I considered him, trying to ascertain his inclinations. Until now, the Honorable Brice Richardson had seemed neither hostile nor friendly to Clem’s case. He had two expressions: a frown of concentration and eyebrows raised in mock astonishment. Since the first indicated only that he was actually thinking and the second seemed to punctuate every new piece of information, however unsurprising, there was little way of knowing anything of his opinion while the arguments ensued. But he wore a familiar signet ring, engraved with a swan, and that gave me a clear indication of where his sympathies would lie. He had a venerable-looking spirit thew, who presented herself as a matronly figure with clothing from the end of the last century. She was attentive to the proceedings and occasionally leaned forward to whisper a few words in the judge’s ear.
“Does that conclude your opening argument, Mr. Pombaline?” Judge Richardson asked, still frowning.
“It does, Your Honor.”
Arthur Pombaline returned to his table and sat down with great ceremony. Clearly, he spoke for the crowd. Without losing for a moment the air of being offended by some foul odor, he also managed to look briefly pleased, confident in the knowledge that he was the hero of the hour. Perhaps among the entire audience only Maxwell in the back and Rosetta, who sat in the firstrow of public seats behind the attorneys for the defense, failed to favor Pombaline with looks of admiring appreciation. For her part, Rosetta leaned forward over the low wooden rail and spoke a quiet word to Clementine’s lawyers.
Mr. Smythe was a good attorney and, having been one of Mr. Quinn’s students, he seemed kindly disposed to the sisters. And for reasons that I would learn only later, he was more sympathetic than most men to Clementine’s position.
Thin and angular, Mr. Smythe was given to gesticulation. He began now by sweeping his arm across the room and pointing energetically at Clementine. “Your Honor, my argument will consist of three very clear and simple points demonstrating conclusively that my client cannot have committed fraud. They are as follows: First, no part of the application for admission asks the applicant to designate his or her sex, nor does any part of the enrollment material ask the new student to designate his or her sex. Indeed, there isn’t a single piece of paperwork required by the university that does.
“Second,” he said, sweeping an arm aloft with two fingers raised, “both the rules of the university and the laws of the commonwealth mention ‘men’ many times, but they never explicitly bar women from applying or enrolling. Indeed, this follows the precedent set by government forms—forms that apply to both men and women—where ‘men’ is used generically to mean ‘people’ rather than specifically to mean people of the male sex. It is custom, not rule or law, that suggests the admission of men to Commonwealth.”
At this, there were loud boos from the public seats. The protests mounted, even as Judge Richardson pounded his gavel. “Silence,” the judge ordered. “Silence,” he shouted, “or I will clear the courtroom!” This threat succeeded in bringing the crowd toa reluctant quiet. Judge Richardson frowned and nodded to Mr. Smythe.
“Third,” Smythe continued, as if nothing had happened, sweeping three raised fingers over his head, “my client applied along with many other applicants and was found competitive. No part of her application was a lie. She took the entrance exam and passed with high marks, which she faithfully reported. She applied as ‘Clem Quinn,’ the name everyone in her family and every person of her acquaintance has known her by since she was a child. This truthful application was evaluated by the admissions officers and found meritorious.
“Your Honor,” Smythe said with an air of indignation, “not only are the claims of fraud completely spurious, but the university has no grounds for denying her access to her education. While this isn’t the case being argued today, I would urge you to consider the point in your recommendations.”
Smythe’s last statement had the effect of enraging the audience. The well-dressed young men in the public seats, who could appear so civil in other circumstances, rose to their feet and called out impressive protests and insults. But even in their disdain and outrage, most were not truly aggrieved; the outrage was laced with enjoyment. Simeon looked on silently, but there were traces of laughter around his eyes, his glee only barely repressed. This was sport for him and the other young men; they came as spectators to a game in which they already knew their team to be victors. Though they might shout and jeer, no one doubted the outcome of this contest.
Clementine seemed unaffected by the jeering, until her eyes focused on her sister. Rosetta’s cheeks were pale, and she looked downward at her lap, where her fists clutched a handkerchief in concentration. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps.
Getting to her feet, Clem waved to her lawyer. “Mr. Smythe! Mr. Smythe!” she called, trying to make herself heard over the chorus of heckling. “Rosetta is unwell!” Mr. Smythe didn’t hear her. Abruptly, Clem flung the little wooden gate of her box open and rushed toward Rosetta.
As Clementine was crossing the room and the audience was shouting and Judge Richardson was ineffectually pounding his gavel, something unexpected occurred. The stack of papers on Smythe’s desk suddenly lifted into the air. At first, it floated as a pile. Then the top piece shot upward toward the ceiling, and then the next piece followed, and then the next and then the next, faster and faster, until there was a stream of paper funneling upward. They flurried in a circular motion, as if caught in a vortex, and as they whirled they began to change. Each smooth piece was folded deftly and quietly by some invisible hand, once, twice, thrice, resulting in hundreds of pointed paper spears.
The room had fallen silent. Everyone watched, mesmerized by the papers’ mad, rustling transformation. Even Rosetta, having controlled her breathing, observed the strange movements overhead warily. Clementine stood beside her, a hand resting on her sister’s shoulder. Now the papers dipped slightly, like a school of frenzied fish shifting their pattern, and then they righted themselves, making the whirling circle gradually larger. Little by little, with a coordination that would have been beautiful had it not been so incongruous in the crowded courtroom, they began to fan out across the cavernous ceiling, making a vast swirling shape like the opening of a whirlpool.
Once she had ascertained that Rosetta was well, Clem drifted away from her. I sent her an urgent warning, and she frowned. “I see it,” she said quietly, no doubt to me. But no—she didnotsee, because she had taken no steps to protect herself.
Above, the papers brushed against the ceiling, still swirling, their pace accelerating. What had been a gentle stirring became a whirling flutter. Abruptly, one spear of paper peeled away from the rest, diving rapidly, and the others followed until they made a single, pointed cone, shuttling downward. With dreadful familiarity, they narrowed and sharpened, descending toward Clementine at full speed.
“No!” Rosetta cried. Clem had finally shaken off her impassivity, crouching quickly to cover her head with her arms. They struck her arms at a ferocious pace, hundreds of paper daggers hitting home. And then abruptly, they stopped.
“Miss Quinn?” Mr. Smythe asked anxiously, bending down toward her. “Are you all right?” Cautiously, Clementine peered out from between her arms. Papers lay all about her, hundreds of spent arrows. But most had never met their target. They hung in the air inches away, suspended by some unseen force, and now they fell to the ground with a whisper, rendered harmless. Clem looked around for some explanation. Beside Judge Richardson, who had remained seated, the matronly spirit thew stood with her arm extended and her palm facing outward in a halting gesture.
“Please return to your place, Miss Quinn,” Judge Richardson said. “After that display,” he said drily, looking out before him with his deepest frown yet, “this audience has lost its privileges. I’ve asked my spirit thew to silence our proceedings. They will only be audible to us.” The audience members looked at one another, confused. Rosetta, glancing to either side, appeared to be the sole exception to the spirit thew’s spell. She clutched her vial of vapors in one hand and her handkerchief in the other, but her breathing had slowed; she gave Clem a nod of reassurance.
“Your Honor!” Arthur Pombaline exclaimed.
“We won’t be long,” Judge Richardson replied peremptorily, waving a hand at him. “I don’t wish to hear the remaining arguments. I’ve determined that the claims of fraud are meritless.”
Pombaline made a sound of alarmed protest.
“However,” Judge Richardson continued, turning to Clem, “since my decision could be interpreted as support for your cause, I will explain that this isnotthe case. Indeed”—he glanced at Pombaline—“I am sympathetic to Commonwealth’s position, and understand perfectly the complications that would arise if any woman who wished to don a pair of trousers could enroll at the university. The rational thing to do, of course, would be to drop your vain, preposterous, and unseemly pursuit of enchantment altogether.” He paused and stared at Clem with profound dislike. “But, given your choices to date, I very much doubt you can be relied upon to choose the rational path. Yes, you may speak,” he said, noticing Clementine’s raised hand.
“Your Honor,” Clem said in a low voice. “It’s not vanity that urges me to seek this course. It is admiration. Indeed, I imagine that the admiration I feel is universal. What child can come to adulthood in our society without developing an appreciation for the works of enchantment accomplished in our commonwealth and developing, alongside it, the deepest admiration for enchanters themselves? The aspiration that has propelled me to study at Commonwealth is nothing more.”
“I quite comprehend that admiration,” Judge Richardson said loftily. “But it is patent that not every person must be encouraged to pursue their inspirations. There is no place for women in the world of enchantment.”
Her voice remained low and unassuming as she said, “What if I could prove otherwise?”
Judge Richardson inhaled sharply. The wiser course wouldhave been to laugh and move on, but I saw the gleam in his eye, and I realized that Clem had calculated correctly. He would be unable to resist the temptation. “How so? I can’t imagine what proof would suffice.”
Clem nodded demurely. “What if,” she said with all apparent meekness of manner, “I could meet the highest standard set for male enchanters?” She paused. “What if I could procure a thew?”
Richardson, showing for the first time an ability to bend beyond his two well-rehearsed expressions, chuckled derisively. “That is impossible.”
