it. We feel that it is in the best interests of the Guild and the accused to confine this case within the walls of Highland Castle.”
“We need to discuss this in my chamber. This is not something that can just be—”
“I propose it now,” Judge Sanchez says coolly.
“And I favour it,” Judge Jackson agrees.
“And I oppose it,” Bosco says, bewildered. “She is just a child.”
“She will be eighteen in six months, and she is being held away from the other detainees. Only one other accused is in the same chamber as her, an eighteen-year-old detainee, which is the best we can do given the circumstances.”
Bosco is speechless.
“And so it is passed. Celestine North will return to her holding cell for the duration of her trial.” Judge Sanchez bangs the gavel against the block and looks smug.
The room erupts.
Mr Berry stares at Bosco in stunned silence, while the rest of the room is in constant movement, spinning.
“How can this happen?” Mum is asking Mr Berry, who is so still it is as though he can’t hear her. She grabs the arm of his suit, which is pin-striped with pink fine lines. “How could you let this happen?”
“There’s something going on,” he says, more to himself, but I hear him.
He looks at me, and there is a crack in the smooth exterior. I see pity in his eyes, and that, from him, terrifies me. “I’m sorry, Ms North. It appears even Judge Crevan’s enemies have decided to use you as a pawn in their game.”
When I return to the holding cell, covered in I-don’t-know-what was thrown at me on the return journey, Carrick immediately jumps up. He is as surprised to see me as I am to be back here. I am dazed and confused. Tina guides me into the cell. I have already said goodbye to my parents. Carrick follows me all the way from the door to my bed, the entire length of the cell. For the first time since I got here, he demands my attention. Even though this is what I’ve wanted since I saw him, I can’t look at him. He wants an explanation. Everybody thought I’d go home; everybody thought I’d get away with this. Carrick thought he knew the rules, but the rules changed. He needs to know what is going on more than anyone else. If I am doomed, then so is he.
I can’t be bothered to give him an explanation. I don’t have one. I feel completely numb. I sit on my bed, staring into space, still feeling his eyes on me. He stands at the glass, two hands pressed up against it, almost ordering me to look at him. I want Art. I need Art. Only he could make everything all right, right now. I lie down and turn my back to Carrick, and I don’t move all night, because I don’t want him or anyone else to see me cry.
After a night of nightmares, of hearing that man in the Branding Chamber screaming in anguish, of dreaming of bleeding tongues and of ghoulish Flawed reaching for me and grabbing at me from the barricades as I walk through the courtyard, I wake up feeling exhausted and scared, confused as to where I am. It is the day that I will testify on my own behalf. The day I tell Bosco’s lie. It is Naming Day.
I’m awake at five am, lie still until five-thirty and then get up, pacing like a caged animal waiting for everything to commence. Carrick wakes at six and lies in his bed, sleepily watching me from under his blankets. After a while, he sits up, back against the wall, knees raised, elbows resting on his knees, already familiar with this routine. This frustrates me even more. There is nowhere I can escape him, apart from the small toilet, but I can’t spend any amount of time in there longer than necessary. I’m sure they’ve made it the size of a hole for a reason.
At eight am Tina and Funar come to our cells, and we are guided to the showers. I expect Carrick to ignore me as he did most of the day yesterday, but he gives me a light nod, and there’s something softer behind his eyes. Perhaps I’ve gone up in his estimation in not being sent home yesterday, and I understand. I have always felt that he and I are in this together, ever since I saw him walk into the holding cells. For him, it took about eighteen hours to agree. Even in all the times I woke up during the night, afraid and disoriented, I looked across at Carrick and immediately felt oriented. He was the trigger to calm me, nothing else in the room. I don’t know if having someone of his build on my side is simply wishful thinking. I know this connection seems so intense over such a short period, but I feel as though I’m in a pressure cooker, and he is the only person in it with me who could possibly understand. Experiencing it at the same age only adds to that connection.
I smile a good morning, and he holds out his hand to let me walk ahead of him. Funar whistles lightly, childishly, a whit-whoo, and Tina tells him to shut up. I smile and look behind me quickly to catch Carrick’s reaction. Not so much a smile as a light behind his eyes. Maybe they’re green. Our eyes meet to share the joy of Funar’s embarrassment at being silenced, and then I quickly turn back to follow Tina. I feel self-conscious that Carrick’s behind me, and I’m also hoping we’re not being taken for another “lesson”. I guess that we’re not, seeing as Tina is here, and I wonder if I should tell her what happened yesterday when she was upstairs, or if I should suck it up as Carrick has done. Perhaps there are rules in bravery. If so, I will follow Carrick’s lead.
He’s taken left; I go right. After the shower, I dress in fresh clothes and I’m taken back to my cell. Carrick is already in his cell, sitting at a table with a dumpy man in a tattered suit. Carrick’s hair has a shine to it, still wet, and he looks freshly shaven and is in a new sludgy-green T-shirt. I’m sure Mum would have chosen something else, something warmer, to bring out his eyes, whatever colour they are, but I like it. It’s like he’s a soldier, because it strikes me that he’s not looking for clemency, he’s looking for a fight. I study him when he’s not looking, to see what colour his eyes are. I don’t know why I’m obsessing over this. I suppose it’s because Art’s are so clearly blue. You see them before you see him. They’re one of the things I love most about him, whereas with Carrick, his eyes seem black, but they can’t possibly be. Perhaps his pupils are just constantly dilated from anger.
The dumpy man in Carrick’s cell has a red, flustered face, and it looks like breathing is a difficult act for him. He rifles through papers. They’re talking and it’s intense, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. The man is explaining something. He is hot and bothered, and Carrick’s face is angry already.
My door opens. It’s Tina.
“Who’s he?” I ask.
“His adviser.”
I notice she never uses Carrick’s name.
“But I thought he was representing himself.”
“He is, but he still needs assistance. Paperwork to be filed, et cetera. Paddy is his mentor. You would be sent one, too, but you have Mr Berry.”
I look at Paddy, who seems like he’s about to
