Antebellum Awakening (The Network Series #2)(46)

“Um, may I . . . may I come in?”

“When I’m ready,” the High Priestess replied.

Stella, a hint of a smile on her face, nudged me to stand with her behind the High Priestess’s desk. I didn’t fail to notice the strategy. In reasserting her authority by ordering Clive out, the High Priestess had shifted the power balance in the room back in her favor.

My stomach gave an uneasy lurch. My life would almost certainly end in a few months. Clive couldn’t do much to hurt me. But I feared what this meant for Papa. My heart lodged in my throat and stayed there.

The High Priestess pushed around a pile of scrolls, divided a mess of letters into two piles, and murmured under her breath. In short, she didn’t really do anything. When Clive edged toward the doorway the High Priestess shot him a sharp look. He moved back, lingering in the shadows again. Marten moved into the room without invitation and walked up to her desk.

“Your Highness,” he said. “Forgive my intrusion but I have some paperwork for you that cannot wait. Here are the letters and . . . a few other items of interest.”

Marten set the papers on the desk in front of her. The High Priestess glanced at them, then jerked her eyes up to his in surprise. Her eyebrows lowered into a question and he nodded once, grim.

“Yes,” she said, taking the top paper into her hand, her expression troubled. The paper disappeared. “Thank you, Marten.”

He left the room without another word or backward glance. I wondered where he went. Marten seemed to slip in and out of life here without making a single ripple. It seemed awfully covert for an Ambassador, and I wondered what he really did.

“Move it,” a deep voice commanded Clive, and before he could obey, Tiberius lifted him out of the way. He strode over, stood on my left side, crossed his arms over his chest, and glowered at the office door. Papa stood a few paces away, near the window, deep in thought. Clive, looking a little paler than before, swallowed but stood his ground.

“We are waiting for Jansson,” the High Priestess announced, looking at everyone but Clive and myself. “Then we may begin.”

Jansson stepped up to the doorway only a few moments later. He stood there, awaiting permission to enter.

“Yes, please come in, Jansson, Clive.”

The two of them moved into the room and stood across her desk from us. I met Clive’s gaze and kept it, striving to keep my face as eerie and impassioned as Papa’s. He looked away first.

“Well?” the High Priestess demanded, lifting her thin gray eyebrows and glaring at Clive. “We’re here at your insistence.”

Clive stepped forward.

“I have respectfully submitted the signatures needed to go before the Council in an appeal regarding the matter of removing our current Head of Protectors.”

“That has nothing to do with you being here,” the High Priestess snapped. “You’re here for Bianca, not Der–”

“I beg to differ,” he interrupted. “I believe the two problems are linked.”

Stella gasped. My stomach turned to jelly. Had he just interrupted the High Priestess?

Jansson shot Clive a look of warning. Tension tripled in the room as Clive, realizing his mistake, stopped talking and deferred his gaze to the floor.

“I suggest you get to the point,” the High Priestess said in a cold tone. “Before I kick you out of my office.”

“Indeed, yes. Thank you. Your patience is exemplary. I’d like to address the grievance against Miss Monroe regarding the violence in downtown Chatham City just a few hours ago. I apologize for the delay. I would have liked to address it immediately, but—”

“List your grievances,” the High Priestess said.

Pompous donkey, I thought, noticing Clive’s Chatham accent was all but gone now. I looked at the clock, confirming the time. It was well into the evening, which meant I must have blacked out for several hours. I wondered if Merrick had to carry me back all that way.

“The first grievance,” Clive began, happy to oblige, “is inciting violence in a public place. Two, responding violently without sufficient cause, and three, denying the citizens the right to express their opinion.”

I pressed my lips together in livid disbelief. Without sufficient cause? Inciting violence?

“Denying the right of expression?” the High Priestess questioned. “Please, do explain how Bianca’s self-defense in an openly violent crowd suppressed anyone else?”

Clive’s eyebrows lifted halfway up his forehead.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he said in a low voice. “The witches at the rally felt that they couldn’t be honest about their opinions of Derek with her in attendance. Obviously they were right, as we see from the many injuries inflicted.”

“Yes, yes,” she muttered impatiently. “What eyewitnesses do you have to support your claim?”

“I have twenty, Your Highness.”

He stepped forward with a small scroll. She pulled it open to skim it, rolled her eyes, and set it down. I wondered how many of those witnesses had been under the influence of ipsum. All of them, perhaps? Papa’s mouth twitched and he shifted his weight. I could tell he wanted to say something, but held back.

“What is your desired outcome for the grievance?”

“Ultimately, Your Highness, all I ever want is the safety of my people in Chatham City.”