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Tears are welling up, and I don’t feel much more capable of speech than I did when attempting to cross-examine Gabriel.
“Brendan! What’s important is getting you acquitted. I’m going to give you one more dose of magic, we’re going to practice the trickiest questions again, then you’re going to take the stand and turn this case around—”
He leans his forehead against the wall. “No. I don’t want your tainted magic. I’ll see you out there.”
I get to my feet, grab his arm and turn him to face me. He’s twice my height, but fury gives me strength.
“If you’re going to speak to me like that, you can get another lawyer. And good luck finding anyone who’s my equal in advocacy or magic at short notice, never mind one who cares about this case as much as I do.”
Bren freezes in my grasp and says nothing.
“Between your arrest and Leah’s betrayal, this couldn’t have been a worse few months for you. I get that. And I know being locked in here and kept in those blockers isn’t helping either. But you can stop taking it out on me right this second.”
All my life—whether watching my family impose binding debts on people or practicing cross-examination in bar school—I’ve been taught the power of words and the value of using them precisely and sparingly. Right now, I’m squandering them, but I physically can’t stop.
“You think this has been easy for me? I’d turned my back on magic, on family, and on this town. It killed me, but I did what I had to do. I made a life for myself in London and in the everyday world. And then, when you needed help, I put that life on hold. I broke all my principles. I faced the man I feared most in the world. And all you can do is throw it back in my face.”
He opens his mouth to speak, and from his wide-eyed expression, I can’t tell if he’s going to apologise or argue back. I get out of there before I can find out. I can’t give him the chance to say anything that might leave me with no choice but to abandon the trial.
* * *
I take a moment or two to refresh my make-up and do a core meditation in the bathroom. By the time I’m seated in court, I’m almost calm again, though I can’t quite bring myself to look at Bren, who’s standing in the dock, steadfastly refusing to make eye contact.
Chrissie shoots me a worried look from the public gallery. Her senses are clearly screaming that something’s wrong.
Once proceedings start, Bren grudgingly meets my gaze. There’s no hint in his expression of his earlier fury but no obvious sign of an attempted apology either.
I tell myself this is just my job. Brendan’s just another client.
“Mr Sadler, where were you on the night of 15th June?” I ask.
Bren’s a natural storyteller, charismatic even in captivity. His half-embarrassed, half-saucy explanation of where he was and what he was doing that night (the making love outdoors part, not the summoning a demon aspect) gets either a laugh or a scandalised gasp from most people present.
“Mr Sadler, how do you account for the fact that so many people claim to have seen you at different stages of the night?”
Bren raises his hands as expressively as he can, considering the cuffs. “I don’t know what other people think they saw or why. All I know is what I was doing. Though, if I had to place a bet, I’d suggest bribery or blackmail.”
The judge glares at him. “The facts please, Mr Sadler.”
“Several witnesses have stated that you said something about revenge for your sister. The victim’s son claimed they’d had a relationship. What’s the story there?” It’s hard to get the question out, but I keep my voice steady and professional.
“Gabriel Thornber was obsessed with my youngest sister, back when she still lived in Mannith. Basically, he stalked her. But it’s all ancient history. I’ve not thought about it in years until he brought it up.”
I think of his reaction to seeing my lien mark gone and almost laugh. He’s certainly good at putting on a show.
We don’t land any killer blows, but it’s a solid performance, and I can feel the mood of the jury starting to shift.
Then it’s Imran’s turn. He’s trying to get Bren to slip up, break from his version, or admit to some crucial aspect that hints at his guilt.
“You don’t like the Thornber family, do you, Mr Sadler? None of your family do. As I understand it, there’s a long running family feud.”
Bren laughs. “You make it sound like a medieval court or prohibition New York. They have their businesses. We have ours. They don’t tend to conflict.”
The lawyer is good, but Bren’s better. He’s got a terrible hand—his flimsy story against several credible witnesses—but he’s playing it well.
I nod at him as the cross-examination draws to a close, more proud sister than relieved lawyer. He smiles back at me, as though he’s already forgotten about our earlier argument.
* * *
