Midlife Blues - Victoria Danann Page 0,14

parties to the suit made their way forward and took their places.

“All present?” I asked in a clear and commanding tone that surprised the fool out of me.

The table to my right was occupied by a young woman with exceptionally sharp cheekbones, who might’ve been beautiful if not for the haughty and superior expression on her face. The unbidden comparison to Natasha Fatale from Rocky and Bullwinkle flitted across my consciousness. She was accompanied by an elderly man, who was exceptionally short of stature, but clothed in a charcoal-grey, Italian silk suit; the sort worn by human mob bosses.

The occupant of the other table was a man who was extraordinarily handsome even in a room peopled by flawless fae. He had dark mahogany hair that curled around his temples and collar, and piercing, intelligent blue eyes. He looked like he’d been dressed by John David Weir, in jodhpurs, boots, and a black knit sweater over a white collared shirt. He’d come forward with a briefcase and a swagger stick, which he laid across the table in front of him. I supposed that if anyone could get away with carrying a swagger stick, it would be him. In unison with the man I’d already dubbed “Tony” in my head, he said, “Yes, Magistrate.”

“Both parties are represented?” I asked. They answered in the affirmative. “Fine. The two of you approach the bench, please.”

When they stood directly in front of me, I said, “And you are?”

Swagger stick said, “Maxfield Pteron, Ombudsman for the Bureau of Behavioral Oversight, Eurys Ops Division, Your Honor.”

“That’s quite a mouthful. Give me something brief by which to call you.”

He looked down momentarily, seeming surprised by that question. “Max?”

“Sure. Done. You’re representing the aggrieved party?” He looked uncertain about how to answer. “Don’t be bashful, Max. Just say what you want to say. It’s just the three of us here at this sidebar.”

“Very well, Your Honor. I have no wish to give offense.”

“Noted.”

“But technically, I’m representing the bureau, which is bringing matters to your attention on behalf of several aggrieved parties this Court Meet.”

“A fine distinction. Understood. So, you’ll be a regular fixture.” I turned to the other man. “How about you?”

“Gote Mazza Murelli,” he said, in a voice so gruff I had to listen carefully to understand. “Representing the House of Sforza.”

“Mr. Murelli,” I began, but stopped when he cleared his throat. “Did I get your name wrong?”

“It’s Gote Murelli, Your Honor.”

I made a mental note to ask Lochlan where to look in my book for Gote Mazza Murelli. “Very well. Thank you for the correction. Now I’d like to offer one of my own. House Sforza is not a party to this proceeding. The pais sitting at the defendant’s table is your client. True?”

He looked uncomfortable with the distillation and seemed to be conflicted about how to answer. He glanced toward the gallery where Sforza royalty was seated before saying, “That is true, Your Honor.”

I glanced down at the brilliant red of his raw, silk tie. Nothing absorbs color with intensity like silk. “I like your tie.”

The man glanced down like he’d forgotten what he’d put on then back up again. As his hand slid lovingly down the red tie from top to bottom, his eyes dropped to my medallion. “Nice jewelry,” he said.

I allowed a ghost of a smile in response before shifting my attention to Max. “Where is your client, Ombudsman?”

“Technically…”

“Don’t make me impatient, Max. Overuse of the term ‘technically’ has all the necessary ingredients for trying my patience and prejudicing the case brought by you and…”

Max’s eyes widened slightly. “Me and…” He dragged that out like he was searching for what I wanted. “The phoenix?”

“Yes. If you don’t like the word client, how do you want to describe your relationship to the creature you’re representing in this hearing?”

He nodded slowly. “I see no reason why client won’t do.”

“Good. Then we’re agreed. Where is it?”

“The bird?”

“Yes, Max. The bird.”

“She is far too shy to agree to appear in front of a large gathering. And her emotional state is… fragile.”

He’d made a point of assigning gender to his client with an emphasis that said he resented my use of “it” as a pronoun. I was certain he was right to correct me on that, but just as certain that it would be unproductive to allow the familiarity of too many corrections. I was already making a mental list of tightrope walks that came with the job.

“How do you know?”

“How do I know?” he repeated, sounding quite