"Edward Devlin," the clerk said, reading off the card; he must be new, Thanet thought. If so he was the only such person or thing around here; the bomb damage to the building and the piecemeal repair work seemed more apparent than ever. The Salt Guildhall had been the first place in London to be bombed.
After a moment the Registrar came out, holding a fountain pen of his own. "I suppose you'd better come inside," he said, querulously, and then, raising his eyes to the heavens: "Apples and cheese, Ned, really? Are you able to come up?"
Ned nodded - there were only a few steps - and they followed the Registrar, Thanet careful to keep pace with Ned. "Well," the Registrar said, sitting in ungentlemanly fashion on the edge of his carved mahogany desk, "I can't say as I don't know what this is about. Miss Thanet, are you here for some particular reason?"
"I wouldn't let him come without me, sir," Thanet said, smartly bringing her heels together, also in ungentlemanly - unladylike - fashion. Ned looked embarrassed. From above them, the spring sunlight filtered through the room, making the dust on the books and papers more obvious than usual.
"Right enough," the Registrar said. "State your case, Ned. Think of it as advocacy in camera."
Thanet might have been a little thrown by that, but Ned did not seem to be; she remembered from before that it had always been his habit to pace up and down when addressing a judge in chambers, and his discomfort seemed centred on the fact this was no longer possible. He put the cane down with a nearly voiceless sound of frustration and leaned on the back of a chair. "Sir," he said, "as you are aware, I am a Salt practitioner."
"One of two in a class of six children," the Registrar said, with some wryness. "Do skip ahead."
"I am a Salt practitioner," Ned said, stubbornly, still leaning forwards with his hands on the chair back. "I was apprenticed and educated at Temple and Wadham College, Oxford, following which I was a practitioner ad litem, in service of the District Court of Farringdon Without. In the spring of 1916 I was asked to fulfil a certain office for the Crown, the details of which I am not able to divulge."
"Skip ahead, Ned," the Registrar said.
"Although I remain a trained practitioner" - Ned's hand went up to the metal bar driven through the flesh of his ear; Thanet put a hand to her own - "I can no longer, ah. Sir, you will be aware I can no longer do magic." Ned's hand came down in a gesture of defeat. In that gleam of overhead sunlight, Thanet could see the lack of tarnish on his practitioner’s bar: Salt, like salt, had a tendency to rust. "And I do not ask to remain registered as though I could. However, I humbly request that my registration ad litem be allowed to remain. I can still advise defendants and plaintiffs on Salt magic, its history and practice. I merely, cannot... ah."
He stopped, and this time made no effort to continue. Thanet held a breath for a moment. The Registrar straightened up, his hands clasped. "Ned," he said, very softly, "I'm sorry."
"You're not." Thanet took a step forwards, her heels tapping sharply. “You can't possibly—"
"Thanet, hush." Ned held up one hand. "Sir?"
"I knew you'd come today," the Registrar said.
"Did you?" Thanet asked; she had wondered if Ned would ever return to practice.
The Registrar gave her a sharp look. "I heard about the inquest."
"I've been asked to appear before it," Ned said. "We both have. I will have to stand and give my name, and my... calling. My nature."
"I can't take what you are from you, Ned," the Registrar said, still softly. “And neither can the District Court. But the rules require that you raise a light, at Candlemas. I can't renew your registration."
"Oh, no," Thanet said, involuntarily, and Ned said nothing at all. "Registrar, in the circumstances, surely you understand..."
"Miss Thanet," the Registrar said, and then changed his mind, addressing Ned instead. "Remember those apples and cheese," he said. "Remember your lady mother and her kindnesses. Think about the kind of accusation that you and I would be open to, if I were... less rigorous."
"No good deed goes unpunished," Ned said, after a long moment.
"Ned, I'm sorry. I— “ The Registrar waved a vague hand, swinging to his feet - "I wish things were different."
"So do I." Ned bowed his head, then reached for his cane. "Thank you, Registrar. Thanet and I will be late for our appointment, if we don't hurry."
At the threshold, the Registrar called them back. "Ned," he said, quick and a little embarrassed. “Go on as you are for the remaining quarter days. I'll smooth things over if there's trouble."
Ned stopped and turned around. "As a kindness?" he asked, standing quite still and straight, his cane gripped loosely in one hand.
"Yes," said the Registrar, sounding defeated. "Yes."
"Thank you." Ned bowed his head again, and Thanet kept step with him, tap-tap-tap, as they went out.
___
The libel went as well as expected. Grace's learned friend for the defence called her forth and the jury listened with all semblance of focused attention, though as she turned away from the lectern she heard a juror murmur "negress". A country jury, Grace thought, then brought herself short for unfairness: city folk could be just as bad. The judge quelled the murmurs with a look. It was Justice Devlin presiding and Grace was grateful, but it rankled regardless. And then the matter was adjourned to the Chancery and the court's usual business finished for the morning.
"Next," called the usher. "The coroner's preliminary inquest in the St Paul's and Blackfriars railway crash of the third day of February in this year of our Lord 1919. With gratitude to the District Court of Farringdon Without for postponing its docket, we reconvene at noon."
As Grace made her way into the public gallery, there was a hand on her arm. "Excuse me, dear - a quick word?"
"Of course," Grace said, with a gesture behind her back to encourage Kira to stand up. Justice Devlin was taking off her horsehair wig and bundling it away, but she had quite enough force of personality without it, in Grace's experience. "What can I do for you, your ladyship?" she asked, then turned to her side. "Kira, this is the Honourable Mrs Justice Devlin."
Kira looked alarmed at the title, and Justice Devlin smiled. "A pleasure to meet you, little one," she said. "It's good to see you taking on an apprentice, Grace." She waved away Grace's attempt to correct her with something about a trial period. “Speaking of, I must visit and have a conversation with you about your practice soon."
Grace nodded, her heart sinking; she had an idea what such a conversation might involve. "Of course, my lady."
"Good, good. And how are your parents? I hear there's been unsettled news from Liverpool."
"The riots were bad," Grace said, thinking of her father's understated letters on the subject. "But they've been all right, so far."
"I'm glad to hear it. Oh, also" - she paused, on the point of turning - "how's my boy?"
Grace hesitated, and Justice Devlin shook her head. "Still refusing to emerge for anything short of major railway disasters, I see. A bientôt, dear."
Grace smiled to herself, feeling rather like a hurricane had passed through, and sat down next to Kira in the gallery pews. "Justice Devlin is Ned's mother," she explained. "She used to practise from the same chambers as we do."
Kira nodded, and then shuffled forwards, trying to see through the gaps in the railings. ""What's a libel?" she asked, when it became clear nothing was yet happening in the court below.
"It's when you write something about someone else that's not true," Grace told her, "but everyone believes it anyway."
"And you were telling them if they're true or not?"
"No," Grace said. "I told them the pamphlets were made by magic. That makes it a magical crime, you see? And that's a different thing."
Kira was apparently turning that over in her mind. "And what's a knocking shop?" she demanded, loudly enough for the couple of railway men who were just filing in to turn and look. "And what's a Bolshevik one?"
Grace surprised herself by la
ughing. "Hush, little one," she said. “It's a libel case, the knocking-shops are only allegedly Bolshevik - and I will explain it all to you later. Sit down now and be quiet."
Despite the grave faces of the people coming into the public gallery for the inquest, Grace was still smiling as the usher closed the doors. When silence had fallen, the coroner stepped out and said, "Ladies and gentlemen and Birds-in-Flight, thank you for coming to this preliminary inquest into the recent tragic events at Blackfriars Bridge. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that of the seventy people known to have been aboard the rear train, the 5.01 service from Moorgate, thirty-five of them were killed as a result of the accident. Happily, if such a word may be used in this circumstance, the forward train bore only freight, and its driver was uninjured. However, the driver of the overturned train, a Mr Ferguson, was killed at the site of the crash, and his apprentice, a man named Roberts, has been taken to St Bartholomew's Hospital and is quite unable to give testimony.
"I don't propose to undertake a detailed hearing of the evidence this morning. But from what I understand from the Company" – he nodded at two dour-looking gentlemen on the front bench – "the railway's magic practitioners are holding the bodies charmed against corruption. In the interests of releasing them for burial as soon possible, let us make a beginning."
The jury were sworn, and then the coroner called his first witness, a woman with dark skin and heavy curls. Her voice was low but not faltering: she spoke of how the journey had been unremarkable; that she took the early train every day. "I was near-sleeping," she said, apologetically, "we're all always half-dead on that train. The witches at the riverside had lit the lamps afresh, I remember. Before that night they'd been dimming to nothing. And then we stopped."
"At the signal?" the coroner asked, then paused. "I apologise, I understand you would have no way of knowing. What happened next?"
"We went on." The woman unfolded her hands. "Silent, like. I mean the train made no noise but I saw the lights get further away, if you follow me? And then we were going a decent clip at the bridge, and then..." She trailed off, and the coroner's sympathy was evident.
"That will do fine," he said. “Next, please, I call the two practitioners who were originally responsible for the signalling system, Edward Devlin and" - the coroner consulted his notes - "Thanet. Thank you."
Ned and Thanet took the stand together. To Grace's eyes, they both looked insubstantial, washed-out by the slice of daylight falling through the window. "Before I speak any further," Ned said, abruptly. "Sir, I am no longer permitted to address the court ad litem. I come as a private citizen."
"Thank you for informing me," the coroner said, and Grace thought, as her heart was sinking again, that he had probably understood all that was meant by that, and needed to ask no more questions. Once they had confirmed their names for the record, Ned took on the burden of the explanation.
"The connection between the signal box and the train cab is automatic," he said. "A silver bell is mounted above each driver's head, in his cab. Should a signalman wish to raise an alert to every train within a fixed number of chains, all he need do is ring his own bell. Every other bell should ring at the same or almost the same moment, and each driver is well-trained to bring his train to an immediate standstill at the sound of the bell, which is itself designed to carry clearly through the sound of the train in motion."
"I see," the coroner said, after a moment. "So what went wrong?"
"In my view, nothing," Ned said. "The system has been extensively checked by my colleague and by the railway's magical practitioners, and they believe it was working perfectly on the night of the accident."
"Did you not undertake a review of it yourself?"
“No. I’m not able to assist in that kind of work any longer."
"I see," the coroner said again. "Is it possible that your current... ah, state, may have influenced your previous work?"
"No, sir." Ned was calm, though Grace could see his hands gripping tightly on the edge of the stand. "Magic once done is done."
"Excuse me, sir," Thanet interrupted, "it's by no means clear that there was any fault in the signalling system at all. It might have been a mechanical fault in the train. It might have been an error on the part of the driver."
"The Board of Trade is investigating those possibilities," the coroner said, repressively. "Mr Devlin, where were you on the night of the accident?"
"At home, above my chambers at Temple," Ned said. “And then at the station, assisting with the rescue effort."
"Thank you. Miss Thanet, and you?
"On a professional call south of the river," Thanet said, blandly, and the coroner paused.
"An odd time of day for a call," he said, curiosity animating his voice. It was not the place of the coroner to cross-examine. "Could you care to elaborate?"
"No," Thanet said, still blandly. "My client's case is confidential and unrelated to the matter at hand."
"I see," the coroner said. "Before we conclude this preliminary inquiry, I'd like to hear from Mr Williams, solicitor to the Company."
One of the dour-faced men took the stand, removing his hat as he did so. "Yes, sir."
"Perhaps you'll give us some information about the driver of the train, Mr Ferguson. Was he a man of good character?"
"Yes, sir," said Mr Williams, and polished his spectacles before going on; Grace, who had a lifetime's experience of old, solemn lawyers, hid her smile. "He was a hardworking man, not taken to drink. Certainly he was of good character."
"Was he recently demobilised?" asked the coroner.
"Yes, sir," said Mr Williams, this time with some confusion as though referring to some alien condition. He'd been too old to be conscripted, of course, and it was true that these days the average age of the male lawyers and practitioners at Temple had taken a great leap upwards. “Mr Ferguson returned to his employment with the Southwestern Railway in January of this year."
"Was he of a magical family?"
"No, sir." The solicitor was quite definite on the point. "It is a matter of policy at the Southwestern that no driver may be of the Salt or Birds-in-Flight. The risk of interaction with the magical control and signalling systems is too high."
The coroner nodded. "Was Mr Ferguson's war service a hard one? Was he injured?"
"I am afraid I am not cognisant..." the solicitor said, and the coroner waved a hand.
"We will leave the matter for the full inquest," he said, conciliatory. "In the meantime, however, I will issue interim recommendations to the Birds-in-Flight and Salt Worshipful Companies. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that is as long as I propose to keep you. We adjourn until further notice."
There was a small murmur from the public gallery, and then the sound of people getting to their feet. Below, Grace noticed Thanet being waylaid by someone she didn't recognise, a Birds-in-Flight practitioner judging from the bar through their ear, and from Thanet's aura of deference, perhaps a senior one. After a moment, the coroner and his clerk joined them. The conversation seemed heated, and Grace looked on with interest, before Kira plucked her sleeve and they followed the crowds down out of court, back to Temple. Ned was nowhere to be seen.
___
Earlier, Mrs Throckley had been talking about collecting together their ration books, for scones; now, as Grace and Kira let themselves back into chambers, the scent of baking was drifting comfortingly through the house. Kira scuttled down to the kitchen, and in the study, Grace thought about how the quality of the silence in this room had changed from the war years, when Ned and Thanet had been so palpably away, rather than just elsewhere. When she looked up, Kira was standing in the doorway, as though afraid to come further.
"Come in," Grace said.
Kira seemed to steel herself to it, and took a step inside. "Are the others not here?" she asked, looking around nervously.
"Not yet," Grace said. "Thanet has a client, I believe. Kira, come here. Come and sit down in front of me."
Sti
ll looking apprehensive, Kira did so, so they were facing each other over the bench, like client and retainer.
Grace leaned back. "I said I'd give you a fair trial before I make any decision about taking you on, and that's what we're going to do. Let's start with this: who are you?"
"My name's Kira, I told you when I first came," Kira said, with a flash of irritation; Grace hid another smile.
"It's not as easy as it sounds," she said. "Names are a funny thing, in magic - they tend to stick. Take me, for example." She gestured. "I'm Margaret Grace, actually. When I was your age my mother called me Margaret. But for magic I was Grace, because that was the name I called myself, in my head."
Kira appeared to consider that. "So I can't change my name, ever?"
"Not never," Grace said, thinking of Thanet, "but not easily, and perhaps, not soon. You don't want to make life difficult for yourself when you're just starting out.
"Next - what calls you?"
From the look on her face, Kira understood the question. "I don't know," she said, tentative, and Grace remembered the same lacuna on the subject when Kira had introduced herself on the step. Too much information, perhaps, with which to begin their acquaintance.
"Your mum's something, your dad's something else?" she guessed; Kira looked unhappy, but nodded. "So what do you think you are?"
"Salt," Kira said. "Like - well, like Mum."
"And me," Grace said, gently, "and Ned, too."
"But I don't know," Kira said, very quietly. "Dad was like the Birds, you know? And sometimes I can do the things he used to do."
"You're young, you haven't settled," Grace said, with more authority than she felt - she was sure the girl knew that a mixed magical parentage was rare - "and if it turns out you're with the Birds, well. Then if I take you on - if," she added, sternly. "If I do, then Thanet will have the majority of your magical teaching, and Ned and I will look after you in other ways."
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