Midlife Blues - Victoria Danann Page 0,13
office would not be well-served by a person who actually believed she was the ‘most important soul in the building’.
When I turned the corner so that the cathedral-sized courtroom came into view, I could see that it was packed. So much so that the most creative of engineers couldn’t have devised a way to get more people inside, unless they were given permission to rearrange the VIP seating enjoyed by high-ranking members of the seven fae monarchies in attendance. These roughly, though not precisely, corresponded to territories known in modern times as England and Wales together, Ireland, Scotland, Scandinavia, France, the Germanic Commonwealth, and Italy. My jurisdiction included Slavic regions, but since they weren’t named in any cases on the docket, they’d chosen to stay home.
A hefty, red-headed man in full kilt, plaid, and bonnet drew my attention when he pounded the floor with a walking stick as tall as himself and announced in a loud, clear tone, “All rise. Court is in session.”
I supposed that was the fae version of “Here come da judge.”
As we passed the Celt, Lochlan said, “Well, Hen, I see you’re wearing the warrior tartan today.”
“The mornin’ brought a feelin’ with it, lad. And MacLeods are always prepared.”
“Prepared for a fight, you mean.”
The big man shrugged to indicate that went without saying.
Hundreds of people getting to their feet all at once was noisy, but voices were absent from the sound. All attendees seemed to know that “all rise” meant get up and shut up. To my surprise. I half-expected a revolt in the form of, “You expect us to get to our feet for her? Seriously? Go get the real judge.” But no such protest was in evidence.
The faces turned toward me were openly curious, but not unfriendly so far as I could tell.
If I had to sum up my overall first impression of the crowd in one word, it would be easy. Costumes. They were colorful as Bourbon Street at Mardi Gras and fashionable to a fault; so long as you put the fashion in context of the era it represented. The long-lived fae clearly had individual preferences for clothing styles across the spectrum.
Togas, medieval robes, belle epoch hats and multi-layered dresses, psychedelic SoHo hotpants, ripped jeans and bandanas (thanks to a misunderstanding that the Guns N’ Roses signature look was cool and not poverty), and everything in between. It looked like a choose-your-fashion-moment themed party and I wondered if I was going to be able to focus on matters before me with such a spectacle assaulting my undiagnosed ADD.
My own style choices wouldn’t be up for the gossip mill because of the magistrate robes and thank goodness, because I was wearing my favorite running shoes underneath. The hem of the robe was just long enough to cover everything, but not drag on the floor. Brilliant design!
Today my priority was not fashion. It was calm and authority.
I once knew a tennis player who told me that half the game was about the cute outfit. She said, “Get the right clothes and you’ll feel like you can win.” I’ve since found that sentiment generalizes to just about everything in life. For instance, on this occasion, a pair of old, ratty-looking sneakers made me feel strong and steady.
Plus, it never hurts to know you can run if you need to.
I took my seat, which was as comfortable as if it had been custom designed for my tush, and pressed the wolf’s head medallion against my palm. My chair was on a riser, which put my head higher than every other person in the room and looked out over the room. My eyes were first drawn to Maeve, possibly because she was a familiar, if not entirely friendly, face. She was seated in the seat nearest the bench, in the first row of the Irish gallery with people who bore a striking family resemblance.
Lochlan’s writing surface was to my right, more or less an extension of my workspace, except that it was stepped down, on a lower dais. He stood and began speaking. “Now comes before the court, the Bureau of Behavioral Oversight versus Pais Alexilia of House Sforza.”
I glanced at Keir, who sat a few feet away to my left. His body language indicated boredom, but he was alert as a hawk on the hunt and watching the crowd like he was trained by the Secret Service.
I looked down at the two tables on the floor in front of me, three or four yards away. The