my eyes, and it takes me a minute to convince myself that it wasn't real. That I'm safe.

Well. Safety is a relative term. But no-one is chasing me. All I need to worry about right now is breakfast.

Once I'm a little more awake, I start worrying about other things. Like the fact I need to find a way back to the scarf-seller's stall soon. Omar can't have been happy to receive my note, and we need to find a time for our next lesson. But I can't do that when I'm going to work with Tara on the project again all day. And – I still need to talk to my dad about that, and I still haven't found the courage.

Maybe I should do that now. We're sitting across the breakfast table, not talking much. He never seems properly alive until he's got a hot drink and some food inside him. I stop reaching for another spoonful of porridge and just spit the words out. "We need to talk about the project."

He sighs. "I – I'm still not doing it. I can't work with that woman."

Part of me was hoping he might have changed his mind. I can't really blame him for not doing so. "Okay. But – if that means you're not going to be the one to officially file the case – "

"So you want to do that," my dad says. "I suppose at least you're asking."

I hate the way he says those words. It's not quite bitter, but… he feels as if he should be asked those things. And he doesn't think I will. And he's not entirely wrong.

"If you don't want me to, I won't," I say. "But… I think it would be good. For me. For the project. For the bigger picture."

He leans back and closes his eyes. "Stars, Tallulah. Do I want to know what your bigger picture looks like?"

"Changing the way people see Malaina. And yes, I know what I'm doing." Sort of. Ish. I'll figure it out as I go along.

"You'll resent me, won't you? If I tell you not to do it."

"I – " I want to say no, but I think that might be a lie. "I mean it. If you don't want me to, I won't do it. The project will go ahead regardless, after all."

He grimaces. "I… there isn't a right answer here. I want to protect you, Tallulah, but I'm realising that I can't. I – do it, if that's what you want. If you think it's worth the risk."

"Thank you."

"Don't."

It's still about what Electra did to me. He feels powerless, because in some ways he is. And he's adjusting to this new reality where I know more and have more experience than he does. What he just said was an admission of defeat.

But for me, it doesn't feel like a victory. Even if I have what I want.

Just because I have his permission – or his resigned acceptance – doesn't mean I have to go through with this. I know the dangers, I know the consequences of a mistake when I have the country's attention.

And I know how important and meaningful this could be, if it succeeds. What's the point in everything I've been through in the last few months, if I'm not using what I've learnt from it?

I tell Tara what I want to do when we get to work. When she inevitably asks whether I have my dad's permission, I sigh. "He told me to do it, if that's what I want."

"He doesn't like the idea, does he?"

"No. But – " I stop talking when I see her expression. She's biting her lip, not meeting my eyes, concerned. "What is it?"

"I – nothing. If you're certain?"

"I am." Or at least I can pretend I am.

There isn't that much we can do until Electra replies to Tara's letter. I spend an hour or two reading through Edgar's case again and then offer to visit the library and see what other useful information I can track down. Tara doesn't hesitate to give me permission.

I'm not going to the library, though. I probably will for an hour or two, at least, but there's something else I need to do first. I hurry straight to the market, where I proceed to feign an interest in costume jewellery and gingerbread. Well, the interest in gingerbread isn't entirely fake, and I do end up buying a small piece.

It's just as delicious as it looks: soft and crumbly and gingery. I break off small pieces and eat them as I wander along. There's a little of it left by the time I, purely coincidentally, happen to stroll past the scarf-seller's stall and meet the eyes of Omar's son.

"It's you," he says. "You'd better come through, I suppose."

I shove the last of the gingerbread into my mouth and do so. It's a shame to eat it so quickly, but I don't really want to be munching food while meeting Omar.

His son lets me into the cabin.

"So you decided to show your face, did you?" the old man asks.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," I say. "I hope you got my note."

"I did. Do I want to know why you thought that was a good way of contacting me?"

"It was the only way I had by the time I found out I couldn't make the lesson."

"I suppose you'll be wanting it now, then?"

I grimace. I haven't reviewed any of the language in over a day. But I'm not sure if refusing would be pushing my luck, or when I could next get away from Roberts and Bryant. "If it's a convenient time for you?"

Omar shrugs. "As convenient as any."

I must have retained more vocabulary than I expected, because I do… acceptably. Omar still corrects my pronunciation at least a dozen times and my grammar almost as often, but my mistakes are almost all minor. Not that you'd know it from listening to Omar. He's harsh with me, but I appreciate that. Otherwise how would I know what I needed to improve?

"That will do for today," he says at last. "You have some idea of what you should work on for our next lesson? Come back in a week or so – "

"That will be Holy Days. I'm not sure if I can get away then."

"Come back if you can, then."

"I will," I say, realising suddenly that this will be my last lesson with Omar for a long time if it turns out that I can't come back then. "I – thank you. For teaching me."

Part of me was hoping for him to say something nice in return, but he doesn't. He says only "It was a duty. Goodbye, Tallulah."

"Goodbye," I reply.