[Closed] The Path Forward

[caporushes]

32 of Hamis, 2719 - Early Office Hours
The Offices of Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge

No.

Aurelie had actually told her "no".

When she had prepared herself for her reunion with her little sister, Lillianna Steerpike had worried about a great many things. Worries that she wasn't often given to, for she simply had no need of them. There were worries for her sister's health, of course, for while she knew Brunnhold was a shelter for those with her sister's affliction she also knew that it was not always the most kindly of shelters. And her sister had such delicate nerves. Ana had worried, too, that Aurelie might have been angry with her, or bitter. While it was hardly unreasonable to not have seen each other in all of this time--expected, even--Ana couldn't help but fret that Birdie might hold it against her. There was also the concern that the news of their parents would have broken her fragile temperament, especially so late as it was in coming. All of these worries were laid to rest at the moment of their tearful reunion. So it was only the one that she had not thought to have that remained--her sister had actually refused to be taken home.

The thought made her jaw set, beautiful face drawing into a perfect frown. "No" was not a word Ana was accustomed to hearing, least of all from Aurelie. She had always been such a biddable child, hadn't she? Small and quiet, but she always did what she was told. Deferential. Shy. At least that was how she had been in the past. The girl that had stood before her in that office had been sweet, to be sure, and as fragile as Ana remembered--but stubborn. A family trait, and Ana had been almost proud of it. Still. A frustrated sigh escaped her at the memory.

"Ma'am...?"

Ana returned to present reality at the sound of a quiet voice from across the carriage. Marianne, her ladies' maid, was looking at her with an expression of concern. Marianne was a proper enough sort of girl, human, dark-haired and demure. She had come from the right sort of people for the work, and was such a deft hand with a hairpin--Ana often found herself thinking that she would be lost without her services. When she finally chose to marry and leave her employ, replacing her would be difficult indeed. Her soft voice drew Ana back to herself, made her aware of the tense crackling of her field. That, too, was vexing--she was not often given to such a loss of control. With an effort, she smoothed it out again, her expression settling into something benign. Marianne had looked tense, but relaxed when she did so. Good.

"What is it, Mary?"

"I believe we've arrived."

Ah yes, that was right. The business of the lawyer. Aurelie may have told her that she had no desire to come home, but she would come around. Ana was sure of it. Legal proceedings could be quite long, she knew--it had taken her months to even begin to settle the matters of Julietta and Edmund's estate. What was the use in wasting time waiting for when Aurelie would see sense, then? It was inevitable. There was no better place for Aurelie than at Ana's side. She had heard her objections, and they were sweet, but they were certainly nothing to dissuade Ana from her intentions. Likely by the time this dreadful business was well underway, Aurelie would have come to realize that Ana's broader perspective was the correct one. The fault wasn’t Aurelie’s, of course--Ana was sure that to her the objections she’d voiced seemed very grave indeed.

The carriage had come to a stop outside of the Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge. The office was not large, but it was well-respected and had great potential to suit the elder Steerpike's needs. It had taken weeks of frustrating false starts to get this far, and she couldn't help but be hopeful that this time she would find someone willing and able to assist. Surely there must be someone in all of Anaxas who was adequate for the job. Marianne assisted her out of the carriage with her usual deft grace. Truly, Ana would be so very sorry to see her go. Her steady, well-mannered presence did bolster Ana so. The older woman was grateful, too, for Mary’s insistence on a restrained, almost masculine (but not too much so) choice for Ana’s hair and attire--catching a glimpse of herself in the reflection of a window, Ana noted with no small satisfaction that she made an imposing figure indeed in her stark sapphire jacket and dark grey skirt. Good. She would have no more of this being jerked about, not now.

Upon entering, the pair found themselves greeted by a tallish woman of indeterminate age who put Ana in mind of nothing so much as an unbaked bread roll. A secretary of some kind, she could only assume. To this woman she smiled pleasantly, her field and demeanor all pleasantry and purpose.

"Good morning. Is a Mr. Shrikeweed in? I believe we have an appointment--Ms. Lilliana Steerpike. I know I’m just a touch early." To the secretary--a Ms. Botterill, she noted--she gave a dazzling, apologetic smile. She was indeed early, by nearly a full half-hour. There was no doubt in her mind that this would pose no issue. Or at least, no issue she couldn’t surmount.

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda- The Offices of Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge
The 32nd Day of Hamis, 2019, the forenoon

"I

don’t suppose,” said his son, squaring the books to the edge of the reading desk, “that I may be informed as to the purpose of my collecting all of these?” He tapped the topmost with a thoughtful, ink stained, finger causing small motes of dust to leap skyward. They swirled for a moment in the light of a green-shaded lamp, and then passed into the comfortable gloom of the office. “I ask merely in the interests of my own health. I was so covered in dust by the time I found these, that I fear I might develop a lung infection.”

“Surely, the Archives has clerks for that sort of thing?” Horace leaned forward in his chair, resting himself on the wide flat surface of his desk. Well, it would have been wide and flat, but for the stacks of books now forming a significant rampart along one side. “I seem to recall the place crawling with them.”

“Yes, and a very efficient breed they are too. I was trying to avoid them. They’re a nosy lot, and I did not fancy having to explain myself. The fact that I could not explain myself only added to the need for discretion. So I ask again, what is all of this about?”

What it was about, at least as far as he himself understood the matter, was the particulars of the legality of removing gates passives from their sanctuary at Brunnhold. His staff had briefed him on the client’s request, and he had undertaken the preliminary review of case law. Most unsatisfactory. The reading, not the client. He had formed no opinion of the latter. Deadly to prejudge a client. He tried to keep his preconceptions unformed, or at least pushed off to the side. The open mind was needed with a new client, however unorthodox their matter.

As to the case law, well, there he was on firmer ground. Fragmentary was the kindest way to describe it. A right bloody shambles, was more accurate. There were a few references to matters here and there, one or two exceedingly narrow precedents, but the facts of the underlying law remained fundamentally obscure. An advantage? Possibly. And a danger as well. Modern case law was of limited utility. He would require something older, something far more foundational.

If it were simply a matter of consulting ancient tables of equally ancient laws, well, he could have spared himself, his dusty son, and his client a good deal of bother. Those he could recite from memory, even in the old language. Too few jurists could do so now, few needed to. That too was unfortunate. Without the foundations, the oldest of laws, everything was adrift. Even if the oldest laws were unjust, ill-drafted, and foolish, they could not be ignored. Nor should they be praised for their supposed timeless wisdom. Folly appeared in every age and in every law, and even wisdom was not eternal. The wise and the foolish mattered equally. The forgetting of folly was another failing of the modern age. Undue romanticism for the past.

The past. A tiny sliver of it was now sitting, dusty and once-neglected on the corner of his desk. How old were they books? Several looked like they must have been centuries old, and even those were likely not the originals. Copies of copies of even older commentaries. He looked at his son, shadows around his eyes, skin pale, bloodless. Too little sleep and not enough proper food. Probably wasting away, living on coffee and nerves. He could use his help with all this. Basil was both fast and thorough in his reading. Probably had worked out small spells to aid him. Basil was the better sorcerer. But, he, Horace, well, he was the better lawyer.

“I cannot say, precisely, what the matter is about, you know that. You no longer work here. The umbrella of privilege no longer covers you.”

“Yet I am permitted to be used as an errand-boy, digging up ancient legal commentaries from the bowels of the Archives? I think I found a lost tribe of wicks down there.”

“That, dear boy, is a father’s privilege.”

A knock on the door. Polite but firm, and the pale and colorless form of the efficient Ms Botterill manifested itself in the doorway. “Mr Shrikeweed, sir. The client has arrived.”

Horace nodded, a solemn legal head. “Very good. Very good. Tell Lamb to put the kettle on for tea or coffee. Find our which our client prefers. The give me just five minutes, Ms Botterill, and then show her in.” The secretary nodded in reply and soundlessly withdrew.

“I take it that this is my cue to go?”

“Observant as ever dear boy.” Horace stood, crossed over to his son and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you for finding these for me. I am sure they will be of significant utility in what may prove a most interesting matter. Now make yourself scarce.”

The younger Shrikeweed quirked a smile toward his father. “I hope this is the last time I’ll have to dig around amid mountains of antique dust on nameless errands for you.”

“Ah, you enjoyed it. Admit it.”

“So I did. Just like old times.”

Alone now, for just a moment. He took stock of his office, his papers, the chair in which his client would be seated. Too much in shadow. He would not be able to read her face in such light. The face was all important. He moved the chair, canting it so that the light of the reading lamp fell on it in an inviting way. All correct and proper. A room both warm and businesslike, smelling of paper, beeswax, and just the faintest whisper of cedar from the cabinets. He returned to his seat, composing himself, putting on the learned comfortable appearance that had served him so well when assessing new clients. The door opened. Horace rose again to his feet. “Ms Steerpike I presume? Please, do take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Refreshments will become apparent shortly. Then, when you are settled, I should very much like to hear the particulars of your case.”

[caporushes]

32 of Hamis, 2719 - Early Office Hours
The Offices of Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge

The unbaked bread woman had disappeared briefly, only to reappear again rather quickly with a question of her preference of tea or coffee. (It was, of course, tea--when in Anaxas, at least.) Ana chose to take this as a good sign. Mary was instructed accordingly to go about with her other errands. Should she be early or particularly late, she assured, they would meet at a nearby cafe. There were any number of them around, and Ana wouldn't begrudge the girl a little leisure time if her own business was over long in completion.

After a moment spent gathering her composure, and making sure she had all her various small articles, Ana once again found Ms. Botterill in front of her. Ana smiled again, and Ms. Botterill's colorless face became a little less so. Fascinating.

"Ma'am, if you would?"

The office she was led to, Ana found, was perhaps both like and unlike what she had expected. The elder Miss Steerpike had seen the inside of many a legal office, these last months. In terms of decor and general impression, they had run the gamut from austere to cozily cluttered. This particular office felt as if it struck a balance between the two--neither too severe for comfort, nor so comfortable as to concern one as to the professionalism of the establishment. So too did the face of the man who stood to greet her when the door opened. A lawyerly-looking sort of man, this Mr. Shrikeweed. Suitably dependable, if a bit older than she had expected. He seemed rather of the age to have already retired. Still, he had not yet told her that he couldn't help, and Ana was running out of options.

"Thank you," Ana responded, her smile warm and even, "Mr. Shrikeweed, then? Wonderful. I do apologize for being so early for our appointment--you must understand that I'm somewhat anxious to get business underway. It has been... Well." She was all smiles and pleasant voice, just the right amount of embarrassment creeping in. As they both waited for tea, Ana took the opportunity to look around the room. Yes, this would do nicely.

"A wonderful office," she murmured. Unnecessary? Perhaps, but the compliment was sincere and she did so like to give compliments when the opportunity arose. The room could have been a filthy back alley for all that it really mattered, of course--if the work would get done, then she didn't much mind where. Still, she suspected she would be often about the place and rather preferred somewhere comfortable. The books on the reading desk she eyed again with some interest, though no more than was acceptable.

Tea appeared, and Ana murmured her thanks, though she didn't touch it just yet. Now that she had actually come this far, she found herself unwilling to linger in pleasantries. This was almost as upsetting to her as her earlier loss of control had been. Ana did so love pleasantries, under most circumstances. These were not most circumstances. To delay any longer for the sake of tea, well. All at once she fixed her gaze on Mr. Shrikeweed, gold eyes sharp.

"Forgive me for being so blunt, Mr. Shrikeweed, but it has been a difficult few months. It has proven... unexpectedly difficult, to find someone willing to take on a case so... unusual. So let me say it plain now, before we go any further, and prevent any heartwrenching misunderstandings. What I am seeking to do, sir, is no more or less than regain custody of my sister from Brunnhold. My passive sister." Here she let the word linger, the weight of her request hanging in the air. This had often proven the point in the conversation where she was, with varying degrees of politeness, informed that she was absolutely moony and shown the door. Should this Mr. Shrikeweed prove the same, Ana would be disappointed--but not surprised.

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda- The Offices of Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge
The 32nd Day of Hamis, 2019, the forenoon

"S

o I am led to understand, Ms Steerpike.” He poured a steaming cup of green tea into the old celadon tea bowl he regarded as his thinking cup. A fine old thing, much used, much loved, and with years of life left in it. Through the rising steam he watched the expression of the elegant lady. Tense, determined, with just a touch of the fire of madness. His agents had told him as much. It was not difficult information to come by. A sophisticated lady of uncommon beauty attracts attention, and one with an outre legal matter still more. In half the cafes and wine shops on Court Street and Jasper’s Inn Square Ms Steerpike and her errand were occasional topics of conversation. Not for the first time, he was glad to belong to the most gossip-prone profession in the world. Lawyers, bound by strict and sacred rules of confidentiality, devised all manner of means around it. And the seal of privilege was not so expansive as most laymen imagined. So, information about Ms Steerpike had spread throughout the community like a particularly infectious cold. And most of the lawyers he knew were about as eager to catch Ms Steerpike.

But Horace was old, and his legal immune system was robust. He had made his name, set precedent, reset precedent, argued before every court one could wish. He had even declined a judgeship. Thrice. Routine matters were no longer his concern. He had skilled underlings, underlings he and Wensbrooke and Kenge had trained to their own exacting standards. Let them handle most of the clients. No, at this time of life a good labyrinthine case was just the thing to keep him out of retirement.

Retirement. The thought set his teeth on edge. Isabella wanted him to retire, to settle down and write his memoirs, his volumes of commentary. She pointed to his declining health. And what was a little heart palpitation and gout in a man of the law? His mind was sharp, that was all he needed. And had she left her paper to putter about the house annoying the staff? No, of course not. And she never would. And neither would he.

All of this made Ms Steerpike an ideal client. At least and ideal potential client.

“I have taken the liberty of reviewing case law in such matters. Preliminary you understand, to familiarize myself with this rather obscure area of jurisprudence.” He raised the tea bowl to his lips again; took a long, slow sip. Fragrant, vegetal, warming. Like a spring afternoon in a cup. Wonderfully focusing. “There will be no fee for this work. The preliminaries I mean. We never charge for such matters.” A gesture toward a sheaf of papers, neatly tied up with dun-colored ribbon and sealed in red wax that close by his left hand. “It is not much, but then there is not much case law on such matters. Most of this is summary, drafted in common language, but we have included all the appropriate citations as well, should you wish to consult the law yourself.”

All this was routine. It could have been done for any client on any matter. The firm took pride in its preliminaries. It secured a better class of client, cemented their reputation. They had done it for complex estate cases, for men who would go down in the annals as depraved murderers, for thieves and corrupt politicians, for the unfairly accused. It made no matter. Even the worst of society deserved legal representation. And yet.

And yet there was something about Ms Steerpike’s case. It repelled him. It attracted him. He had no name for it, wasn’t sure he wanted to know that name for such a thing. Morbid curiosity? Yes, and no. Did that unsettle the stomach, require a man to eat charcoal pills like chocolates all the while sitting by fading phosphor-light in his private study, taking reams of notes? No, this was something altogether different. Something far more powerful. Almost sinister.

“I cannot say, madame, that I understand your desire in this case, neither as a man nor as a father, still less a brother. To be frank, and since we are being frank Ms Steerpike, the matter disturbs me. But that is Horace Shrikeweed the man, not Horace Shrikeweed attorney at law. If we are to take you case, if I and to take your case, I will need to know more the particulars. I do not like to take cases where there is no hope of winning, and without a full accounting of the situation, I cannot say I see a viable path forward.”

[caporushes]

32 of Hamis, 2719 - Early Office Hours
The Offices of Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge

Lilliana was not unaware of the reputation she was garnering, of the strangeness--indeed, others had gone so far as to call it madness--of what she was attempting to do. It was simply that she didn't care. Let people talk. They always had, even since her days as a student. Ana was no stranger to gossip and rumor. To a degree, she relished it. What did notoriety matter to her? The only thing worse for a woman of society than being talked about, she thought, was not being talked about.

She found Mr. Shrikeweed's reaction very heartening indeed. Familiar with the generalities of her request, and he had done preliminary research before their meeting? Good news, good news entirely. Her posture changed from relentless to something brighter, more relaxed. She even reached out and had some of the tea, now that she knew she wouldn't be leaving the offices in the immediate future. It was not, she found, to her taste. No matter. She managed to arrange her features into something pleased regardless.

"That is excellent news. Forgive me, for my attitude earlier. This has been--trying, as I'm sure you can imagine." She took another sip of the entirely too vegetal tea before continuing with something of wicked tilt to her smile. "You are not the first and, I suspect, will not be the last man to say that he doesn't understand a woman's desire. It is of no matter to me--if it poses no barrier to your work, understanding is optional."

Ana smiled again, a triumphant edge creeping in. Across her lap was situated a leather attache case, handsomely made and well cared for. This Ana now opened, and pulled from it an article from an issue of The Vienda Weekly, dated Ophus of 2718, along with another, similar article from a Brunnhold newspaper. Both detailed a tragedy: a the triggering of a diablerie that claimed the life of one of Brunnhold's students, injuring many more. While no mention was made of the passive who had done such damage, Ana wasn't stupid. Unprotected from their own unfortunate affliction, it was unlikely that they survived if a nearby student had not. She set both articles down on the surface in front of her and pushed them towards Mr. Shrikeweed with a delicate hand.

"It is not safe for my sister in Brunnhold, Mr. Shrikeweed." Her face was grave, her eyes alight. That she had wanted to bring her sister into her custody before this unfortunate event was of no consequence--it only confirmed her desire.

"My sister was not, to my knowledge, involved in this incident, but it speaks to negligence. She has a delicate temperament, and has since childhood. Her-- Our parents entrusted Brunnhold University with her care. Clearly, their trust was misplaced." Ana's mouth flattened to a thin, disapproving line. When she had seen her sister, no evidence of mistreatment had shown itself. That didn't mean it wasn't there, or that such mistreatment had not happened. Lilliana had attended Brunnhold, she knew what the student body and even the faculty could be like. What she herself had been like. Other passives, she reasoned, more than likely benefited from an environment like Brunnhold--not her Aurelie. So she had insisted at the time, and so she maintained now.

"Something must be done. To be in such an environment--surely the argument could be made that it is dangerous not only for the child, but for the galdori students as well? Who better to keep her safe from herself than her family? Our parents may not have felt they had adequate resources to care for such a child. Well. Let us just say that resources are the least of my concerns."

To speak so directly of her financial situation was, of course, gauche. Normally she would never have dreamed of it. The Steerpikes had never had reason to stoop to such things. However, she felt the point must be made: whatever inadequacies Julietta and Edmund seemed to think they had when it came to caring for their youngest daughter, Lilliana did not share them. She had made very, very sure of this during her time in Bastia.

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda- The Offices of Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge
The 32nd Day of Hamis, 2019, the forenoon

T

rue, he did not understand this woman’s desire, but that had little enough to do with her sex. Men, women, those who were both, or neither, or however it was they found themselves were as transparent or inscrutable as befit their own characters. He had known inscrutable women, true, but he knew a roughly equal portion of inscrutable men. The converse was equally true. No, he did not understand the desire because it simply made little sense to him. But that was no uncommon thing with clients. It was, however, a hurdle. He might be old, his joints might ache in bad weather or torment him after a rich festive season, but this hurdle, at least, he could clear without touching the rail. It was all a matter of delicate application.

“Miss Steerpike, I fear I must correct you. With respect to understanding, it is required if I am to make your case in the courts.” He pushed his fine reading glasses up his long and legalistic nose, and regarded her with his own best inscrutable look. “I will need to have full and unvarnished accounting of your motives, your situation, and your desires in this affair. What I do not need, madame, is to find myself in personal sympathy with your cause.”

Her cause; and it was a cause, was it not? Her determination could not easily be ignored nor turned aside. One might as well try to alter the course of the river using only a garden spade. A fruitless task, and one best dismissed. So, instead, he listened. It was an underrated skill, but a vital one. Without a word he took up the newspaper clippings, though he did take note of her very fine choice in attache cases. He should inquire about her preferred merchant. His own case was quite battered, having seen him through the last twenty-odd years before the bar. Fool. Now is not the time for such inquiries. The papers, that was what mattered. Papers always mattered.

So, still in silence, he read, absorbing the luridly described details. Isabella would have hanged the editor by his own entrails if she had read this. The facts were threadbare, the interviews comical in their ineptitude, and there was far too much of a high moral tone. Isabella had always been suspicious of lofty morals, and after over forty years of marriage, he had adopted that sound policy as his own. He should have seen the sense of it earlier.

“You will, of course, pardon my frankness once again, but do not these accounts, lacking though they are, indicate that the correct place for your unfortunate sister is within the walls of Brunnhold? She is a danger to herself and to others, and keeping her confined is as much for her own safety as that of the wider society. What if this poor unfortunate had manifested their affliction at Kingsway Market, or at the theater? How many more would be dead?” There was no way of knowing, of course. The argument was an old one, a sound one, and also unsatisfying. Yet it had its uses. It would be the argument of Miss Steerpike’s adversaries. Could it be countered?

He took up his cup again, steam still rising, and breathed in. A long and deep inhalation through the nose, a hold of 9 seconds, then a slow exhale through the mouth. The fog of old arguments passed out of his lungs, dissipated in the beeswax-smelling air of the office. “However,” his voice was low and even, a basso rumble, “if you could provide, if we could provide, convincing evidence that the University had directly caused this accident either by deliberate malfeasance or by callous neglect, it would be an argument in favor of removing your sister. You would need to arrange suitable confinement and protection on your own, of course. A private madhouse in some remote quarter of the country perhaps, where your sister could lead a life of seclusion and pose little danger?”

It was the shell of an idea, the mereist sketch, but there was something there, ill-formed and perhaps abortive, but not wholly without merit. Could he fill in the rest of the drawing? Possible. Difficult, but not impossible.

“I must warn you, madame, that whatever road you take, your case will be neither swift nor without considerable cost. I mean not to sound mercenary or needlessly financial,” gods how he loathed bankers and their ilk, “But there are practicalies to consider. I will require time to study the case law in detail, there will be briefs to draft, legal research to perform, motions to submit. All this is beyond the scope of one man, and I fear I may have difficulty in finding willing associates.” A few names came to mind, Hattersleigh might be one such, and if not her, then perhaps Sangsby. Wensbrooke would decline. She would claim to be too busy. She had too many University connections to risk assailing the institution. In the old days Basil would have been ideal. Puzzles and cunning arguments always mattered more to him that unthinking correctness. In his absence, he would have to rely on Cotswold-Wainwright. The man dearly loved a hopeless cause.There were a few others on his list. He would have to sound them out. Gently. “The nature of the matter, you understand, will sit ill with many. Nevertheless, I believe that I may be able to find a few associates who will delight at least in the problem.” He put down his cup, folded his hands, and put on his most inscrutable face. “I believe I will take you case, you are a most interesting and most determined client.” A determine client was the best sort of client. A determined client seldom failed to provide impetus to carry on in even difficult matters. A determined client could deliver a bite more virulent than even the most venomous of snakes. A three-edged sword.

[caporushes]

32 of Hamis, 2719 - Early Office Hours
The Offices of Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge

Lilliana's face closed into a frown again, a look darker than the one she had given before.

"My sister, Mr. Shrikeweed, is not mad. Unfortunate, and delicate of nerve--but she is not mad, and it would do you well to remember it." Lilliana's voice was crisp and sharp. The diamond-brightness of her field seemed more like edges of cut crystal or glass. She did not flex and she did not move, but her displeasure could be felt more than seen.

"But," she added, relenting, "I do take your point. No, proper arrangements will be made." Already she was planning for what she thought of as an inevitability. A private madhouse wouldn't do, but she could speak to her man about an estate in the country. She would sorrow to give up her society parties and the conveniences of city living; still, maybe it was time to retire to the countryside after all. It was what was best for Aurelie. Ana made a mark in her mind, plans to inquire about what was already part of the Steerpike estate. Perhaps no additional purchase would be necessary.

Ana was under no illusion that this would be easy, or swift. Lady knew it hadn't been so until now! Merely getting so far as to acquire legal aid had taken her some months and a not inconsiderable amount of personal time and effort. She simply wouldn't let such things stand in her way. Ana had heard rumors of a theorist at the University looking into the nature of the condition--she wondered if that might be a good place to start. Surely the University could be proven to be at fault in some way. Ana didn't much care for the whys or hows of passivity, as surely as she didn't much care for the fate of any other of the many unfortunate children kept "safe" behind Brunnhold's walls. Just her Aurelie. She could pretend, if that was what was required.

"I can be very patient, sir. Time and cost are of no concern. All that matters to me is the child--my sister. Whatever it is I must provide, if it will aid you in getting her back to me, consider it done. I have waited ten long years for this, Mr. Shrikeweed," Ana said, eyes bright once more with the fire of purpose, "I can wait a little longer."

With that, Ana thought triumphantly, that much of the matter seemed settled. She would pay whatever cost, take whatever time. If it took one man or one hundred, it didn't matter to her. What fortune she had earned herself, and continued to earn, combined with the not inconsiderable resources of her late parents, were to her to be put to one sole purpose: the return of her little sister. Now all she needed to do was get the girl herself to relent. And if she didn't? Well. She doubted the will of the girl involved mattered much to the law, and she would come around. Eventually.

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda- The Offices of Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge
The 32nd Day of Hamis, 2019, the forenoon

T

he child. It was not the first time that this object had been mentioned in such a fashion. Odd. The woman claimed to love her sister, to value her, and yet she spoke about her with such distance. It was perfectly logical, and a deadly weakness to her argument. Any half-way competent litigator could have torn her argument to shreds on that turn of phrase alone. He would have to correct that. Miss Steerpike was not the sort to take kindly to correction. Finesse was called for; and failing that, a certain professional avuncularity might prove useful. Or fatal. He would have to tread carefully. But then, he always had.
“Miss Steerpike, I cannot say anything constructive about your sister’s mental state, but I believe the case of the private mad house is the best and most secure analogue we can hope to use.” Imperfect, of course, but still something solid on which to cling. Featherstonhaugh could be dispatched to look into the particulars of cases. She was always thorough, if a bit conventional. No need to divulge all the particulars. Madness, at least, was a respectable affliction. “There is precedent there, and the courts will require such things. It far easier to get a magistrate to agree to what has already been done that convince them to make new precedent.” That was not something he could ever quite understand, though he considered it to be a failing of magistrates, and one he would never wish upon himself. The law was not some fragile pressed flower to be politely observed from a curio cabinet. It was made to be used, to be grown and cultivated. Tradition and custom must be respected, of course, but if they were not tended, fertilized, pruned, then they would either stagnate and wither, or else we twisted into strangling obscenity. And that was a madness all its own. “It would, in point of fact, be an easier matter if you could prove your sister was mad. Easier still if an argument could be advanced that her condition of mental disarray was the result of the University’s negligence or malfeasance.”

He did not think such a course would be likely to appeal to Miss Steerpike. And there were substantial risks. The sister would have to be minutely assessed, interviewed, her psyche evaluated. It would be uncomfortable, invasive. Perhaps a necessity. Were their precedents for the assessment of the mental state of those of servile status? Who would bother to ask about the happiness and soundness of property? Property. He raised his cup again, took another long slow sip. “There might, and I stress might, be another line of approach. When you sister was given over to the keeping of the University, I assume the usual deed of transfer was drafted?” Another matter to be reviewed, and not by Featherstonehaugh. Sangsby? He would have to sound her out carefully. The right approach would make all the difference. “I will need to review that contract, in detail. And it is my hope Miss Steerpike, that your family attorney was perhaps rather slapdash in their drafting.”

[caporushes]

32 of Hamis, 2719 - Office Hours
The Offices of Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge

Did she like this? No, she did not. While she understood Mr. Shrikeweed's point well enough--or at least she thought she did, legal matters not being her point of expertise--Ana was reluctant to malign her sister so. Even if it was necessary. Was that keeping her safe? Was that caring for her sister? While she was fully committed to doing a great many things she thought in Aurelie's best interest, she wasn't sure if she could ever be forgiven for such a tactic. Bad enough that she'd not managed to properly convince their parents at the time that her care was best seen to at home rather than at the hands of strangers. Terrible enough as well that it had to happen to a girl as delicate of temper as Aurelie. Even if she was unwell, Ana had doubts she could prove it. Aurelie had always been a quiet child, when truly wounded.

"I cannot be so cruel to my sister as that. It has been enough, I think, to be away from her for so long." Some pain had crept through into her voice. To say that Ana felt guilty was inaccurate--she didn't blame herself, not really, though she wondered in the darker hours of the night if she could have fought harder, argued better with Mother and Father about the subject. She had only been a young woman of twenty, still reliant on their fortune and good graces for her place in the world. The same age, she was startled to remember, Aurelie was now. And yet--she would be a girl forever. Poor thing. That was why she needed Ana--someone who loved her, to take care of her.

For a moment Ana allowed herself to think that this may be a lost cause after all. She had so been hoping--surely there was a way, if the family was willing, to take back what was theirs? That Ana had never heard of such a thing after so long a time hadn't been much of a detterent. Was such an outrageous lie about her sister truly the only way forward? That, of course, would rely at least in part on Aurelie's cooperation. She had not yet mentioned to Mr. Shrikeweed that the girl herself had refused to come home.

At the mention of another line of approach, Ana felt some measure of hope return to her. A deed of transfer? Yes, she did indeed remember such a thing. A smile crept over her face, gleeful and triumphant.

"Slapdash... I do doubt that Mr. Agnew--do you know him, Mr. Agnew? I can make the introductions... I doubt he would be sloppy however... There might be something to that idea." The question was, had they done it? As an attempt to pacify Ana's distress, Julietta and Edmund had assured her that they had added a clause to the contract. Aurelie was to be kept safe. Unharmed. Ana was almost certain that all parties involved had either truly believed she would come to no harm, or that nobody would bother to check. Ana took a polite sip of her tea as she contemplated. "I have not reviewed the contract myself--an oversight--however I can certainly make arrangements to have it sent over for review... I was informed, though I cannot be certain, that it contained language around her care. Vague, I am sure. I am not--we didn't speak long, but... Perhaps something...?"

Harm. What she was angling to prove was that her time at the University had done her harm. Ana was certain this was so, but how much? Could it be enough to outweigh the protection Brunnhold afforded her and those like her? After all, she had been the one to deliver news of their parents. Gave her the news and then what? Left her. Though Ana tried to keep her face placid, something crept through.

"She--Aurelie, she deserves... She is unfortunate enough, and deserves to be cared for by those who love her. The University can't-- how could they--" Ana's voice broke. How wretched. "...I apologize, sir, I may need a moment to collect myself."

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda- The Offices of Shrikeweed, Wensbrooke, and Kenge
The 32nd Day of Hamis, 2019, the forenoon

“T

“ake all the time you require Miss Steerpike. Strong emotions are understandable in such situations.” And expected of those who force themselves on the road of mad, forlorn quests against custom and tradition. In truth, he had expected more, much more. A slight catch of the voice and an expression of unmistakable, conflicted, grief; if he bottle that and present her case to one of the more soft-hearted magistrates, he could have the matter settled by the end of the month. But emotions were difficult to bottle at the best of times, and soft-hearted magistrates appeared to have all been swept away, replaced, alas, with the soft-headed.

And for himself? If he had accepted the magisterial office, how would he have treated the case of the Steerpike sisters were it before him? He could never be certain, not even if he submitted himself to the sorcerous reasoning Basil so liked to indulge in. Mathematical sorcery. Another form of madness. It seemed better suited to accounting or the sciences than to the law. Counterfactuals conjured from arcane logic did not interest him. Or least they should not. They would be of little use here. No, the best he could hope for was that he would access the matter calmly, rationally, and without bias. No magistrate alive could promise more or better. Most could not even hope to promise to try.

He poured himself yet more tea, turning the cup slowly in his hands. The client retained most of her composure, and all of her self-righteous fire. She would need some of that drive and passion to keep on the matter, but for now it burned too hot, made her too sure of the rightness of her cause. Rightness or wrongness were not, at the end of the day, after weighing this and that, the most judicious line of approach. The moment such things were introduced, the matter would be settled, and settled against the client. Passives were inherently dangerous. They needed constant supervision. Set aside the moral issue or the favor or disfavor of the gods. There were practical matters that could not be avoided. Long-held customs that could not be ignored.

No, the courses of action, whatever they were would upset this proud and confident lady. A lady used to getting her way, he could see that in her bearing, hear it in her words. That would have to be done away with. It was of no use here.

“Miss Steerpike,” the client seemed calmer now, more collected. But then again, she was a self-possessed young lady. They tended to recover themselves with remarkable speed. “You must understand that in order to carry your case to a desirable end, it may be necessary to make, not false, but rather uncomfortable arguments, to shade matters.” Again he adopted a benignant smile. He hoped it was at least somewhat reassuring. He hoped it was not patronizing. That would never do. “The University will demand its dignity be maintained. It will make the case easier on our part as well. Going up against the whole of Brunnhold’s formidable army of attorney is not a campaign I believe even my firm could long withstand. A more surgical and narrow case serves us better. We cannot discount the madness argument, should it prove to be useful.”

He took a drink of the tea, put the cup down, and tried to recall this Agnew who was the Steerpike’s usual man of law. The name was not unfamiliar. Had he heard it somewhere? Well, somewhere before the Steerpike affair had become a favored topic of local gossip. It was possible he may even have been in court with him once. No, perhaps not. If Agnew was largely a legal adviser for estate and property matters, then they moved in rather different legal circles. That made things rather more difficult.

“And I am rather afraid I do not recall having done business with your Mr Agnew. His work as a draughtsman is unknown to me, but I may be able to acquire a fuller view of him on Lambert Street.” It was the usual haunt of solicitors and other ‘person-of-business’. Not his preferred company, but a pleasant enough crowd. There was a rather nice little wine shop there where the gossip was known to be of excellent vintage. “I will also acquire the full documents of your sister’s transfer. I assume there will be no guardianship issues on the documents themselves? It is from you alone that I need permission?”