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“Good luck, love,” several patrons shout as we leave. “Show those Thornbers what the Sadlers are made of.”
I appreciate the sentiment. I’ve been friendly to the other patrons, but I’ve tried to keep myself to myself as much as possible. So it’s nice to see they’ve got some faith, rather than just seeing me as a stuck-up, standoffish lawyer.
In the car, while Connor is absorbed with the traffic, I allow myself a quick, light core meditation. The process is intended to stop your magic getting out of control, but it’s surprisingly good for calming you down and helping you focus in more prosaic situations.
I shiver as we drive through the Dome, first from the almost physical sensation as the barrier presses against my skin and my mind, and then from the colder air on the far side.
The slight chill isn’t the only thing that’s different on this side of the Dome, in Rivley, as the neighbouring town is called. Even with most of my attention focused on preparing for the case, it’s hard not to notice the graffiti, the homeless people, the boarded-up shops and run-down houses. And beyond what’s immediately visible, I know the local hospital will be overstretched and there’ll be unemployment and crime and people struggling in ways both big and small. It’s not like it’s some hellhole either. It’s just a normal town, suffering from the recent effects of recession and austerity, several decades of underinvestment and industrial decline, and the general vagaries of human nature. Mannith suffers from none of that. Never has, never will.
That said, though Mannith has many amenities, it’s too small for its own Crown Court, particularly as the official crime rate is so low—Sadlers and Thornbers deal harshly with those breaking the law without their blessing and protect those doing it on their behalf. The trial will be held in the rather less magical surroundings of Sheffield Crown Court, a concrete, glass, and red-brick edifice built a few decades ago.
Sheffield’s had some regeneration since I last lived nearby and is in a far better state than Rivley and its ilk, but compared to Mannith, there’s still a slightly depressing air. But then, the same is true for most of London.
Connor manages to drop me off right outside the court, which is a relief, as I’ve worn the highest heels I own as a confidence booster. Walking halfway across town in them would have been agony, and traversing would have got things off on entirely the wrong footing, even if I’d dared to risk it.
Think lawyer. Think professional. Think coolly detached stranger.
Against the odds, I keep my breathing steady and my head held high. Other lawyers, heading to their own cases, give me friendly nods. It’s exactly the reaction I’ve always had in London, but somehow, I’m both surprised and grateful that they’re not either crossing themselves at my approach or laughing in my face.
In a normal case, I’d try to find the prosecution lawyer and establish some rapport before we seek to tear each other’s arguments apart. Show it’s nothing personal. But today, itispersonal, and I can’t face the conversation.
Before my arrival, Bren’s case had been handled by the family lawyer. The usual thing would have been for them to carry on with the backroom side of things while I stood up in court, but I’m now working on a “directly appointed” basis, responsible for all aspects of my brother’s defence.
We’re supposed to put on our wigs and gowns in the robing room. Instead, I change in the ladies’ bathroom, then drop the rest of my belongings in the approved place as quickly as I can and head to the courtroom for one last look at the files.
Everywhere I go, Connor trails at a discreet distance, but there’s been no sense of danger so far. Once I’m in place at the front of the court, he leaves me to it and heads for the visitors’ gallery, where most of my family are already gathered. I give them a brief smile, then try to blank them out. They’ve positioned themselves in a way that would allow them to block any physical or magical attack aimed in my direction.
The courtroom is much the same as the exterior of the building: the sort of blandness that passed for modern twenty years or so ago: pine wood, cream paint, and polyester chairs, overheated with a tinge of chemical cleaning products in the air. I thrive on the old and on the beautiful. On those rare occasions I appear at the Old Bailey, my skills flare to life as though I’m possessed by the centuries of lawyers who’ve spoken there before. This room gives me nothing to work with.
I almost expect the judge to announce that there’s no such person as Kate Elner, but of course, my parents’ magical preparations work perfectly.
I shudder at the sight of Bren when he’s led out into the dock. He’s standing tall and looking straight ahead, a noble smile on his face. But the damn blockers are still clamped to his wrists, his power is dimming around the edges, and a mental, physical, and spiritual exhaustion has him in its grip.
It makes me want to run up there and hug him or else find the person who put him here and strike them down. Instead, I give him a small nod of recognition, lawyer to client.
The rest of the family aren’t so restrained. Despite my best attempts to ignore them, I hear Chrissie’s strangled cry and Leah’s rather more full-blooded sob. My father remains outwardly silent and stoic, but there’s a shift in his energy and a wave of fury.
And then, from the other side of the public gallery, the Thornbers enter. I force myself to stare straight ahead rather than look at them, but I can see enough through my peripheral vision. The men, young and old, are wearing tight-fitting black jeans and tighter white T-shirts, cut to show their biceps, like it’s some sort of uniform. The women are evenly split between those dressed in similar jeans paired with low-cut tops, and those in skimpy dresses. They’re all wearing sunglasses indoors, half as a fashion statement, half to hide their practitioner eyes. The Thornber heart and star crest is visible just below the ears of the men who’ve cropped their hair and the women with updos. The brands mark them as trusted members of the family or senior associates. This is the real inner circle.
There are two exceptions to the dress code. Jim Thornber, the dearly departed Niall’s brother and right-hand man, and my father’s usual interlocutor when he needs to do business with the Thornbers, is in a sensible suit. And Gabriel sports an expensive pinstripe three-piece suit cut close to his body. I’m no longer using peripheral vision, I’m outright staring, and I’m in imminent danger of having a panic attack in the middle of court. I wrap my arms around myself and try to breathe.
The judge says something, but I don’t quite catch it, so fully is my conscious and unconscious attention focused on Gabriel.
Despite all the talk of him over the past few weeks and the way he’s lived rent free in my mind for years, I’ve almost ceased to think of him as a real person, as opposed to an abstract symbol of all our problems. He’s more beautiful than I remembered. More terrifying, too. I can’t see his famously eerie eyes through his sunglasses, but there’s something in his composure and in his aura that chills me.
He’s also more or less invisible. As a witness for the prosecution, he shouldn’t be watching the case lest his testimony be corrupted by listening to the other witnesses. So he’s put a spell on himself to hide him from the eyes of those without the power to see through it. I’m not sure whether all practitioners can see him or just those with enough magical strength.
Today, my job is relatively straightforward. The prosecution will put their case first, so there’ll be no need for me to speak or use my knowledge of the law. That will come later. For now, I’m purely focused on keeping Gabriel’s magic at bay. He shouldn’t be able to influence Brendan, even with my brother’s magic tamped down, but the judge, jury and witnesses are a different matter.
My legal opponent gets to his feet. In London, I know most of the lawyers I find myself up against, but I’ve never had much to do with the Northern Circuit. And thanks to my nerves, isolation, and stubborn avoidance of the usual protocol of a pre-trial chat, this is the first time I’ve set eyes on him. He’s a tall Pakistani guy around my age with an unusually cheery and honest-looking face for a lawyer. The slightly clouded look in his eyes and something barely perceptible in his aura tell me he’s already deeply in Gabriel’s power. It’s a stronger connection than I can break without getting him alone and working some serious magic, but I’m not too worried. I’d expect the counsel for the prosecution to be working against us, mesmerism or no mesmerism. It’s everyone else I need to protect, and they’re seemingly not yet touched.
Even as I think that, Gabriel pushes his sunglasses away from his eyes and up onto his head, and power emanates from him and fills the room. I flinch. It’s a cross between the pressure in the air you feel just before a long overdue storm and the sense of water rising up over your head in a sealed room.
It takes little effort to keep my own mind out of Gabriel’s clutches—he made sure of that when he gave me a hint of his magic—but I’m still acutely, almost painfully aware of his power and far from certain I can protect the whole room.
I normally make my psyche sink down into the earth when I’m under pressure and needing to concentrate or perform difficult magic. But now, I do the opposite, and let my awareness drift upwards, free of the constraint of my body and looking out over the court. Oddly, I feel a little calmer now the pressure’s on and I have to do something about it.
Gabriel smirks at Brendan as his magic gets its claws into the room. Brendan simply smiles back, glances at me (or rather, at my corporeal body), and nods. He could have been a touch more subtle, but at least he’s got faith in me.
