Midlife Blues - Victoria Danann Page 0,21

like a tween whose curfew had been extended.

Lochlan returned to his place at my side and said, “Queen of the French fae. Dames Blanches, of the House of Guivre.”

I looked at the small beauty who’d leapt and squealed. “Dames Blanches. Congratulations. You have the honor of bestowing the phoenices with protection. If you’re successful, yours will be the first plaque attached to Tregeagle.” She smiled and did that bow of the head thing, barely able to contain her pleasure. “Do you require any sort of assistance from the court to fulfill your task?”

“Assembly of the phoenices, Your Honor.”

I nodded and turned to Max. “Can this be arranged?”

“I believe the phoenices will be happy to cooperate, Your Honor.”

After nodding acknowledgement, I let my eyes drift over the others. “We will go in order. When a situation arises requiring a service that only you can perform, the next queen in rotation with be given the option to accept the challenge. If the next in line isn’t present, you may have a proxy answer for you. Otherwise, we will go on to the next on the list. If the first to accept the honor isn’t successful, the task will fall to the next in line. My clerk will keep a faithful record along with the guidelines just specified. Thank you for volunteering your services. In addition to being admired and obeyed, you’re also going to be adored.”

I suspected none of them had ever considered that there might be value in being adored, but if I was any judge of women, they liked the sound of that and were rapidly being converted to the prospect of service.

When they made no move to leave, Lochlan almost whispered, “You’re free to return to your respective galleries.”

I leaned over to Lochlan and lowered my voice. “How should I address Keir?”

“Sephalian,” he whispered.

“Gote Murelli,” I said in my new judge voice.

“Yes, Magistrate.”

“Your client is free to go, but will be expected to report to the bureau tomorrow morning for duty.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Is it your intention to represent the person who disrupted my court?”

Gote Murelli looked at the man being pressed to the floor by Keir’s paw, then back to me. “Yes, Your Honor?”

“Are you uncertain?”

Murelli looked at the Italian contingent, apparently got confirmation, and said, “Yes, Magistrate.”

“Very well. Sephalian!” I called out with confidence and no hint of the way I’d address the beautiful beast privately when he would share my bed later, in his other form, of course. “Release this person to Gote Murelli.”

Keir immediately transformed into his two-legged self and walked away.

The man began struggling to his feet, looking red-faced and humiliated. Perhaps that was enough of a punishment, but a message needed to be sent about what was to be expected in my court.

Murelli rushed over to help him up, but was brushed off with impatience and a distinct lack of gratitude. I watched as Murelli whispered something close enough to be understood by his second client of the morning.

As the two made their way to the defendant’s table, I looked at Max and said, “Your part of this case is concluded, Ombudsman.”

Max stood, half bowed, smiled, and said, “Thank you, Your Honor. It was an honor.”

“Flattering the judge will not be tolerated, Counselor.”

He smiled in a way that suggested he knew his way around femmes.

If I wasn’t taken in the most satisfied way imaginable, I’d be game. He gathered up his old, tattered, leather satchel, his swagger stick, and walked the center aisle toward the exit like he held the deed on the grandiose structure.

“Lochlan.” I said in a low voice. “What sort of fine would be appropriate for an outburst and a pejorative?”

He pursed his lips and said, “In the past, a typical fine would be two hectares of land for the disruption, one for the pejorative.”

“Land?” I cursed myself for having made a mental note a hundred times to ask the question about what happens with fines and never following through. I certainly had intended to arrive with this knowledge. I blame Keir’s eyes and abs and tongue. “Where does it go?”

“It goes to the collective.”

“What does that mean?” I was getting impatient. “We don’t have all day.”

“This is a longer conversation,” he said, “but in short, land is created by the queens as reward. If a fine is assessed, the land returns to, em, nothingness, as if it didn’t exist.”

I pulled back and indulged in staring straight ahead while I tried to process that. “Wow.” I know. Ever articulate. “Under what