Whichwood(60)

Surely, she said, that was enough to earn her the respect of her elders?

(Here, her ghosts cheered, eagerly knocking lanterns off the walls.)

Instead of taking away what was important to her, shouldn’t they stop the people from taking advantage of her? Laylee had been abused and manipulated from the moment she began her life as an independent mordeshoor. The inherent bias against her youth and her gender and her consequent inability to be taken seriously in a society that belittled her—this was what had led to the collapse of their system. It was not that she was incapable. It was that she had been overworked and undervalued. It was that she deserved more respect than she was allotted.

And she would no longer sit idly by as they denigrated her character.

“Are you quite finished, Ms. Fenjoon?” said the magistrate.

Laylee hesitated.

“Ms. Fenjoon?”

“Tell him I never liked him,” shouted the curly-haired ghost. “My stupid cousin. I died yesterday and he didn’t even care enough to take today off.”

Laylee’s eyebrows shot up her face. She turned to look at the curly-haired ghost.

“Ms. Fenjoon,” the magistrate said again, “if you’re finished, please—”

“No,” Laylee said suddenly. Her heart was racing. She could tell that she was losing this battle—Alice’s presentation hadn’t worked as well as they’d hoped, and her own words appeared to be worthless to this angry old man. She really felt she had no choice anymore.

The magistrate sighed as he checked the time on the wall. “What else do you wish to say?”

“I—that is”—she cleared her throat—“Your Honor, with all due respect, your cousin wishes me to tell you that—”

“Tell him he’s a perfectly useless dingbat!”

“—that she’s, um, unhappy you chose to come in to work today.” And then, more quickly, “Despite the fact that she died yesterday.”

The magistrate’s hand hovered over his gavel, his face frozen between several emotions.

“My cousin?” he said finally, blinking fast.

“Yes,” Laylee said nervously. “She’s about medium height, curly red hair—”

Cheerfully, the ghost said, “My name is Zari.”

“And—and her name is Zari,” Laylee finished rather lamely. She’d never done this before—this communicating between the living and the dead—and she realized she was very bad at it.

“How—how do you know this—”

“She’s standing right in front of me,” Laylee said. “Your cousin’s ghost has been bouncing around the courthouse all day today. It was she who knocked the wig off your head earlier.”

A juror stood up at once, visibly shaking. “You can see them?” she said. “You can see the dead? You can communicate with them?”

“Yes,” said Laylee. “It’s an inherent part of my magic as a mordeshoor. I can exist in both worlds.”

A sudden, series of gasps inhaled the room.

And then—

Chaos.

“Why has she never mentioned this before?”

“What if she’s lying?”

“Impossible, though, really, impossible—”

“She could’ve learned about your cousin from anyone!”

“She’s manipulating your emotions, Your Honor!”

“What are the odds—”

“How dare you lie about something like this, young lady—”

“—but to overturn a magic like this? Communicating with the unseen world?”

“The consequences could be grave—”

“I still say she’s too young!”

“It’s too dangerous to meddle—”

“What else does she know?”

“How cruel to keep such a secret!”

“And a child, really—only a child—”

“SILENCE!”

The magistrate stood and slammed his gavel, bellowing the command several times before the room settled into a tense, electric sort of quiet.

Laylee’s heart would not cease its kicking. She felt her hands shaking in her lap and she curled them into fists. She had no idea what she’d unleashed—what kind of consequences she would suffer for her admission—and she felt something like fear catch in her throat.

The magistrate fixed her with an unflinching look for a measure of time that Laylee would later estimate to have lasted about ten minutes. Oliver would clarify that it was only a matter of seconds.

Finally, the judge spoke. “You are a terrible little liar, Ms. Fenjoon. And your deceitfulness will cost you—”

“No, Your Honor, I swear I’m not lying—”

“QUIET!”

Laylee flinched, suddenly so terrified she felt frozen in her seat. This was not how she thought things would turn out.

“You dare to come into my courtroom and lie to me under oath?” the magistrate demanded. “You dare to use the occasion of my cousin’s death to manipulate me? To taunt me?” He was shouting now, going purple in the face. “You think I am so easily bullied?” He slammed his gavel down hard.

“N-no, Your Honor—I never—”