She had wanted to be here, she reminded herself. She had wanted to see him squirm and quiver under the stern eye of the law, but she had forgotten his panache, his absolute certainty in his divine right to behave as he saw fit. Grace had stilled her tongue in part to forget language and the sound of speech, but the sight of him brought his voice into her head as if she were back in their home, watching him fix his hair in her bedroom mirror.

“Appearances are everything, Grace,” he had said. “As long as no one suspects something, it didn’t happen.”

“Appearances are everything,” she whispered to herself now, as he shared a laugh with his defense team. If he had a shred of doubt as to his own victory he would not show it. Grace’s breathing evened out. “That works both ways, Father,” she said quietly.

“What was that, Madeleine?” Adelaide asked.

“I asked what happens now?” Grace said.

“Ah, well, today are the opening statements and if we’re lucky, the prosecution presents their case. With Pickering aiming for the death penalty it could go into more than one day if there’s a lot of cross-examining. You may change your mind about wanting to be here. I guarantee you with the heat, half this room files out by lunchtime. It’s all fun when we’re speculating from the comfort of our homes about sex and murder, but when we’re smelling each other’s stenches while the coroner goes on about body temperatures and timetables it loses most of its shine.”

Adelaide was right in some respects. The facts of the case were presented from both sides, each with their own interpretation. That Jenny Cantor was dead could not be denied, and Atkinson—a small man with a full head of white hair—made much of the tragedy of that fact. But that his client was the one that murdered her, the very presumption of accusing an outstanding citizen of such a crime was an outrage in itself.

Beside Grace, Adelaide huffed into her fan. “Sorry, old boy,” she muttered. “But the grand jury charged him. They don’t do that on whims, you know.”

Grace leaned to speak to her friend, irritated by how easily their assertion of her father’s innocence had ruffled her. “I almost think he believes what he’s saying.”

“He believes what he’s paid to believe,” Adelaide said.

The prosecution kept their opening statement brief, saying only that the facts would speak for themselves, and that Nathaniel Mae’s public facade was very different from the real man, whose dark appetites were only now coming to light.

After that the prosecution called its first witness, the coroner.

“I knew it,” Adelaide said to Grace. “This will take us straight up to lunchtime and boring as bull piss.”

So it was. Adelaide was right in that the coroner shared his opinion about the effect of temperatures on the body, the behavior of viscous blood, and so on, until even Grace lost interest, allowing her gaze to be drawn instead to the faces in the crowd. People shifted, eyelids drooped, and someone even passed gas at one point, which brought a hearty laugh from those around him. It was the most interesting part of the morning, and Grace found herself dozing on Adelaide’s shoulder, sweat running down the inside of her stays as Adelaide shook her awake.

“Madeleine, they’re breaking for lunch. Mr. Turner has offered to bring us lemonade. Some enterprising youths have set up a stand on the courthouse steps. They’ll be millionaires by week’s end. Shall we contribute?”

Grace nodded eagerly and Turner returned with sandwiches as well, offering to hold their seats if they wanted to eat theirs in the fresh air.

“Mr. Turner must be rather taken with you,” Grace said as they sat on the grass, the breeze a blessing on her face now that she could have her veil up. “He’s going to a lot of trouble for our convenience.”

“I don’t dislike him,” was all Adelaide said.

“High praise from a Thornhollow,” Grace said, her attempt at a light tone failing miserably. “I’m sorry for falling asleep. What did I miss?”

“Nothing, as I suspected. Facts about bodies and blood that no one but another doctor could make head nor tail of. I’m sure the jury was quite flummoxed. Then Mr. Atkinson went after the coroner like a terrier at a croquet match, but even that was rather boring. In the end, the only thing we learned is that the poor girl lay dead in the snow for quite some time, and it could have been during the time when your father was in town.”

“Sounds rather anticlimactic,” Grace said.

“It was, but they pulled their hooks out of the coroner, and I guarantee you the entertainment bar is raised a bit higher after lunch with all these women on parade. Oh, and by the way, I’ve changed my mind.”

“On what?”

“I think I would very much prefer to thump your father before my brother. I’ll sit through eight days of old coroners to see that smug smile wiped off his face.”

“Let’s hope it happens,” Grace said, her stomach fluttering as she tossed the dregs of her lemonade into the grass.

She put her veil in place as they pushed their way back into the courtroom and to Mr. Turner’s side just as the judge was returning. The crowd settled with the banging of his gavel, eyes bright and attention reawakened after the break.

The women whose names and faces Grace had scavenged her memory for were called one at a time, although there were notable absences. Not all of them would take the stand against a powerful man, no matter what he had done to them. Society faces she recalled from brighter days stonily recounted unwanted advances, pressed too far. Mrs. Vivanti, a regal woman who had once been their neighbor, testified, her voice chilly as each word dropped like ice from her lips. Her eyes never left Mae, and though her tone was controlled, the rage that burned under them reached for Grace as well, threatening to ignite her own wrath.

The concise sentences of the society women melted into the wary voices of servants roughly mistreated, then dismissed. Through it all Grace remained calm beneath her veil, too aware that her own control must be complete for the last, most dear face.

“Call your next witness,” the judge ordered the prosecution.

Mr. Pickering stood, cleared his throat, and said, “The prosecution calls Elizabeth Martin to the stand.”

Elizabeth entered the courtroom on a storm of whispers. People stood on tiptoe, some pointing, and Grace swelled with pride as her friend walked to the stand with her head held high.

“She looks rather nice in that dress,” Adelaide whispered to Grace. “I ordered that print special from New York City. Sets off her hair nicely. You’d never guess she’s crazy.”

“Maybe she’s not,” Grace said.

Adelaide tapped Grace’s arm with her fan. “She is to everyone else in this room.”

After Elizabeth was sworn in she stated her name and residence, murmurs going through the crowd at the mention of the insane asylum, which quieted immediately when the judge glanced up.

“All right, Miss Martin,” Pickering said, “I want you to tell the jury what you’ve told me.”

“The jury?” Elizabeth asked, her voice so quiet the court descended into a dead calm.

“Those people right over there,” Pickering said, pointing.

“Oh, all right,” Elizabeth said, a sweet smile breaking over her face. “Um, hello.”

More than a few of the jurors smiled back. One raised a hand in greeting.

“She’s golden,” Adelaide said, but Grace didn’t hear. Her hands were crushing each other in anxiety for her friend, whose childlike innocence was no playact.

Elizabeth looked back to Mr. Pickering. “Where should I start?”

“With the night of the reception, if you please.”

Elizabeth looked back at the jury. “All right, the reception.” She cleared her throat. “There was a reception up at the asylum for Mr.—I’m sorry—Senator Mae when he was here in town. We’ve got the loveliest ballroom, you see, and the food isn’t half-bad, either.”