Flowers from Blood

by C.J.Ellison

Two weeks after the arrest of Morgan Fey, Phoenix lets Maya choose their next client- a girl accused of murdering her older sister. The scenario alone is eerily familiar, but the entire case starts dredging up fragments of the past. Slowly, the trial unravels the secrets of an aristocratic family, and Franziska von Karma's mysterious personal connection to it all. [Legacies Part I]

2. Chapter I: The Colour of Blood

noblesse oblige : (noun phrase; French, meaning nobility obliges) the duty that those of privileged status have to act with honour, generosity, benevolence and accountability

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Chapter I
The Colour of Blood

.{*}.

July 8, 2017, 09:08AM
Detention Centre
Visitor's Room

In the almost-year since he had passed the bar, Phoenix Wright had come to accept that his career as a defence attorney so far was- to put it lightly- atypical.

And not even in a compelling, satisfying, crime drama plot kind of way. More in a stressful, high-octane, chaotic, someone-please-end-me-I-have-done-nothing-to-deserve-this kind of way.

Despite his novice status, the past eleven months had seen Phoenix involved in some of the most prominent criminal trials in California. His résumé included solving the murder of his own mentor, representing the lead actor of a major superhero franchise on charges of murder, cracking a fifteen-year-old cold case that was about to be lost to the statute of limitations, and exposing corruption and evidence tampering by the heads of the DA's office and the county police. In the process, he had claimed victories against no less than three previously undefeated prosecutors, one of whom boasted a forty-year flawless conviction record. As of yet- miraculously- Phoenix himself hadn't suffered a single loss in court.

The brief overview made it sound far more polished than it had actually been, or like Phoenix had actually known what he was doing at the time. Nothing could be further from the truth. Every trial had been spent blindly bluffing his way through cross examinations, white-knuckling every twist until he somehow hit upon a chain of contradictions that unravelled the often bizarre, convoluted truth from the logical knots formed by the most uncooperative defendants, eccentric witnesses and unlikely coincidences in existence.

Phoenix was semi-convinced that he was cursed. Maybe, he theorised, seventeen years of friendship with Larry Butz had finally contaminated him, ensuring that any case that crossed his desk was basically a recently shaken jar of hornets waiting to be opened- except he didn't even have Larry's infuriatingly convenient obliviousness to help him coast through it.

Maya, ever the optimist, said that he was being an overly-dramatic cynic. After all, she pointed out with an irreverent grin, no matter the situation that Phoenix found himself in or how the odds were stacked against him, he always came out unscathed, and usually the victor.

She had a point, annoyingly enough. But then, Maya Fey was also the embodiment of entropy in a chirpy, five-foot-one package of short-hemmed kimonos, popular superhero shows and burger cravings, and therefore was not to be trusted.

Phoenix had told her that once, mostly teasingly. She had whacked his shoulder, pouted, and started muttering ominous mantras under her breath that Phoenix was pretty sure was just a meditative chant for when she was training under a waterfall. Not that he understood how sitting under a freezing mountain stream for several hours was supposed to increase spiritual sensitivity, but since the first day they had met, Phoenix had resolved to take Maya's unusual abilities and the traditions that came attached in stride. The sky was blue, grass was green, and Maya Fey was from an ancient line of spirit mediums that could channel the dead.

These were just the facts. Apparently.

When did this become my life?

Regardless, Phoenix had the sinking feeling that his first year as a qualified defence attorney had set a precedent.

And for that reason, arriving at the detention centre that day, he felt reasonably prepared- or maybe that was the nihilistic resignation talking- to face whatever lay beyond the door to the visitor's room.

Like striking gold, it had hit the height of summer in Los Angeles. The dense oceanic fog that poured in overnight, a weather phenomenon unique to the Southern Californian coast, had burned away under the late morning sun, tepid cloud cover dissolving into clear, intense bluebell in the hours after dawn. Midsummer bricked the city into a wall of heat; taking a cab would have been an excess, given the distance, but cycling from his office had left Phoenix shifting in his suit uncomfortably, sweat cooling on his skin, white dress shirt clinging to the plane of his back beneath his blazer. There were scarce few features of the detention centre that could be called pleasant- even in the relatively anodyne visitor area, the air tasted like plastic, sterile and tense as a hospital waiting room, as though the ambience was infused into the linoleum where it couldn't be rinsed out- but Phoenix had to applaud the air conditioning system. Within a few minutes of it blasting overhead, he was feeling a little less like an overcooked Thanksgiving turkey, and more like a competent attorney who could remember the difference between actus reus and mens rea.

Phone in hand, Phoenix scrolled through his news feed, waiting for his potential client to be released from their holding cell. The facts of the case remained murky- details from local media reports were sparse, everything behind the sensational headlines visibly padded with guesswork and speculation.

It's almost like the police are limiting how much information is being released, Phoenix mused. Which is pretty unusual. When Mia died, they had her name and photo in the news by the next morning. Unless the LAPD has suddenly changed their policy on how they interact with reporters, it doesn't make any sense.

His thumbnail tapped against the screen pensively.

I can't think of any reason why they would be keeping things quiet. But then again, it's hard to guess what they might be keeping secret when there's basically nothing to go on. Still- it feels a little extreme. I didn't even know the name of the suspect until I got here, and that was only after they verified my credentials.

What little information was available was eerily familiar. Late last night, a girl in her late teens was arrested on suspicion of murder. The victim was her older sister, and the suspect was found standing over the body by an eyewitness.

Knowing his luck, Phoenix anticipated more unsettling parallels. Coincidence was becoming a familiar friend.

"Attorney!"

Phoenix looked up. The guard on duty opened the door to the visitor's room, nodding curtly.

"Ah." Phoenix locked the screen, putting his phone away. "Thanks." He returned the gesture, conscious of the value of courtesy in the limited circles of the justice system, and entered the room.

The visitor's room was a liminal space, immutable and detached from external reality, like a pocket dimension where a minute within was an hour without. The secure cinderblock cell was split in half by a sheet of reinforced glass, punctured by a starburst grate to permit sound to pass through, generic blue folding chairs stationed at the thick ledge beneath each side of the window. The only source of natural light was the barred window on the detainee's side of the glass, set high in the wall, in the corner beside the omnipresent gaze of the CCTV camera.

A feminine figure- the accused, the defendant, his potential client, Phoenix didn't know which label he should use for the moment- was already seated on the other side of the glass. The door clicked closed behind him, and-

Phoenix balked.

He had expected similarities.

Not these similarities.

But apparently, Phoenix thought, somewhere in the small, backup-generator powered sector of his brain that was still operational, someone in the great cosmic bureaucracy screwed up and made an administrative error. Or maybe the universe really does just hate me that much. Wouldn't be surprised.

The rest of Phoenix's mental functions- the parts that weren't supplying unhelpful commentary- had locked up.

Had he not known that the colour could be natural, Phoenix would have suspected that it came out of a bottle. Her hair was red- deep, intense cinnabar red, rich and visceral as a daub of fresh blood against the austere room, curling around her shoulders, glowing maple-gold where the sun caught it like kindling, iron oxide and coppery on his tongue just looking at it. Memory hooked into his gut, and yanked. His vision smudged, blurring with the distant echoes of a different young woman with the same pigment in her hair- darling as a doll, fragile as wood violets, willowy and porcelain-fair with dark, doelike eyes, compact features in a heart-shaped face, sweetness and light given physical form and a smile like pink lemonade. Phoenix remembered how that angelic visage had warped with contempt- the sickening swoop of bewilderment in his stomach as he watched- rosebud mouth shrivelling, nose crinkling into a beautiful snarl, sugar-shell cracking open to poison, thick as tar.

He remembered the way she tossed her red, red hair over her shoulder, each strand as straight and neat as a pin, glossy as hard candy.

What a joke you are. Honestly, how can any woman ever count on you for anything?

He blinked the vision away. The moment passed, dissolving with his next breath.

When Phoenix refocused, he immediately retracted any comparison. There was nothing delicate about the young woman sitting in front of him.

Every inch of her was cut from hardened grace- evocative of statues of ancient gods and the ruins of great empires, a thousand miles removed from daydream softness and wisteria blossoms- as though she could crush diamonds to dust beneath her heel and use the glittering residue as cosmetic highlighter. She held herself with sangfroid, smooth and blank and at ease, in that way that people only were when they felt completely in control. In contrast to the coldness she radiated, her complexion was an incongruously warm gold- the exact shade of the light cast by the sun dipping low on the horizon, natural tone enhanced by the Californian sun, complementing the colour of her hair. She was only sixteen, according to the arraignment papers, but Phoenix would never have believed it at a glance. In fact, he probably never could have guessed her age with any certainty. Her bone structure gave her something ageless, imperious and immortal; on a man, no one would hesitate to call her features chiselled, nigh upon aristocratic, with a straight nose, high cheekbones, defined jaw and firm mouth that could have belonged to some handsome, tragic Byronic hero from a period drama.

Transliterated into a feminine dialect, the effect was surprisingly lovely- like a dash of seasalt tossed into something sweet. When combined with her eyes, she was a deft twist on manufactured modern beauty standards, teasing the line between classic and unusual-

Wait a second.

Phoenix blinked again. And then a third time.

And then a fourth, just to be sure.

What-

Apparently, her hair was only the second most startling thing about her.

For a second, Phoenix was convinced that it was a trick of the light- except he shifted on his feet, changing his perspective and the way the shadows caught on her, and no, it definitely wasn't. Her eyes, almond-shaped and sharp, were two entirely different colours. One iris was cloud-blue, the colour of a frozen lake, almost reflecting into a silver-plated sheen- the other was earthen brown, singed like embers of a wood fire in a hearth, spitting sparks.

They carried in a look in them that could have cracked iron.

It took her quirking an eyebrow at him for Phoenix to realise that he was staring.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Phoenix took a seat, unlooping an arm from the straps of his leather satchel.

"Um- Miss Steele? I'm-"

"No."

Phoenix froze, eyes darting to the side and back uncertainly.

"I- I'm sorry?"

She spoke with an undercurrent of natural command, swift and sharp as a scythe, tempered at the edges with something oddly courteous- although maybe that was just an effect of her cut-glass English accent, every word as crisp and correct as legal documents fresh from the printer. "Forgive me, but I don't want to waste more of your time than necessary. You are Phoenix Wright, correct? The defence attorney."

Phoenix's thoughts had turned to radio static. "Um- yes-? How did you-"

"At the risk of sounding presumptuous," she continued, crossing her legs at the knee in a fluid, measured motion, smooth as glass, "I can only think of one reason why you would be here. So- thank you for your consideration, but I don't require your services."

"Oh." Phoenix deflated slightly, a little taken aback but not particularly upset. He eased back into the plastic folding chair, stiff hinges creaking. "So- you already have representation, then? For tomorrow's trial."

The girl glanced aside, coiling a section of her jaw-length fringe around her index finger absently, like a spool of thread. "I'm sure I'll be assigned a public defender before the end of the day." She let the skein of hair unravel against her cheek. The colour was rendered more brilliant against her plain t-shirt, the fabric generic and crisp-new, most likely prison-issued from when they took her clothes into evidence. "But again, you have my gratitude for the offer, Mr Wright."

Phoenix felt as though he had been clubbed over the head with a phonebook.

Everything was thrown into reverse. He wasn't unfamiliar with clients who didn't want a defence, any defence, but he had quickly discovered their reasons for it. They had both been so vehement in their refusal, defensive, lashing out like a wounded animal in a trap and so obviously hiding their fear behind hostility that it made a strange sort of sense that they tried to rebuff any offer of help. By contrast, the girl seemed almost- conciliatory- as though she simply didn't want to inconvenience him. To all appearances, her arrest was little more than a mild annoyance, the girl remaining unruffled despite the severity of her situation; the police rarely filed charges unless the prosecutor was confident that they could secure a conviction, and Phoenix knew from personal experience how brutal it could be in her position, between interrogations that could last late into the night and the unnerving exposure of the holding cells.

Even innocent people felt the pressure.

Either the girl had nerves of steel, or-

Phoenix was struck by the fleeting thought that this is what it looked like, when a criminal had been caught, and gracefully accepted defeat.

Nope! No jumping to conclusions, Wright! Maybe she just really is that confident that she'll be found not guilty… or… something?

On another note, Phoenix was under no illusions. He was only in his first year of practicing law; it had been an exceptional foundation, but his reputation was still being built. While the cases he had handled were famous, most of the general public wouldn't know his name off the cuff. Yet she had recognised him on sight, before he could even get out the words to introduce himself.

Okay, so, weird.

Dimly, Phoenix was aware of the girl observing him closely, disinterest creasing slightly with concern.

"Mr Wright?"

"Huh?" He jolted out of his thoughts. "Oh, uh, yes?"

"Are you alright?" The flick of her mismatched eyes was diagnostic. "You look like you might have a touch of sunstroke."

"Wha- oh! No! No, I'm fine, really. I just-" Phoenix let the other strap of his satchel slip from his shoulder, catching in the crook of his arm with a soft thump and clink of metal buckles. "Sorry, but, how exactly do you know me?"

Her eyebrows twitched upwards.

"I've observed some of your trials." She made it sound as though it should have been obvious.

"Observed- oh." Something clicked for Phoenix. "From the public gallery, you mean?"

She nodded, lashes dipping.

"I have a friend who recently graduated from Themis. We sometimes go to the District Courthouse to watch whatever major criminal case is on the docket, so that he can take practical notes. We were there, last- October, wasn't it? The People versus Will Powers." Her head tilted slightly. "You made quite an impression."

"I see…" It took Phoenix a second to realise that he had been complimented. "Oh! Um, thank you."

Themis. The gears in his head ground back into motion. Right. I've heard of that place- Themis Legal Academy. It's that prestigious law school up past Elysian Valley, the one that offers specialised courses for prosecutors, defence attorneys and judges. I guess with a friend who's a student at a famous college like that, she'd probably know a little about lawyers in the city, and major court cases from the past year.

Okay. One mystery down.

"Can I ask, then," Phoenix said, "why you're refusing my offer of defence? Why you plan to refuse any defence, by the sounds of it?"

The girl's gaze cut towards him. It pinned him in a way that made Phoenix think of a jaw clamping down on a jugular, the pressure just enough to hold its prey in place and placid, but not enough to break skin and draw blood. It was force, carefully leashed.

She let the moment linger, just long enough for it to begin to congeal and settle on Phoenix's skin.

"Because my trial," she said, each syllable designed to hold attention, "unless someone screws up spectacularly, is guaranteed to render a guilty verdict. And I have no intention of marring your perfect record. Everyone has to lose at some point, but your first loss should be worthwhile. You're too good a lawyer not to have that consolation."

Phoenix frowned, leaning forward against the table, the colours of his reflection rippling across the glass like a wash of watercolour on wet paper.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that.

"Why do you think you're going to be found guilty?" He tried, testing the waters.

She flicked her head to the side. A glint of dark, self-deprecating humour glinted through her impassive mask, twisting a tripwire-fine smile out of her like a lockpick.

"Because I am practically gift-wrapped for the prosecution," she informed him, her cadence almost lilting with amusement. "I had motive. I had opportunity. I had access to the crime scene. I have forensic evidence implicating me. An eyewitness caught me in flagrante delicto, standing over the body. Oh, and I have it on good authority that the prosecutor assigned to my case has a personal motive for pursuing a guilty verdict with particular vehemence. Not that they're in short supply on the regular, but the point stands."

… Alright. Phoenix was not panicking. Phoenix was definitely not panicking because that did not sound like the textbook definition of demonstrable guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Absolutely not. No way. Not at all. Nope.

He swallowed down something that tasted suspiciously like dread.

"Well- j-just because a case seems unwinnable-"

Phoenix wavered- and took a breath, drawing from the well of certainty that existed in the memory of his mentor. Mia Fey had been unassailable, confidence and kindness in a pressed charcoal suit and a primrose-yellow cashmere scarf, bolstering and dispensing advice to her fumbling protégé at every juncture, the pearls of wisdom that had accrued over months of her patient, rigorous guidance rendered in a soft glow in his memory, like drops of candied moonlight.

One of them stood out, in that moment.

You'd be surprised, Phoenix, at how many people trip up under a good, hard stare.

He fixed the girl with his strongest, most determined look, squaring his shoulders.

G-got it, Chief. I'll remember that!

"Just because a defendant seems guilty, it necessarily doesn't mean that they are guilty. That's what trials are for. If I believed everyone who told me that a case was hopeless and I should give up now, I wouldn't have much of a career." Phoenix said evenly. "Or that win record that you bought up just now."

The girl absorbed this for a moment. She inclined her head, assessing, a curl slipping over her collarbone, drops of light chasing the filaments down.

"Perhaps you're right," she acknowledged, before looking up with a winning smile- charismatic, and heartless. "But I'm simply not the kind of person who deserves that kind of defence."

Before Phoenix could respond, she had risen from her chair and sank into an elegant, dramatic curtsey- one leg swept behind the other, drawing a hand into her chest with a swoop and flourish, the flare of her fingertips hovering over her heart.

"Goodbye, Mr Wright. It was a genuine pleasure to make your acquaintance."

She rose, and turned towards the guard at the door.

Phoenix rocketed to his feet, palms slamming onto the ledge, the force rattling the viewing window pane. He could the guards glaring in warning, the back of his neck prickling with heat.

"Wait! Wait, please- at least tell me what happened! Tell me your side of the story, if nothing else. That's all I'm asking."

The young woman glanced back over her shoulder, through the pall of her stunning hair, sharp with consternation. She was, Phoenix realised with a jolt, much taller than he had expected; there was barely an inch or two between them, their eye-line almost level with both of them standing. He could almost taste frost in the air, extremities freezing over under her scrutiny.

"This is all feeling rather backwards, you know," she said, sounding vaguely exasperated. "Shouldn't it be the criminal begging the attorney to hear them out?"

Phoenix offered a rueful smile, wondering at their shared thought.

"Well, I guess I'm not an ordinary lawyer," he said, allowing himself a wince at how true that was, before quickly sobering. "Please. Will you at least tell me what happened? It won't take long. I mean- it's my time we're wasting here, right?"

She stared at him searchingly, cold teal and warm russet. It was like a thumb jammed into a pressure point- utterly debilitating with terrifying ease and minimal effort, nerves seizing up and synapses misfiring.

Gazing back, Phoenix noticed something for the first time.

Her lashes were damp.

Sixteen. The thought struck him clean across the face. She's sixteen.

"Why are you here?"

Phoenix pulled back, puzzled. "You already worked that out. As in- the literal second I walked in the door? Like you said, I came here to hear you out and-"

"No, you're not hearing me," she cut him off, clean as a filleting knife. "Why are you here? We're in Los Angeles. If you were trawling for a case, there is plenty of crime, and plenty of arrests, and plenty of falsely accused suspects in this building alone. Yet you're here. And you seem to be intent on remaining here. Why?"

He nodded to himself slowly, understanding what she was really asking. It wasn't a rare mentality, to always be looking for a catch- for razorblades hidden in the buttercream- but Phoenix couldn't help but wonder how many times this girl had almost been spitting sugared blood.

Phoenix straightened from where he had been leaning towards the glass.

"Actually, I didn't choose your case." He admitted, sensing that the truth would get him further than any well-meaning lie. "It was my- well, I guess you could call her my assistant? She saw the story on the news last night."

Phoenix watched, gaging her reaction. The girl hadn't moved, listening, weighing Phoenix's worth upon a set of metaphysical scales.

"She was in a similar position to you, once," he told her. "The circumstances are almost identical. She was a year older than you are now."

The girl levelled him with a penetrating glare.

"You're doing this for her."

It wasn't a question, but Phoenix nodded anyway.

"Yeah. I guess I am." He lifted a single shoulder in a slight, helpless shrug. "She'd never let me live it down if I didn't at least get your side of the story."

She stared him down a moment longer- and then emitted a soft scoff, glancing away.

"Stubborn," she muttered, heated as a fresh bruise, a hand carding through her hair, combing it back from her face. "I should have expected that, and yet."

Her hand dropped to her throat, still half-tangled in her tresses, toying with her collar. For a second, Phoenix thought he saw something wink between her fingers.

Her head flicked back to him, resolve written in the facets of her face. She circled around her chair and reclaimed her seat, folding her arms across her chest.

"This isn't a yes."

But it's close enough! Phoenix thought triumphantly, unable to keep the smile off his face as he sat down opposite her, extracting a small notebook from his satchel's front pocket. Flipping it open to a blank page, he jotted down a few preliminary notes.

¦ 8/7/17 PvJAS
¦ INV1 DETCEN DEFINT
¦ Motive
¦ Opportunity
¦ Night of the Crime
¦ Eyewitness
¦ Prosecutor

"Thank you, Miss Steele. Why don't we start with-"

"Amaryllis."

Phoenix looked up. "E-excuse me?"

"Miss Steele is irritating," she said, "and no one I actually like ever calls me Jaime. If we're going to be civil to each other, you can start by calling me Amaryllis. It's my middle name."

"Amaryllis." Phoenix tested out the name, fitting his tongue around the sound. He had to admit, the uncommon, elaborately-wrought name suited her better than the alternatives. "Okay. I can do that. Amaryllis, then. Let's start from the beginning. What happened last night?"

Her gaze drifted upwards, pensive. "There was a corpse in my dressing room, and I didn't put it there."

Phoenix shot her the most long-suffering look he could muster.

The girl- Amaryllis- didn't look remotely chastened. "At least, that's what I told the police."

"Is that the truth?" Phoenix pressed.

"They didn't seem to think so," Amaryllis answered nonchalantly, deftly evasive. "Although, in fairness, if I did put it there, I would have some very compelling reasons to lie about it."

Sensing that the current line of questioning would get him precisely nowhere, Phoenix switched course.

"The victim- she was your older sister, correct?"

"Ruby Olivia Steele. Twenty-two years of age, seven years my senior," she replied, watching Phoenix note it down. "Born on the twentieth of September, 1994. A Virgo- naturally."

Phoenix's mouth pulled tight. It was hard to ignore Amaryllis' lacklustre reaction towards her sister's death, not to mention the bitter aftertaste that lingered in that last comment. Already knowing that he was going to regret it, Phoenix mentally braced himself, the tip of his biro hovering ominously over the first subject he had written down.

"What was your relationship like?"

Amaryllis gazed at him blankly.

I wonder, Phoenix thought dryly, is that an ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer kind of look? I mean, I get it, but come on! It's my job! Half of cross examination is asking painfully obvious questions to get an answer on record!

"Do you know where my name originates from, Mr Wright?"

That, once again, was not what he had been expecting. It was becoming a pattern today. What next? Is Maya going to agree to ramen for lunch instead of burgers? Is the prosecution going to turn out to be some polite and humble soul who winces every time I slam on the defence's bench?

Thoroughly nonplussed, Phoenix found himself answering bluntly. "Uh, no. I don't. Should I?"

Amaryllis propped an elbow against the table, fingers curling underneath her jaw, heel of her hand supporting her chin.

"Not unless you're intimately familiar with botany or Virgil's Eclogues, no. Amaryllis comes from the Greek amarysso, meaning to sparkle." There was a heaviness to her words, a quiet significance humming through her voice like the tone of a struck tuning-fork, keeping Phoenix listening despite the fact that she wasn't answering his question. It didn't feel like a deflection this time, unlike the way she had danced around him mere moments ago. "It comes from an obscure little story in Greek mythology- one of Mason's favourites, but don't hold that against it."

Phoenix's brows furrowed, intrigued. "Mason?"

Amaryllis closed her eyes for a moment, the image of serenity- then straightened and leaned back into her chair. "My father. Just call him Mason."

There was something strangely cold in her remark, pouring off her like the chill exuded by a window pane in middle of winter.

Phoenix said nothing, giving her space to talk.

"There is a shepherdess," Amaryllis began, even and measured as recited poetic meter, "shy and beautiful, who dwells in the mountains of Hellas. One morning, she ventures into the foothills to gather wildflowers. It is there that she encounters a handsome young shepherd, by the name of Alteo, said to have the strength of Herakles and the beauty of Apollo. Yet he remains aloof to all who seek his favour. The shepherdess is smitten, but he has no more interest in her than a pebble in his sandal- his only love is flowers, for he thinks people fickle and liars, especially in their professed affections. And so she grieves. But for all her delicate appearance, her heart is not easily swayed, and she does not stop loving him. Eventually, with many admirers clamouring for his attention, Alteo issues a challenge to silence them: whoever can bring him a flower that he has never seen before will win his heart!"

Even if he had wanted to interrupt, Phoenix had been rendered silent, vocal chords knotted by the dreamlike way she weaved the tale, as though she knew it by heart and backwards.

"Yet this is no easy task. For Alteo's knowledge of botany is unparalleled, and all attempts to find a flower he has not seen end in failure," Amaryllis continued. "But the shepherdess, in her desperation, consults the oracle at Delphi, and receives strange advice in return. At dusk, she must go to Alteo's dwelling dressed all in white, and pierce her heart with a golden arrow, calling for him to come out- and she must do so each night, until he answers her, without fail. And so she does. And for twenty-nine nights, blood from her heart drips at Alteo's threshold. And for twenty-nine nights, he does not answer. Her wound does not heal, or stop bleeding, or cease to pain her, but neither does she die."

Lifting a hand, Amaryllis swept her brilliant hair behind her left shoulder. Phoenix spied a gossamer-thread glint of metal, catching the sunlight, almost hidden beneath the collar of her shirt.

"Finally, on the thirtieth night, Alteo- for reasons known only to himself- opens the door. He finds her waiting for him underneath the stars, smiling like victory, with her arms full of the most breathtaking flowers in the world. From each drop of his shepherdess' blood, red blossoms have burst forth from the earth- lilies, with long bare stems and wide-open calyxes, a living symbol of how much she loves him- new flowers that have never been seen before. His heart thaws to her, and hers is healed. The flower goes on to represent radiant beauty, pride and tragic love for centuries, named after the girl whose heart gave them life."

Phoenix finally spoke, his mouth dry. "Amaryllis," he guessed.

Wordlessly, her fingers slipped beneath her neckline, drawing out a fine gold chain.

Suspended from it was a pendant crafted in the likeness of a flower, no larger than a coin. Teardrop-cut jewels, the same colour as the deepest lowlights in Amaryllis' hair, formed the petals, their facets casting a net of starry refractions across her décolletage when the light struck. Three tiny honey-gold gemstones were set in the centre, mimicking the stamen. Behind the flower, lancing clean through its heart, was a single golden arrow, its sharp tip and fletching directly linked to the delicate chain.

"The amaryllis lily," she said simply, softening into the spectre of a surprisingly heartfelt smile, "yes."

"Did your father- Mason, did he give that to you?" Phoenix asked, curious as to what could pull that reaction from her, ice melting into sugar.

"Yes."

Phoenix's pocket burned.

He realised what was happening a heartbeat before it began. Time slowed, unnaturally- stuttering, braking and stumbling over itself- and his surroundings dimmed, swallowed in black like the burn and ripple of a ruined film reel, as though he were about to pass out. In the centre of the void, Amaryllis remained clear.

A heavy clink and rasp of metal shattered the abrupt, crushing silence. Chains as thick as his wrist snapped out, pulling taut and criss-crossing around Amaryllis like a web. Then, with a clank, several hefty locks- scarlet red, worked and studded with gold, built like strongboxes and thrice as sturdy- slammed into place, swaying with residual momentum.

Amaryllis had just lied to him.

Psyche-Locks, Phoenix thought grimly. His heart hammered as the moment stretched artificially, the borrowed time giving him space to think, but- I don't think I've ever seen this many before…

Two locks each were suspended just above her shoulders; two more hung parallel to her waist. The fifth and final lock was sealed directly above her heart, forbidding any who cared to pry into its depths. Each lock represented a measure of mental willpower, of her determination to keep something secret, locked away where only she could reach.

The more locks there are, the bigger the secret, Phoenix recalled the instructions that Pearl had given him, the first time he had experienced this mind-breaking power. I never would have guessed that she was hiding something- she didn't even flinch. But what could possibly be so important about that necklace that she lied about it, and that it triggered five locks?

Phoenix shook his head to dispel the thought, shelving it for later.

He discretely slipped a hand into his pocket. His fingers skimmed the surface a small charm- a piece of glassy, pale-green jade, carved in the shape of a comma and pierced through with a single hole, reminiscent of a number nine, radiating a strange, cool energy that sent a frisson down his spine.

Phoenix hadn't actively expected to come across any Psyche-Locks, but carrying the magatama with him wherever he went had become habit. It was less about the supernatural ability it endowed- glimpsing when people were hiding something, even if he made no attempt to unlock the secret, still felt somewhat invasive, and he had sworn to use it sparingly- and more the fact that was a gift from Maya, one that she had handed over with uncharacteristic reverence. Almost every member of the Fey Clan he had ever encountered- even Mia, though he hadn't known its significance then- wore a magatama, and Phoenix had the feeling that he had been given something uniquely precious.

At a thought from Phoenix, the power withdrew into the charm. The metaphysical locks and chains dissolved, darkness fading back into reality, time resuming its usual pace.

Unaware of what he had seen, or of more than a second or two passing, Amaryllis dropped the pendant back under her collar, pressing it to her breastbone through the thin fabric briefly.

"She's never forgiven me for that."

"Your sister, you mean? For what?" Phoenix prompted, hoping he sounded less affected that he felt. He didn't have the current mental bandwidth to explain a power he barely understood to a person he barely knew.

"For having that name. For being born. For breathing. All of the above." She leaned back, folding her arms, legs crossed at the knee, one calf kicking up and falling in a metronome rhythm reminiscent of the deceptively languid sway of a cat's tail. "Inventing ways that I have wronged her is a talent of hers. She even managed to blame me for being there that day, when Mason was killed- as though I somehow cheated her out of her right as the firstborn and daddy's favourite. As if I ever wanted it."

Phoenix, resignedly underlining v. v. bad relationship several times in his notebook, paused and mentally rewound her statement.

"Wait," he said, slowly, "killed?"

"Mm. Sniper bullet to the brain," Amaryllis lifted a hand, touching a spot just above her left eyebrow with a single fingertip, relaxed and steady. "Right here. It would have been his temple, but he started turning his head."

Phoenix felt his throat sicken. "How old were you?"

"It was a few days after I turned twelve. An early afternoon in February. We were having lunch on the mezzanine of a restaurant, in Hamburg."

"I-" Phoenix could taste the bile at the base of his tongue, rigid with horror. "I'm so sorry."

Amaryllis looked away.

"Don't be," she said, absently tracing the line of her clavicle. "In any case, I left after that. I have no interest in living in the presence of someone offended that I have the audacity to exist."

Maybe he was a coward. Maybe, if he was being lenient to himself, he was respecting Amaryllis' tacit acceptance of her father's murder and desire not to speak about it. Maybe he was disturbed by the clinical way she recounted it. Either way, Phoenix picked up the new thread.

"That's right. I noticed it earlier, but, your accent- are you British?"

She followed the change of subject without missing a beat, smooth as a waltz. "Technically, I'm dual citizen," she said, "as is Ruby. British father, American mother," Amaryllis elaborated upon catching Phoenix's questioning look. "We spent half of our childhoods in continental Europe- Germany, Switzerland, France, mostly. But yes. Legality aside, I suppose we think of ourselves as British, above anything else. Why, is it important?"

Honestly, I have no idea. But you never really know with the cases I get. "Not especially, I guess. But, when you say left, do you mean you came here, to the States? And Ruby- she stayed?"

"To manage the family estate- she inherited it after Mason's death. I was left with a trust fund, and a few peripheral investment holdings. If you did the math on it, it would probably amount to- oh, about a twenty-eighty percent split overall?"

And yet more motive, phenomenal! Phoenix thought sarcastically, resisting the urge to smack his forehead against the glass. Give me a break! She really wasn't kidding when she said she was practically gift-wrapped… At least she warned me, I guess…

"Right, but, if your sister stayed in Europe to manage the family estate, then what was she doing here in LA?"

Amaryllis lowered her head, contemplatively.

"I don't know."

"You- don't know?"

"No. I can speculate, but that's all." Amaryllis glanced away, the finest sliver of her contrasting irises visible between her lashes. "A few months ago, she started calling me. At first, I had no intentions of picking up, but she was persistent. It was like clockwork. Once a day, every day, without fail, always at the same time, and never more than twice. And, the time- it was always around seven or eight in the evening, close to sunset. Britain is fifteen hours ahead of California, so that means she was calling at around five in the morning where she was, close to pre-dawn even in summer."

"Huh. That is really early." Phoenix admitted, clicking his pen absently. "Are you sure your sister wasn't just a morning person?"

Amaryllis gave a short, sharp exhalation from between her teeth. "Tch. Please. Ruby and I have precisely three things in common, and one of them is that we are not morning people."

"Right," he said, turning this shard of information over, examining the others in the light it cast, "so it's unlikely that she just happened to be awake, and just happened to call you then."

"Exactly. Then there's the cost of international calls, and the phone bills she must have been racking up. Eventually, I got curious enough to wonder what was so important, so I answered."

"You talked to her?" Phoenix straightened with a sting of nervous energy. "What did she say?"

"She wanted me to come to the house. The house, in England." A muscle in Amaryllis' jaw fluttered. "Apparently, she wanted to talk in person. I told her I wasn't interested. Then she offered to come to me. She said that she'd attend the play and talk to me during the intermission, if she had to. I sent a ticket and a backstage pass to her hotel room when she arrived. Like I said- I suppose I was curious enough."

Phoenix tapped the end of his pen against the open page. "What was so important that she wanted to talk about it in person?"

"I never found out." Amaryllis said.

Phoenix watched her eyes sharpen into the middle distance. He couldn't tell whether it was the frustration at never knowing what her sister had wanted to say, or the irritation from having to dredge up a past she attempted to leave several thousand miles behind her.

"But," he said, keeping his wording as neutral as possible, "you said you could speculate?"

Her lashes dragged shadows into her irises, like ink bleeding into water. "There are very few things in the world that could compel her to contact me."

"Such as?"

"That second thing we have in common." She said, lifting a hand to rest over her heart. "Praesis ut prosis net ut imperes."

The pen went slack in his hand. "I-I'm sorry, was that Latin?"

"The family motto since antiquity. Lead in order to serve, not in order to rule." Amaryllis' eyes flicked back to his, snapping into focus like the lens of a camera. "Even if she's unwilling to credit me with it, family duty- the legacy entrusted to us- it's something that I value. I always have. It's possible that she knows that, in her heart of hearts. Even if she would rather cut out her tongue than admit that I have anything close to a positive trait. If the estate was at risk- that might have made her swallow her pride and ask for my help, I think. I know that I would have given it, without question, regardless of how I felt about the current custodian."

Huh. Family duty. Phoenix hooked his thumb under his chin, mulling her declaration over. From the way she talks about her sister alone, I wouldn't have thought it of her, but- I guess there must be more to it than that. It sounds like there's some kind of powerful history behind the two sisters, though. Maybe I should ask about that later.

A stray thought snagged his attention. "Just out of curiosity, you said three things," Phoenix pointed out. "That you and your sister had in common. What was the third thing?"

Amaryllis raised her eyebrow- and mutely twisted a lock of red hair around her finger.

Phoenix's eyes widened slightly.

"Oh."

Amaryllis tossed her tresses back into place with a flick of her head. He caught another glimpse of the elusive smile from before, a mote of laughter creasing around her eyes, haughty but strangely sweet.

It faded as rapidly as a stray spark, slipping out of existence, but Phoenix could see the image behind his eyelids when he blinked, a photo-flash burned into his retinas.

"Your sister said she would come to see you, during the play last night," Phoenix proceeded with the interview, striking through the topic of motive. "That was the scene of the crime, correct? The-" He checked his preliminary notes. "The Eclipse. An indie theatre?"

"Supposed indie theatre," Amaryllis replied pointedly. "I doubt it's important to the case, but it's actually secretly owned and operated by a cabal of Hollywood executives."

Phoenix wished he could be surprised. Instead, he just felt weary. "Seriously?"

"Mm-hm." A brow arched and dropped quickly, exchanging a meaningful look with him. "They use it to test new actors on the public and critics, before they consider casting them in blockbusters as a newly discovered gem. The usual entertainment industry disingenuousness. As I said, not terribly important."

"Right. I guess not," he sighed, before refocusing. "You were one of the play's leads, right?"

"You're well informed," Amaryllis quipped idly. "It was a special one-night performance. Heartstrings is a musical about a young composer attending a prestigious music school, while trying to decide which genre she should dedicate herself to- classical, or contemporary. The protagonist plays eight different instruments onstage, and sings in multiple musical numbers."

"Whoa. That's- a lot." Phoenix remembered the student theatre productions at Ivy University. A coffee-jitter, frenetic energy had consumed those cast in leading roles, strengthening in intensity as the semester progressed; he winced at the thought of the meltdown that would have occurred if they had spent a semester on Heartstrings. "Sounds like a pretty demanding role. I'm guessing not many actors can do that."

"Oh, there aren't. In other productions, I'm told that they usually cast a decent mezzo or contralto, and have her fake everything else, miming along to a pre-recording or to live instruments in the orchestra pit. In my case, however, I can actually do everything that's scripted."

"Wait, you play eight instruments?!"

"No, I play twelve." Amaryllis said calmly, as though surprised that he was even asking. "Piano, violin, viola, cello, contrabass, harpsichord, guitar, bass guitar, drums, harp, Irish lyre, and koto- ah, that's the Japanese zither. I went through a, ah- phase."

Phoenix made a strangled, incoherent noise at the back of his throat. Amaryllis' brow creased.

"Mr Wright? Are you sure you don't have heatstroke? Maybe we should take a break-"

"I'm good," he choked out, clearing his throat. "Um, so, anyway- does that mean you're an aspiring actress?"

She snickered. "Hardly." Her eyes flicked upwards, smirking faintly. "I lost a bet."

Phoenix stared at her, intrigued. "A bet?"

The wry curve of her lips relaxed, turning pliable as aged honey.

"I love music."

Phoenix believed her. He could hear it in those three little words, spoken on an exhale.

"I trained from a young age. Music was a refuge, for the longest time. When I came to LA a few years ago, it was with the vague idea of writing music professionally. I knew that breaking into the industry would be hard enough, but doing so as a performer in my own right seemed unnecessarily difficult when I wasn't even convinced that I wanted to be in the limelight, or that I would be suited to it. But, I have this friend- a fellow musician, and a natural performer. The type who uses the energy of a crowd and returns it tenfold. He's incredible. A rockstar, even where it doesn't involve music. And he- disagrees with me." She laughed softly. "Vehemently. We made a bet last summer. He was convinced that if I auditioned, I could get the lead based on musical skill and stage presence alone, even without formal theatre training."

Amaryllis shook her head lightly, affection that ran as deep as bone in the gesture, rising to the surface of her skin like a blush.

"He didn't stop gloating for a month. I know it was my own fault for letting myself be provoked, but in my defence, he knows me too well." She paused. Her expression clouded into apathy. "Although, he probably won't be able to collect on his winnings, as things stand now."

The moment and its dreamlike levity evaporated, leaving her cold.

Phoenix bit the inside of his cheek. For a few moments, she had glowed, like a sunset, strangely innocent and open.

"We're veering off topic," she said neutrally. "You'll want to know the timeline of last night."

Phoenix nodded. "If you could."

"Act I began at eight sharp, the intermission was at nine, Act II resumed at nine-thirty. Final curtain was at eleven. The body was found at eleven-twenty, I believe, but you would have to check the police report."

He penned down the timeline, going over the numbers several times to bold them, ink rich on the fresh page. "And when did you arrive at the Eclipse?"

"Six-fifteen, or thereabouts," she said. "I was one of the last to arrive. By the time I had finished with makeup, the costumes for the main cast were being released. I asked the head costume designer if she would mind starting with mine. There wasn't anything particularly complicated about getting into it, but she's- precious about her work, and the assistance with the zip and my hair was appreciated. Just after seven, I stepped outside- there's an alley at the back of the theatre, accessible from backstage via the fire escape."

"You stepped outside? Why?"

"Reception inside the theatre is awful," Amaryllis explained. "A quirk of the architecture, I think. I couldn't get a signal in my dressing room, so I went outside to make a call. I was back inside about ten minutes before curtains up."

Phoenix made a note in the margins- CALL- verify, poss. alibi. "Your sister said she would come by during the intermission, right? Did you see her that night?"

"Briefly." Amaryllis admitted, dipping her head. "We didn't discuss anything important. She stalled with small-talk for a few minutes. Then I had a wardrobe malfunction as I was changing- the strap of my dress tore and was hanging by a few threads, so I had to go to the head costumer for repairs. By the time I got back to my dressing room, she was gone- back to her seat for Act II, I assume. I barely had time to touch up my makeup, so I didn't bother looking for her." She lifted her head, profoundly laissez-faire. "I found her corpse in the dressing room's bathroom about twenty minutes after the end of the show."

"I see." Phoenix laid down his pen, reviewing the evidence so far.

There were certain facts that he couldn't ignore. There was no love lost between the sisters. The victim was found in the defendant's dressing room. Amaryllis may have been the last person to see her sister alive. The circumstances of her arrest were incriminating.

Yet, glaring though the gaps in the circumstantial evidence- it didn't quite make sense. Amaryllis struck him as intelligent, and meticulous, remarkably self-possessed even while under a significant amount of stress. Luring the victim to the scene of the crime, as the prosecution was bound to argue she had done, and committing murder in a location that she was demonstrably linked to ran counter to everything Phoenix had seen of her so far. There would be far less obvious, far less public, far less incriminating ways that she could have done it, if she was the perpetrator. It felt unlikely- possible, Phoenix conceded grudgingly, but unlikely- that she had simply snapped and attacked the victim in blind rage.

And while people had killed for a lot less, he was struggling to see anything that shrieked of motive. The split of the inheritance seemed unfair, and might be incentive for most people. But Amaryllis didn't seem to dwell on it beyond the principle of the matter. Instead, she only seemed to want to think about her sister as little as possible- content in cutting ties and moving to the opposite side of the world, cool apathy coloured by a long-faded hint of bitter resentment based more on past wrongs than current hatred.

Phoenix wondered what the prosecution had on Amaryllis that made them move forward with the indictment. Skimming through his notes, he alighted upon something that had almost been lost in the influx of information.

"The prosecutor," he said, disturbing the quiet that had settled over the room. The echo of his voice rebounded off the concrete, like a startled flock of birds taking flight. "Earlier, you mentioned the prosecutor for this case. You said that they have a special reason for pursuing a guilty verdict."

"Oh, good catch." Amaryllis glanced across at him, stilling where she had been mindlessly toying with a stray lock of her hair, curling and releasing. Surprise turned the already quartz-clear pitch of her voice as bright as sunlight on a slick of ice. "I honestly thought you'd forgotten, Mr Wright."

I actually kind of did, though, Phoenix very carefully did not say, offering a noncommittal hum.

From the way that the shadows at the corners of her lips deepened, a shrewd look condensing in the curve of her irises, she knew precisely what he had been thinking.

Phoenix categorically refused to squirm under her scrutiny, feeling like a child who had been pulled into the principal's office for throwing chalk in the schoolyard. He blamed the effect on the colours of her eyes. The stark contrast could amplify any look, and was an unfair advantage.

"They were most likely selected because of their international experience, but their incentive to win- that's a little more complicated. First, they have a reputation to uphold. Second, there's that personal reason, a connection that's not particularly relevant beyond its effect on our prosecutor. Third, from what I hear, the British Embassy is exerting diplomatic pressure on the US government over this case. Any errors or oversights cannot be tolerated. Even rumours of such are unacceptable. In order to withstand international scrutiny, their case will have to be-" Amaryllis raked her teeth across her lower lip, a strange mordant mirth making her enunciate her consonants with a snap like splitting bone, "perfect. The British government won't tolerate a conviction if there is even a shadow of a doubt concerning my guilt, and I'm sure that the US has already decided that it's not worth upsetting a close ally over a poorly-handled domestic murder trial. The slightest suggestion of a mistake, and the verdict would eventually be overturned, for politics if nothing else. The prosecutor is in a position where they either win, or die. They have to obtain a conclusive guilty verdict, or the subsequent appeal and acquittal may destroy their career."

"Wow," Phoenix exhaled, shoulders dropping. "I had no idea that Britain was so protective of its citizens. They must be involved because of your dual citizenship, right?"

Amaryllis laughed.

The sound was as blunt and brutal as a sucker punch to the diaphragm, but it extracted a startlingly lovely look from her, like a scatter of petals on sun-soaked stone.

"Cute. Well, at least you have a sense of humour."

It had been a while since Phoenix had felt like he was missing something during their conversation. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. "Uh- I'm sorry?"

Amaryllis shot him an appraising look.

"Oh, you were serious."

She spoke without a trace of inflection, the kind that denoted disbelief so profound that the shock didn't register immediately.

"I- wasn't expecting that. So then, the news media hasn't picked it up yet."

"Picked up- what, exactly?" Phoenix asked warily.

Amaryllis' head flicked away. "Ah."

That, Phoenix realised with a jolt- watching her thumb at her collar, tensing in a way that he wouldn't have noticed had she not been so collected for most of their meeting- that flinch was the first time he had ever seen her looking uneasy, or even anything less than unassailable.

"Hey, whatever it is, you can tell me! Really! No judgement here, I promise," he assured her warmly, smiling through his apprehension.

"Oh, there will be," Amaryllis said with a soft huff, somehow speaking to him directly yet with the air that he was hardly even present on her periphery. "You won't be able to help it, you're American. It's completely foreign to you. Like spelling honour with a U."

"What?"

She straightened, killing whatever words had been hypothetically on his tongue with a piercing look. "I'm going to pre-empt the obvious questions. No, I am not joking, yes, I am being serious, yes, people like that still exist, no, I have not met the Queen, yes, I theoretically could. Are we clear?"

"What."

Amaryllis ignored him, which was fair- honestly, Phoenix wasn't certain he wouldn't do the same in her position- raising her head high with adamantine resolve.

"The reason why the Embassy is actively involved is because Ruby and I are both members of the British aristocracy."

Phoenix blinked.

"What."

"We are the descendants of a prominent and highly regarded noble family that helped to shape the modern justice system," she continued. "That legacy is why the British government is intervening. They are most likely demanding the anonymity of the victim and defendant until a verdict is rendered- out of respect for that history, and the heritage we represent."

Phoenix swore that he could hear the distant, ancient crackle-whine of a dial-up modem as he attempted to connect to what she had just told him.

"So," he said, the words thick as molasses in his mouth, numb as novocaine, "you're, what- the cousin of a lord, or something?"

Amaryllis' eyebrows tugged together infinitesimally. The effect fell somewhere between sympathetic and exasperated.

"No," she said gently. "Mason was an earl- the 22nd Earl of Cerensbury, 9th Earl of Reinscroft, and 13th Viscount Blakestone. Ruby inherited those titles after he died." Amaryllis paused and, as though sensing she needed a coup de grace to finally end his confusion, added, "We are one of the highest ranking extant noble families in Great Britain."

Slowly, Phoenix nodded.

"Oh."

Right. Okay. Okay, sure. Alright. Fine. Aristocracy. Highest ranking in Great Britain. Right. Fine. This is fine. This is fine.

I mean, what does that even mean, right? No need to freak out. No big deal. Who even cares? Thinking it through, that just means that I'm currently… looking at…

Ruby inherited the title.

Ruby is the murder victim.

Amaryllis is-

Does. Does that mean.

Am I looking at- am I sitting right in front of-?!

Phoenix physically felt his brain decide no thank you, that's enough for today and promptly shut down like an overheated laptop.

Somewhere very, very far away, at the entrance of the figurative rabbit-hole that his consciousness had just slipped into, he heard Amaryllis speaking casually.

"I'll give you a moment to process."

Phoenix might have gurgled out a quiet uh-huh in response.

Aristocracy. She's aristocracy. She's real-life aristocracy. As in, titles and castles and French guillotines and- I was talking to an aristocrat this entire time! Should I have bowed?! I mean, it's not as if I knew, right? She won't mind. Or maybe she will. What if she takes it as an insult? Am I even allowed to call her by her first name? I mean, she insisted, so it's fine, right? Maybe it would have been worse to say no. And it's not like she's aristocracy in America- although I guess even abroad, royalty is royalty, does that work for aristocracy?

Wait- wait, what if she's related to royalty?! She already has the British Embassy on her side, and- crap, what if I've caused an international incident?! What if I get arrested? What if the Queen of England orders that I be locked in the Tower of London because I insulted her- I don't know- second cousin-in-law or something?! How the hell did I get here?! What is my life?!

Lost in his spiral of panic, Phoenix was insensible to Amaryllis' sigh, as she began to hum under her breath distractedly.

Oh no. Maya. How is she going to react? She's never going to let this go. She'll hold this over me for the next fifty years. Like, we'll be seventy and she'll be all, hey Nick, remember that time I told you to defend a girl who turned out to be pretty much royalty? Y'know, when the Fey family powers really came through for us? (You channel the dead, Imaginary Future Maya, you're not psychic.) Yeah, so, I guess we're having burgers tonight after all, huh, Nick? Oh, fuck me, she's going to be insufferable. I may as well walk into the woods right now and live the rest of my life as a hermit surviving on berries and pine bark, giving free legal advice to hikers and becoming an urban legend. Maybe they'll even make conspiracy theories about me. This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved, we discuss the disappearance of a defence attorney who went missing after insulting European royalty, was driven insane by the realisation, and allegedly became a local myth of the Angeles National Forest.

Humming evolved into soft, almost absent-minded singing. Amaryllis' voice switched between clearer notes and darker tones, rich as a full-bodied wine- with more effort than if she hadn't been battling the strain of keeping her volume low- but her skill was lost on Phoenix, in his catatonia.

Oh, fuck, Pearls. How the hell is she going to react to me meeting a real-life lady like in her storybooks? Well, now I have to take the case, I don't want to even imagine how she'll react if she doesn't get to help- but how the hell am I supposed to persuade literal aristocracy to let me defend her?! Should I- should I kneel? That sounds about right- like, kneel and pledge my service or something? Would that be too weird? It sounds weird. It is weird. But they do it all the time in those period-piece movies. What is modern aristocracy even like? I didn't even know they were still a real thing! Do they just, I don't know, sit around in big fancy mansions drinking tea, or do they have actual jobs? And how did I not see this?! She looks so damn- regal- I probably would have believed someone if they told me she was descended from princes or something, she has that look about her, like you should be obeying her-

Something shattered through the wall of rapid-fire thoughts.

"Gwah!"

Phoenix startled with an undignified yelp. Looking around wildly, the vortex of confusion drained away, leaving him staring at Amaryllis.

Her hand was raised level with his face, close to the grate of air-holes in the thick glass. A volley of shockingly sharp finger-snaps had punctured his torpor.

"Back in the room?" She prompted, obscenely nonchalant. She seemed poised to start another salvo if necessary. "You were out for about three and a half minutes. I was beginning to worry."

"You are literally royalty," Phoenix breathed, still feeling a little hysterical under the encroaching numbness.

"No," Amaryllis said with a delicate frown and heroic patience; had he possessed the presence of mind, Phoenix would have been appreciative, and a little impressed, "I am aristocracy, there's quite a difference. It's a step lower on the hierarchy." Hand still aloft, she used it to indicate each tier helpfully. "Traditionally the class system goes royalty, aristocracy, gentry- clergy is an odd case that tends to fall somewhere between those last two, depending on their position in the Church- then everybody else."

"Okay, but are you- I mean, are you related to royalty?"

Amaryllis lifted her head, perplexed but taking the query surprisingly seriously. "I think- if I'm remembering correctly- there was a daughter from the seventeen-hundreds who married a branch member of the British royal family? And possibly a younger son who married a German princess, a hundred years prior. I'm not directly descended from either of them, however."

Phoenix promptly crumpled, like a wet paper bag.

"You're actually related to royalty," he said weakly, letting his head drop against the table, the surface mercifully cool against his forehead. Tables did not judge, he thought. Tables were indifferent to his plight. Tables did not announce that they were a high-ranking aristocrat out of nowhere. "What is my life. That's it. I'm dead. The Queen of England is gonna behead me and put my head on a pike."

"The Queen of The United Kingdom and of the Commonwealth Realms," Amaryllis corrected him tartly, lightly rapping her knuckles against the window. "And no she won't, Her Majesty has neither the constitutional power nor the upper body strength. You've had your allotted panicking time, Mr Wright, now sit up and breathe. In for seven, hold for seven, out for eleven. Rinse and repeat until you can see straight."

For lack of any better options, Phoenix followed her instructions.

"Better?" She asked, after several cycles had left Phoenix feeling a little more clear-headed.

"Yes," he said sheepishly. "I'm, uh- I'm not going to get thrown in the Tower of London, am I?"

Amaryllis' expression was as flat and cosmically indifferent as the Pacific Ocean, yet Phoenix had the feeling he was being laughed at.

"No. The Tower of London has served both as a prison and a stronghold in the past, but now it is a popular tourist attraction that happens to house the Crown Jewels. No cells available. Pentonville is a possibility though."

Phoenix went cold.

"That was a lie, relax."

He narrowed his eyes at her. She was definitely laughing at him. "This is because I spent five minutes freaking out even after you warned me, isn't it."

"Three and a half." Amaryllis ran a hand through her hair, tousling her curls and pulling them clear of her shoulders, lips curving unrepentantly.

Phoenix glowered. Mean.

"Alright, fine. Maybe I deserved that." For the sake of his needled pride, Phoenix attempted to re-rail the discussion onto a track vaguely resembling an interview. "Okay. Alright, so. Um. You said that your sister inherited the title from your father-? So she was a-" he hesitated, taking a stab in the dark, "an- earl-ess?"

Amaryllis huffed out a short, near-soundless laugh, lashes lowering, pinning down a smile.

"Countess," she corrected him, not unkindly. "Count is a rank equivalent to that of earl, which comes from the Old English jarl, a title originating from Scandinavia and surviving the Norman Conquest. Hence, because the alternative is a little etymologically clumsy, a female earl is called a countess."

"Oh. Right." Phoenix scrawled a note next to the victim's name. "So- that would make you-?"

"No one of importance," Amaryllis replied blithely. "As the daughter of an earl, I have a courtesy title of Lady Amaryllis, but it doesn't mean anything in practice."

He nodded- and drove at the one fact that had triggered his momentary breakdown.

"And what about now?"

"Hm?"

"Well," Phoenix said, tentatively, twirling his pen, "it's just that- I mean, you didn't mention any other siblings, or your sister having children. In that case, aren't- aren't you the countess now?"

The ensuing silence spoke volumes.

Phoenix watched Amaryllis' unaffected mien steadily bloom with a tint of realisation, like blood percolating in water.

"Oh. Yes. I suppose it does," she said, unreadable. "I mean, she might have tried to change the order of succession by appealing to the government, but I doubt that she succeeded. Even if they would have been willing to consider it, there aren't many alternatives. We are the last direct heirs for four generations. The closest by genealogy would be the Baskerville line, but they renounced their claim to the title decades ago. They would have to go back another two generations before they found a viable branch, through Grandmother Bea's younger sisters, but there's quite literally no one else for two hundred years who-"

She froze.

"Amaryllis…" Phoenix gentled his tone, having the feeling that it was only just sinking in.

"I am the last living direct descendant of my house," Amaryllis said blankly. There was a muted grief and horrified comprehension beneath the simple statement of fact. "The title is going to die with me."

Phoenix felt the bottom of his stomach fall out.

Family duty, she had said earlier. It wasn't something that Phoenix was overly familiar with, at least not in the way that Amaryllis spoke of it, gallant as a knight of ages past swearing their oaths on bended knee.

She had said that she held the value close to her heart, regardless of whatever others may think of her. Overnight, that duty had disintegrated into ash. The chain tethering her to that anchor and burden was gone, the links snapped and broken, leaving only her behind.

What happens to family duty, when you're the only one left? When there is no family to be dutiful to?

Words weren't nearly enough, but they were all he had. Phoenix was accustomed to using them as weapons; more rarely did he employ them as a balm.

"I'm sorry, Amaryllis."

A second passed. And then another.

Then, Amaryllis drew her shoulders back, reconstructing herself in marble, ice and gold.

"You have questions, I'll assume."

"Amaryllis-"

"It's alright, Mr Wright," she said tepidly, as though he was the one who was suffering. "You're kind, but I don't have much use for that. You may as well keep going."

Without taking his eyes from hers, Phoenix set his pen down.

It was an escape hatch, wordlessly left ajar.

Amaryllis looked back at him, unmoved.

Unable to shake the feeling that he was making the wrong choice, Phoenix reluctantly resumed the interview.

"Aristocracy, huh." He dropped back in his seat, and let himself ask something he was genuinely curious about. "What does that even mean, these days?"

"Less than you might think," Amaryllis admitted. She had recovered frighteningly quickly- Phoenix could have been imagining her raw edges, like a scoured-clean canvas, frayed hems being methodically snipped and tucked and fastened into the pretence that they didn't exist as he watched. "You have to understand, the social fabric of the UK has altered dramatically in the past century. Unlike the French or the Russians, our revolutions were largely quiet and bloodless. Nobility exists, but diminished, much like our monarchy. Not all fates were equal. Some lines collapsed entirely, others weathered the storm and remain mostly intact. Most aristocratic houses lost a great deal during the World Wars. Heirs and spares were killed in combat. Fortunes were depleted. Social mobility was increasing. The idea of aristocracy was becoming outdated and distasteful to the public, who were still suffering under rationing. Stately homes were ever more expensive to maintain due to crushing property taxes, narrow profit margins from land, and appeal of high-paid employment opportunities in the city. And as for politics- well. The powers of the House of Lords were curtailed in 1911- with the notable support of one of my ancestors- were further limited again in 1949, and exactly fifty years later, most hereditary peerages were abolished."

"Wait a second. Your ancestor argued in favour of limiting their own powers?" Phoenix said incredulously.

To his surprise and gratification, his choice to focus on that detail hooked an expression of fierce affection out of her, ardent pride in the tilt of her jaw.

"He was a very principled man. Dauntless, when it came to risking personal reputation for the sake of what he believed to be right and just. He also happened to be an esteemed criminal barrister, known and admired throughout the Great British Empire, who had some highly studied opinions regarding the law. Besides," she added, "he knew exactly what kind of men his peers were."

"Huh." Phoenix found himself envisioning a male counterpart to Amaryllis; an aristocrat of the darkly romantic Victorian era, well-mannered yet unwilling to suffer fools lightly, impervious to the outrage of his fellow noblemen and cutting them down with a graceful, ruthless wit. It was ridiculously easy to imagine. "On the spectrum of complete collapse and mostly intact, where did your family fall? How were they different from others?"

Amaryllis smirked coyly, and gave an impossibly refined shrug. "Res ipsa loquitur."

Phoenix bit down a sincere laugh. Heh, alright, he thought, not bad, Lady Amaryllis.

"Other aristocratic lines were in dire straits by the fifties. They gutted their manors, hawked the contents to the nouveau riche, sold their stately homes off by the brick, auctioned the empty plot off to property developers. Or, if they survived for long enough, they entrusted their ancestral seat to the National Trust or English Heritage, for them to preserve as icons of cultural heritage. On the other hand, Eurydice Hall may be open to visitors for most of the year, but it still belongs to us. The family has its own private wing where we remain in residence to date. And, of course, the British government is willing to act on our behalf even outside its sovereignty. Instead of clinging to hollow pride and the illusion of lasting in perpetuity, my ancestors recognised that they faced the choice of adapt or die. They made compromises, modernised, even when it was considered unstylish or undignified by le beau monde. They were willing to actively contribute to society rather than passively exploiting it, and earn the respect and esteem that other houses considered their right. It wasn't seamless, or perfect, but it was a constant effort."

Phoenix clicked his pen mindlessly, nodding slowly. "Your family remained in a prominent position, and kept ownership this property- Eurydice Hall. Ruby would be responsible for it as the main beneficiary of your father's will, right? Would that have been her main duty as the countess?"

"More or less."

"More or less?" He repeated. "You know, when people say that, they usually mean more."

"It's an oversimplification. Eurydice alone involves a complex set of responsibilities. There are the other assets to consider as well. But, it's close enough."

Instinct told Phoenix that feeding the curiosity currently gnawing away at him was a horrible idea.

Unfortunately, he was in possession of a unique variety of stubbornness that frequently ran counter to good sense, stashing him in the trunk and driving him in the opposite direction while waving a cheerful farewell to self-preservation in the rearview mirror.

"Can you tell me more about these assets?"

Catching Amaryllis' dubious look, Phoenix rubbed the back of his neck with a self-deprecating grin.

"You were right, earlier. This is pretty foreign to me. I guess I'm trying to understand. Ruby's position, and yours, that is. What you grew up with. What it really means."

Amaryllis didn't waver, patently unconvinced- but obliged with ominous alacrity. "If you insist."

Wait a second. Am I going to regret this? Phoenix abruptly recalled the smirk she had tossed him at his reaction to her Pentonville lie.

"First: Eurydice Hall. The ancestral seat, built in the English Baroque style, cousin to Blenheim Palace, Castle Howard, and Chatsworth House. Construction began in 1687, completed circa 1798. Sections have been added and rebuilt since, but the original architecture by Hawksmoor and Vanbrugh was left intact. First and foremost, the maintenance of old houses is complex and expensive. As a Grade I listed building, repairs and alterations are legally required to preserve the aspects of cultural, national and historical interest. Conservation efforts need to be timely, to prevent further damage, and completed with the necessary expertise. Next, the staff, which can be roughly split into two sets- the first deals with the tourism side, managing the principal rooms open to the public; the second is the private household, who handle the upkeep of the family wing and its amenities. There is crossover, inevitably, which needs to be coordinated. Third, there is the management of exhibits. The artefacts on display typically belong to the family, but occasionally we host temporary collections, or loan some of our heirlooms out to various museums and galleries. Naturally, this means a dedicated security system to prevent any attempted theft or vandalism, including both automated systems and human monitoring, and the infrastructure that demands. Display objects may also need to undergo periodic restoration or refurbishment, especially paintings, to repair sun-bleaching or preserve the original better."

"Sure, that makes sense-"

"Then there are the grounds," Amaryllis cut him off. "The formal landscaped gardens are extensive, and all of it is open to the general public for most of the year. The greenery needs to be maintained- the orangery and glasshouses need special attention, given the climate demands. Soil and water quality of each section needs to be monitored, trees need to be treated for disease, the fountains and water features need to undergo regular maintenance, along with all of the general upkeep and cleaning you might associate with any public park. The few dozen acres of woodland surrounding the estate needs less oversight, as the National Trust advises us on what needs to be done, but any issues regarding endangered species, lumber harvesting, maintaining power lines and pipes or environmental damage may require some meddling. Oh, and, while most of the old agricultural land was sold off decades ago, there are still a few small tenant farms that rent land from the estate, so there are some landowner duties to the families and businesses there. And then there are events that take place on the grounds- the Cerensbury Music Festival every summer, the Victorian market in the winter, along with various local farmers' markets, jousting tournaments, falconry displays throughout the year. I think there's something similar here in the States- what are they called again? Ah- medieval fairs?"

"Renaissance fairs, yeah," Phoenix replied faintly. "Only, you know- they usually get held in a muddy field somewhere. No Renaissance-era mansions where you can pitch marquees on the front lawn."

"And no historical accuracy, I presume."

"Absolutely none."

Amaryllis hummed, a low, musical note flowing from the back of her throat, lustrous as gold.

"Anyway, where was I? Ah, right. I almost forgot about the vineyard and winery."

"Wait," Phoenix attempted to interrupt, aghast, "there's more?!"

She ignored him. "It operates as a separate business from the central estate, but it's still owned by the family. There's a fair amount of labour involved- cultivation of the vines, selections of the blends, ageing of the vintages, marketing, wine tastings, tours. The stables operate similarly. They're smaller than they used to be, but horses can get to places on the estate where motor vehicles struggle, so we keep a few, and it supports a local riding school. The family also has investments in racehorses, so when they retire, they come to us."

"Whoa, okay, that is a lot-"

"And then we have the Orpheus."

"Seriously-?! Okay, you're just doing this deliberately now-"

"Orpheus House used to be the main London townhouse," Amaryllis continued, feigning ignorance, "until one of the previous earls decided it was too large for purpose and, quote, obnoxiously ostentatious, and converted it into a hotel. Quite clever, actually- he turned a financial liability into an asset, even if it caused a scandal amongst le bon ton. The family retains majority ownership of the Orpheus, and keeps a penthouse apartment suite on the top floor. The other townhouse, Clement House, is smaller, and closer to the modern definition- tall, narrow, terraced, with multiple floors- they call them brownstones in NYC, but I don't know if they're different on the West Coast. Anyway, it's rented out most years and pays for itself, even as it undercuts average housing prices in the City. The Orpheus apartment is used when staying in London, and comes with the benefit of room service. Oh- I almost forgot Blostham House. It's the other country manor, in Reinscroft. Similar deal as Eurydice but on a smaller scale, and minus the vineyard and farms. As for the rest: various stocks and investments, some being over two hundred years old, some as recent as Grandfather Richard's work. That's everything, in a nutshell."

Phoenix glared at her. "You would need an industrial car compacter to crack that nutshell." Amaryllis ducked her head for a second, stifling a laugh, shoulders shaking, lower lip drawn between her teeth. "I think you just described fifty different job descriptions in one."

Amaryllis lifted her head, running her fingers through her fringe and letting it fall back into place. "You asked. And it sounds that way because it is. Don't misunderstand. It is a great deal of work, but you must realise that Ruby doesn't handle all of it personally."

"Wait," he said, train of thought sputtering to a halt on its tracks, "she didn't?"

"Of course not." Amaryllis said evenly. "She has people working under her, with the expertise to handle their division- estate manager, steward, major domo, head groundskeeper, accountant, stockbroker, manager for the hotel, the winery, the stables. As precious as she was about the estate being hers, even Ruby realised that if she tried to handle everything herself, she'd only run it into the ground by the first financial quarter. Delegation is necessary. When done efficiently, all you have to do is take reports once every so often, and grant or refuse permission when an executive decision is required. Mason was able to maintain a full-time career as an architect on the continent when he was earl."

"But," Phoenix inferred, "not your sister?"

The twist of her mouth was slight, but terrible. "No. Not my sister."

There was something dark in her intonation- leaving Phoenix with a lingering unease, the kind that accompanied shadows at night and the phantom sensation of something poised to strike from behind.

"Countess of Cerensbury is the sum total of everything she wanted to be. She would never dilute her identity with anything else."

That made Phoenix wonder. For all that Amaryllis had been candid about their relationship, he knew almost nothing about Ruby- not even from Amaryllis' biased, limited perspective. Aside from the importance she had placed on her inheritance, and how she appeared to have hated her younger sister until recently, that comment was as close as he had come to hearing something substantial about who Ruby Steele was.

"What was she really like?" He found himself asking. "Ruby, I mean."

Amaryllis considered him at length, eyes never flicking away from him.

"Mercurial." She eventually settled on. "A moody, jealous, delusional, brittle-tempered, self-centric brat." Amaryllis shook her head, eyes closing and fingertips skimming across her browbone, as though warding off a headache. "Most of the time, she reminded me of those child-kings of old- a stunted sense of empathy and too much power, playing at being an adult and throwing tantrums at every little inconvenience. When it came to the family motto, I think she read as far as the part about leading. She is the worst type of selfish, with an ego like a black hole."

Sounds like your antithesis, Phoenix thought, taking in the young woman before him, her flares of emotion leashed so firmly that it made his limbs ache, an old soul in a young body, who had chosen duty over grudges. It's like you consciously decided one day to be the opposite of everything she was- actually, it would make sense if that's exactly what happened.

Taking a deep breath, artificially chilled air sparkling through his lungs, Phoenix set down his pen, and closed his notebook with the soft snap of paper upon paper.

"Alright. I think I have a decent understanding of the case for now," he said, clipping the notebook shut by its clasp. "I'd like your permission to investigate the crime scene, if I could."

"I have the strangest feeling that you're going to investigate whether I say you can or not."

Phoenix refused to balk. Crap. Busted. Oh, well- may as well be honest about it. "Well, it would be a lot easier with your permission than without," he said lightly, offering up a grin brimming with guile.

Surprisingly enough, it worked.

She flicked her fringe out of her eyes with a sigh. "In that case, I have a condition." Amaryllis unfolded one arm from across her chest, opening her hand expectantly. "I'll need two sheets of paper- and something to write with, if you would."

Phoenix blinked, before quickly realising that he probably wasn't going to negotiate a better deal.

"I, um- I have a generic letter of request template, if you-"

"I know how to write one."

"R-right, of course."

Retrieving two sheets of loose-leaf paper from his bag, Phoenix unlatched the slot at the bottom of the viewing window- installed for the exchange of documents and small items, under the watchful gaze of the guards on duty- and posted them through, along with a spare pen.

"Attorney badge number?"

"Oh, uh- 26381."

Amaryllis began writing, penning the concise letter of request as though she had done it a thousand times, dating and signing it with a flourish.

"This isn't me accepting your services," she said, taking the second blank sheet. Even upside-down, her handwriting was visibly better than Phoenix's- not exactly a stretch, he acknowledged, but there was something oddly charming about the broad loops and swooping stems against the tight, concise spacing, a contradiction of refinement and extravagance. It was like she was trying to contain a natural theatrical flair that bled out of her in whatever way it could.

It's kind of cute, actually. I guess she really is just sixteen, after all.

… A sixteen-year old countess and murder suspect.

"Call it provisional permission," Amaryllis continued, interrupting the thought before it could spiral out of control. "In exchange- there are certain things I can't do, at the moment. I'd like you to go to my apartment, retrieve something, and deliver it to one of the crew members before the end of the day. If she's as predictable as she pretends she isn't, she'll still be at the Eclipse, guarding her creations, so it's not as though you'll be going too far out of your way. And getting on her sweeter side may benefit your investigation. You should be able to request my apartment keys from holding, since they confiscated my personal effects when I was taken into custody."

"Right, got it." Phoenix was irrationally reminded of a summer blockbuster he had seen trailers for recently, where a broke college student and part-time bike courier takes a suspiciously high-paying delivery job, and finds herself entangled in a gang war because of her cargo. Come on, Wright, get a grip! It's not like it's going to be a brick of cocaine or stolen nuclear launch codes! "I can do that."

"I know you can, Mr Wright."

Oh-kay. Why does that sound vaguely threatening?

"Only vaguely?" Amaryllis questioned, a teasing smile glowing through the mock-consternation like the sun behind a gossamer veil, as she slid the papers back through the slot. "Seems I need to work on that."

"Huh?!" Phoenix started with a strangled noise, realising that he must have mumbled his thoughts aloud. "Oh, n-no! That wasn't- I mean, don't mind me," he said, forcing an awkward laugh and a nervous grin. "Just, uh, thinking about- something. Um, something else!"

Amaryllis bit the corner of her lower lip, amusement creasing the outer corners of her eyes, their conflicting colours gleaming.

Determinedly, Phoenix pretended not to notice, crisply folding the signed letter of request into thirds, tucking both it and Amaryllis' note into the inner breast pocket of his blazer.

Standing and gathering his notebook and satchel, he paused. "I really think you're innocent, you know."

"Do you, now." Amaryllis sounded unimpressed.

"Yes." He buckled his satchel closed, slinging it over his shoulder. "And like any lawyer worth their salt, I have proof to support my assertion."

She raised an eyebrow and leaned back in her seat, re-crossing her legs- humouring him.

"First," Phoenix settled into the cadence of his courtroom arguments, "there's the way you talked about the victim."

"There are few who would call my comments a resounding proclamation of innocence."

"Maybe, but they'd be missing the finer details. My mentor told me something, once," he said. Amaryllis hadn't moved from her seat, leaving Phoenix standing above her for the first time since he had stepped into the room. "How someone talks about something is just as important, if not more important, than what they say. Murderers rarely refer to their victims in the present tense. Psychologically, they have closure. For those who knew the victim in life, though, it takes a while for the knowledge to sink in. They'll often talk about the person as if they're still alive. They don't even notice." Phoenix smiled humourlessly. "Like- Ruby is a brat. Ruby is the countess. Ruby hates me. Not, Ruby never forgave me- but, Ruby has never forgiven me. See the difference?"

His words cascaded off Amaryllis like water off an oilskin.

"Well, that was underwhelming. The second?"

Ouch! Come on, that was good! "There is one more thing," he said nonchalantly, adjusting the straps of his back across his shoulders.

Phoenix waited for her to take the bait.

Amaryllis stared at him blankly.

He shifted on his feet.

The moment was beginning to stretch thin.

"Wait." Amaryllis' eyes narrowed. "Are you pausing for dramatic effect?"

"What- no!" Yes, but then you went and ruined it! "I was waiting for you to ask what the second thing was!"

"I already did," Amaryllis pointed out. "You just faux-casually said well, there was one more thing, like you were Columbo or something, then stood there staring at me expectantly."

"Wait, you watch Columbo?"

"Stop deflecting," she said sharply. "If you're going to be extra and attempt dramatics, work on your execution. And get an understanding of effective setup. I'm embarrassed for you."

Phoenix faltered, her remark landing like a punch to the diaphragm. His mouth worked silently for a moment, trying to voice a defence that his brain wasn't supplying- before giving up, exhaling deeply.

"It's your lashes."

"Excuse me?"

"Your eyelashes," Phoenix clarified, suddenly weary. "They're still wet."

Amaryllis lifted her eyes to the ceiling briefly, as though trying to catch a glimpse for herself.

"I'm sure they are," she agreed easily. "I splashed my face with water this morning, to wake myself up and get the last of my makeup off."

Phoenix stared her down.

It didn't have the sound of an outright lie, but rather a tactical employment of the truth, to obscure whatever she didn't want him to see. She may well have done exactly what she said. But a brief rinse was not responsible for the unique spikey quality of her lashes, damp as though saturated and soaked for hours, instead of wiped dry in seconds.

"You're good," Phoenix said with a slight shrug, "really, you are. But I don't buy it."

Amaryllis smiled coldly. "What makes you think I am selling? Oh," she added, cocking her head, "and you call that proof, by the way? It barely qualifies as speculation. Perhaps I had the right idea refusing your services, just for the wrong reasons."

"The courtroom has its standard of proof," Phoenix said, a hand slipping into his pocket, the hem of his jacket gathering around his wrist, "but, as a defence attorney, so do I. When I'm meeting a client, it's a simple litmus test: can I trust you? That's all. And I think I can. So I think I can believe in your innocence."

"Trust." Amaryllis tasted the word, experimental. "I've always thought of trust as being like a mirror."

Phoenix blinked, intrigued. "How so?"

"In some cultures, mirrors are symbols of divine wisdom," she replied. "But I can't help but think that what we choose to trust in is just a reflection of ourselves."

A distant memory shimmered at him, like a stone at the bottom of a river, treasured and painful, its perception subtly warped by time. A classroom, a desk, set apart as an island in the ocean. Tears that wouldn't stop flowing, cold as spring. Accusing voices on all sides and crushing in and making him think maybe I should just apologise, if it'll make the stop.

Then two voices speaking up, relief, the knowledge that he wasn't alone, the brand of thief lifting from his skin because you can't prove that, stop ganging up on him, he didn't do anything wrong, he doesn't have to apologise, leave him alone.

"Maybe you're right," Phoenix admitted softly. "Well, anyway. I have my reasons. And it's my trust to give, right?" He sent Amaryllis a warm smile that he felt in his chest, akin to a year's worth of sunshine stored up inside. "I should head out and start investigating now. I'll come back later, and update you. I hope you'll have changed your mind by then."

Amaryllis sighed. A faint smile touched her lips, but it was one of exasperation and grim resolve.

"As you please, Sir Icarus."