It's a couple of minutes before five when Simon erges from his office. "No sign of Ben?" he asks. I start to answer before realising that he's talking to Jamie.
"None yet. No ssages since you last checked, either."
"I'm probably going to be working a couple more hours. Research taking longer than I expected, and it has to be done by start of business tomorrow. I'll take a short break here now, though, catch up with the others when they appear."
"Got it. I'll lock up as normal when it hits five?"
"Sounds good. Hi, Tallulah," Simon says, turning to . "Tara tells you've found a case?"
"I have." But if he's busy already and taking a break, then now probably isn't the best ti to tell him about it.
"She seems to think this idea of yours is a good one." He steps across the room towards .
I pause for a second, trying to read his tone. "And you don't?"
It's his turn to hesitate as he slides into the chair next to mine. "I think it's a good idea for a case like this to be brought by soone. I don't know if it's a good idea for us – the firm – to be the ones doing it."
"Can I ask why?" I have so idea of the reasons he might think that, but having it spelt out seems like it would be helpful.
"Of course you can. Let's see… one, no-one here specialises in Malaina law, even if Tara knows a fair bit and Ben's been learning a lot about it recently. Two, the publicity. We're not ready to deal with that, either, and the amount of additional work that it would an… there's only so many sleepless nights a man can deal with. Three, it might well escalate to levels that would put us in danger. And four…" He stops.
"Four?" I prompt after a few monts.
"Work and family drama don't mix well. I don't know all of what's happening between you and your dad, and I don't need to, but I don't want it interfering in the business of Roberts and Bryant. And taking on this case seems like it would cause that."
I grimace.
"Look, I know this seems like the best option for you. But if you really want to do this, I think you'd be better off looking for another firm."
"It's not quite that simple." The words spill out of . What he says feels like a rejection, and that hurts. "I – I know you, I trust you. Let's say I can find soone else, who does specialise in Malaina law, and can deal with the publicity. Half of them won't give the ti of day, because I'm a child and I'm Malaina myself. And even if they would listen… how do I know they'll want to do it for the right reasons? Not just to use to get closer to the Blackthorns, or move against them?"
"I hadn't considered that," Simon admits. "But I don't think it changes anything. I have to do what's best for the firm, Tallulah."
"So you're saying no?" I can feel tears stinging the back of my eyes. I can't cry, not here.
He sighs and stares at for a long mont.
"If you are, please just tell that. I – "
"Simon, we can make this work." Tara erges from the corridor leading to the offices and glides across the floor towards us, already in full flow. "It's risky, but if fighting for justice was easy – "
"Everyone would do it. I know. But that doesn't an we're the ones who have to – "
"If not us, then who?"
"Tara – "
She lets the silence linger. Jamie breaks it by crossing the room to the door that leads to the street and flipping the sign from Open to Closed.
Simon sighs. "You're just like Ben sotis, you know. All the noble intentions in the world aren't going to do us any good if one of us says the wrong thing in court because we don't have the knowledge we need, or if one of us has a ntal breakdown because the pressure is too much. Better that we fight the battles we can fight."
"You haven't read the case," Tara says.
"You're saying that if I did, I would feel differently?"
"I did," is all Tara says.
"I won't have ti until tomorrow afternoon, and even that's pushing it."
"Can I help?"
"Well, if you feel like doing an extra hour's work this evening…"
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Tara considers for a mont. "I could do that, yes. We should probably wait for Ben to get back first, though. Seems like the hearing ran long?"
"I don't know about you all," says Jamie, "but I have a dinner this evening to get ready for."
"With that girl of yours, no doubt," says Simon, smiling. "All right, if everything's in order then go and enjoy your evening."
"I will. Thank you." Jamie hurries out. I feel myself relax; I hadn't noticed until then quite how tense I was in the presence of soone who clearly didn't want in the sa room as them. But I've dealt with it without causing any more problems, which feels like a victory right now.
"All right, Tara," says Simon, "you help out this evening and I'll read the case. But I'm not promising anything."
"You don't have to," says Tara. And that's another victory, though I'm not the one who's won it.
But Simon's objections are valid, and making this work will an finding ways to address them. There's not much I can do about his first point, and while the publicity and associated danger can be mitigated they can't be entirely prevented.
Which leaves the fourth point. My dad.
It would be awkward at best if he was pouring hours of his ti into this project despite his own opposition to it, and there's definitely the potential for conflict between us which could cause problems for Roberts and Bryant. Could cause problems for the two of us.
Do I really value this project more than I value my relationship with my dad? No. But giving up the project for his sake wouldn't fix the relationship. I have to admit to myself that I'd resent him for it. And he still wouldn't accept my new reality, and I still wouldn't trust him with all my dangerous secrets.
What would fix things, though?
That is not a question with an easy answer.
My dad arrives at about five and ten, just as I'm beginning to worry that he's been delayed by sothing more than the hearing overrunning. "Evening, all," he says. "Thanks for waiting."
"Not a problem," Simon says. "Tara and I are working late anyway."
"If you need to stay – "
"No," say Simon and Tara at the sa ti.
"We've got it covered."
"Go do sothing nice with Tallulah."
"How did the hearing go, first?"
My dad shrugs. "Granted conditional bail."
"That's great," says Tara. "All credit to your doubtless excellent work!"
"It was the sensible outco regardless."
"You say that as if most judges are sensible," Simon says. "Well, nothing much to report on our end. We'll update you properly tomorrow."
My dad doesn't know about the case I've found, I realise. And neither Simon nor Tara seems inclined to tell him right now. I can't bla them.
"Tallulah? Ready to go ho?"
I still can't think of the apartnt as ho in any sense beyond the place where I happen to be sleeping. Maybe that will change over the next few weeks, or maybe it won't. "When you are," I say, standing.
We don't talk much on the way back. I suppose my dad must be trying to leave his work mode. That, or he just doesn't want to talk to . Because he knows the most likely topic of conversation.
I'm having that conversation in my head, over and over again, trying out different phrasings and emphases. How do I persuade him to support this project, genuinely support it rather than going along with it resentfully? How do I persuade him to accept the person I've beco and the life I'm building?
What scares the most is that the answers to those questions might not be the sa. That I'll have to choose.
Well, that and the scroll I was given at the library, tucked safely away inside my bag.
"How was your day?" I ask when I can't stand my own thoughts any longer.
"Fine."
Maybe that wasn't the best choice of conversation topic. Ages ago, before I gave up asking, he used to give that sort of answer. I don't know if it was too complicated to explain to my younger self or if he just wanted to leave the work at work.
I search for a follow-up question, but I can't think of one for a few seconds, and then the silence is back and it feels too awkward to make a second attempt at breaking it.
The apartnt still seems unfamiliar when I walk into it, down to the sofa with my dad's blankets spread over it that makes feel another stab of guilt for throwing him out of his own bed. Even if he volunteered and insisted, it still doesn't seem right.
He sighs as he steps inside. It isn't the sigh of soone finally letting themselves unwind behind closed doors; I can't quite tell what emotion is behind it, but it's not a good one.
"Is sothing wrong?"
"No – no. Just I suppose I still haven't got used to having to make my own dinner when I get back."
Because my mother cooked for the three of us most of the ti. Say what you like about her, she's a very capable cook. I wonder if he misses her, and then squash that thought. "I'll cook."
He raises a sceptical eyebrow. I can't bla him. I am not a very capable cook, I've never enjoyed cooking, and I'm not quite sure what impulse led to volunteer my services.
But it feels right, in a way. A sort of penance, peace offering. "What were you planning to make? I'll do that. It's fine, I know what I'm doing." I'm lying through my teeth. Most schools teach cookery, but Genford assud that its young ladies would have servants to do the work of running a household for them and taught them no such skills.
My dad knows that. "Let's do it together."
I can't argue with that, and so that's what we do. I regret offering as soon as I begin thodically slicing vegetables. I just want to be alone to unfurl that scroll, not having to go through the motions of being a helpful, dutiful daughter. But go through those motions I do, and my dad at least seems to appreciate my efforts.
Between the two of us we've soon produced a stew far more edible than anything I could have concocted alone, and eating it together feels more comfortable than it might have half an hour earlier.
"Will you be okay on your own tomorrow?" he asks.
"Don't worry about ."
There's tension for a second before he seems to brush it aside. "Got anything planned?"
I shrug. "Plenty of rest. Might wander around the city. Go to the library. Not sure yet."
"You didn't ntion your project."
"I didn't think you'd want to hear about it." Have I said the wrong thing? Did that seem disrespectful?
He doesn't take it that way. "I'm not sure I do. But it's important to you."
It's half a statent, half a question. I hesitate. I can't really hide it from him, but so part of still wants to. I say it regardless. "I've found a case."
His face is carefully blank for a second. "Can I read it?"
"I – do you want to?"
"Maybe if I do, it will help understand."
"Then I'll fetch it for you once we're done." I can't work out what he's thinking. I'm not sure even he knows what he wants to do. And the least I can do is give him the space he needs to decide.
So we finish eating, wash and dry the dishes, and then we retire. Him to the blanket-covered sofa and the story of a boy called John who was too inconvenient to live, to the room that should be his and a scroll with mysterious contents.
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