“And if it doesn’t?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that just means this is the wrong way to go about it. I’ll keep trying to think of other approaches, too.”

“Are you really sure it was only a day, Lara?”

“Of course. Why?” Lara looked up with a frown to see Kelly studying her with an odd expression.

“Because you’ve always been quiet and shy. The only thing I’ve ever seen you strongly opinionated and decisive about is clothing. And here you are acting like”—Kelly shrugged a shoulder and smiled—“a superhero.”

Lara glanced down again, half wanting to hide herself in the paperwork. “Yeah, I know. It’s partly that I was so scared in the Barrow-lands just in those first few minutes, Kel. I had to pretend I was brave so I wouldn’t completely fall apart. And then dealing with Emyr, I kept having to stand my ground, and it keeps getting easier.”

“Well, that’s good. I think that’s good. You’re going to need all the confidence you can get your hands on when we go to court. In the meantime …” Kelly drained the corn and plonked spoonsful onto the plates, then slopped tartar sauce down beside the fishsticks. “In the meantime, a delicious repast prepared by yours truly, and you can spend the next week or two honing your truthseeking skills by finding the worldbreaking weapon.”

More accurately, it seemed, she could spend the next week or two giving herself headaches trying to find the worldbreaking weapon. It seemed extraordinary that being called into court could be a welcome relief, but Marjorie Oritz’s call that Dafydd had been granted a hearing was the first time since she’d come home that Lara felt a surge of real hope.

For a woman who couldn’t get taken on for jury duty, she had spent a surprising amount of time in courtrooms recently. One, true enough, had been Emyr’s palace court, but if he were to be considered the judge there, he was a far less forgiving one than the woman who presided over Dafydd’s reentry hearing. She, at least, had a glint of humor behind her expression of distaste for the array of petitioners gathered in her courtroom.

Lara knew she made a good impression: her boxy-shouldered, short-sleeved dress was of a classic style, popular for its elegance and its practicality in the summer heat. It lent her slight form a degree of determination, making a statement that she wasn’t a victim. The judge would very likely see it as just that, but Lara had thought it an important effort to make, regardless.

Dozens of other people were gathered as well. Lara’s mother was there, watching Dafydd with an open curiosity that Lara doubted had been present any other time they’d been in each other’s company. Kelly was at Gretchen Jansen’s side, and Dickon Collins was at Kelly’s. Worry niggled at Lara when she glanced Dickon’s way: he had tread very lightly around Lara the time or two she’d seen him over the past two weeks. It would take Dafydd to prove herself to Dickon, and whether Dafydd would be willing to do that remained unknown.

Cynthia and Steven Taylor were there as well. Cynthia looked astonishingly adult in tailored gray, while Steve maintained an expression of reassuring calm. Beside them, on the courtroom aisle, sat Detective Reginald Washington, whose off-the-rack suit looked uncomfortably hot and ill-fitted compared to the tailors at his side.

Unexpectedly, parole officer Rich Cooper was also there—though after his comment about being turned inside-out by questioners after her disappearance, Lara supposed she ought to have expected his attendence. She might, after all, let slip some detail of where she’d been, instead of the mysterious refusal to discuss it that she’d left him with.

Dafydd himself looked better than he had in prison. He still had nothing of the vitality Lara was accustomed to seeing in him, but he seemed stronger. His suit had been purchased for him hastily, rather than taken out of storage. Lara breathed a promise to herself that he would soon enough be free, healthy, and returned to the gorgeous clothes of his home court.

Lawyers, security, and a court stenographer were there, but un-alarming. It was the reporters gathered in the room who made Lara’s heart palpitate with nervousness, and she was grateful there were no cameras allowed within the courtroom itself. The bailiff called for order and the judge leaned forward, elbows on her desk as she brought her forefingers together to point accusingly at Lara.

“I’m given to understand that you’re here to petition David Kirwen’s return to polite society, young lady.”

“Yes, your honor.” The title came much more easily to Lara’s lips than “your majesty” had, and she schooled her expression, certain that laughter wouldn’t stand her well just then. “He didn’t kidnap me, and he certainly didn’t kill me. There’s no reason for him to be incarcerated.”

“Yes, so I understand. And yet you’ve given no one any explanation as to where you were for the past …” The judge made a show of tipping her wrist and examining her watch, as if it had a calendar of all the days Lara had been missing. “Seventeen months, three weeks, four days, I believe?”

“Seventeen months, one week, and four days, your honor,” Lara said with a touch of asperity. “I’ve been back two weeks now, after all.”

“Don’t get hoity with me, young woman. You’ve cost the state a remarkable amount of money in terms of manhunt hours, nevermind the cost of incarcerating a man you claim has done you no harm. One more remark like that and I’ll present you with a bill for our time.”

Lara inclined her head sheepishly. “Sorry, your honor.”

“As well you should be. Well, Miss Jansen.” The judge waited until Lara raised her eyes again, then spoke acerbically. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to provide some sort of explanation for disappearing so thoroughly and frightening the wits out of your friends and family. I would be delighted if it encompassed the reasons Mr. Kirwen opted not to speak in his own defense at his indictment, if he’s not responsible for your disappearance.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t. I said he hadn’t kidnapped me.” Lara reached for the confidence she’d developed over the past weeks, pushing away the embarrassment that had briefly overtaken her. She couldn’t afford to be mild, not when she had nothing but unpalatable truth on her side. She had to make them believe, regardless of the cost.

The judge’s eyebrows lifted. She glanced from Lara to Dafydd, then turned a thin-lipped, sharp smile back at Lara. “Do go on. We’re all abated waiting to hear the details.”

“Your honor.” Lara took a breath, then steadied her voice as she met the judge’s eyes. “Your honor, you wouldn’t believe me.”

Truth rang through the words, making them sharp enough to cut. Fanciful phrase, Lara thought, but even it had precision to it: it was as though the truth, forced into being spoken aloud, actually made the air clearer, made it ring and shape the world. She heard it, and so, clearly, did the judge, whose face went lax, a telling show of surprise before the muscles around her eyes and mouth tightened again. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to let me be the judge of that, young woman.”

Lara swallowed and deliberately opened her hands, refusing to make them fists. It took concentration: everything took concentration, even breathing, but it was only with that effort she felt she could invest her words with truth. And she had to be believed; she, who had spent a lifetime hearing the truth, had to make it heard now. Anything else would be insufficient; anything else would lead to Dafydd’s exposure, and that was not a risk she was willing to take.

But she could do it. Her talent had stretched well beyond where she’d once imagined its boundaries lay. She remembered the nightwings, destroyed with a prayer, and drew on the strength of belief and voice she’d had then.