This they had not expected. Cecelia could hear her lawyers shifting on their seats. She hoped they would keep quiet; she knew, if she could only figure out a way to communicate it. First the easy signal, the “yes” for “Yes, I understand.” Then—she formed the list in her mind, and began spelling them into the synthesizer input. “B.e.c.o.n. I.n.v.e.s.t.m.e.n.t.s.” Pause. “M.e.t.a.l.s. a.n.d. h.e.a.v.y. i.n.d.u.s.t.r.y.” Pause. “Forty-seven point six—” the synthesizer handled numbers more easily than spelled words. “p.e.r.c.e.n.t.” Pause. “E.q.w.i.n. f.o.u.n.d.a.t.i.o.n.” Pause. “Eighty-five p.e.r.c.e.n.t.” Pause. Laboriously, she spelled on and on, seeing in her mind’s eye the logos and prospectuses and annual reports of the various corporations, partnerships, limited and unlimited companies, in which she had once (and should still) have an interest.
“Excuse me, Lady Cecelia,” the magistrate interrupted, when she was halfway through trying to explain that she had an undivided fifth of an eighth part of the great mining venture on Castila. She stopped short, suddenly aware that her back ached, sweat had glued her blouse to her back, and she had no idea how long she’d been “talking.” His voice now held the respect she hoped for. “That’s enough; I can see that explaining this is a laborious process with the communication system you now have. Clearly, however, you do know your holdings; I’ve no doubt you could complete the list, but there’s no reason to put you through it.”
“Objection!” The opposing lawyer’s voice sounded more resigned than hopeful. “She might have been given the list to memorize; it could even have been programmed in . . .”
“Overruled. This court sees the effort Lady Cecelia is making; this court believes that effort is hers. I have only a few more questions, ma’am. For the record, I want to ask why you willed your yacht to your captain of a short time.”
“She . . . saved . . . my . . . life.” Those words were in the synthesizer; she had insisted on that phrase, but had chosen to leave it as separate words which she would have to call out one by one. “On . . . Sirialis.”
“Ah.” Under the magistrate’s satisfied word she heard a datacube clattering on the opposition’s table. She realized then that Heris must not have mentioned that little escapade. Some of her resentment vanished. If they thought it was just a whim . . . I have a right to my whims, she told herself. Still, whims could mean loss of judgment. With no reason given at all—and she had not wanted to embarrass her captain by mentioning the reason in the will—her family had had only the worst reasons to consider. Ronnie should have told them, but perhaps they hadn’t listened to the family scapegrace. “And I presume, Lady Cecelia, that you need access to your assets in part to pay for your rehabilitation and further treatment.”
“Yes.” And to return to her own life, and to control her world again, though she couldn’t say it. Yet.
“If you please—” That was her family’s lawyer; she recognized a last-ditch strain in his voice. “I’m sure Lady Cecelia’s family would be glad to pay whatever medical expenses she has incurred or may incur—”
“Objection!” Bunny’s lawyer. “Her family incarcerated Lady Cecelia in a long-term care facility where she was given no effective treatment—”
“They were told there was none!”
“Which turned out to be untrue, as you can see. Lady Cecelia must be free to choose her own treatment, since her choice has already been shown to be better than her family’s abuse and neglect.”
“Gentlemen!” The magistrate’s gavel, twice. “Enough squabbling. It is clear to this court that the individual seated here is in fact Lady Cecelia de Marktos, that she is not comatose, that she is in fact fully oriented as defined by law, that she is aware of her business interests, and capable of communicating her wishes and orders to her chosen agents, and that her medical status is not stable, but evolving toward increasing ability. Moreover, she is capable of giving rational explanations for her actions in the past and present. She is, quite certainly, legally competent. As you all know, in this very unusual circumstance, it is not possible to overturn an Order of Guardianship completely with one hearing. However, as of this date I order that Lady Cecelia’s Order be transferred to Court supervision, pending final revocation. Also as of this date, Lady Cecelia regains her access to all her accounts, wherever they are; I order that her family give this Court a complete listing of all such accounts by the end of this business day. Notification of financial institutions will begin immediately. Within thirty days, I expect a complete accounting of the Guardianship to date; at that time I confidently expect that a subsequent hearing will restore Lady Cecelia’s status in all respects. From this date, the family is not to make any decisions respecting Lady Cecelia’s holdings without her express permission, given through this court. I will expect Lady Cecelia to name a legal representative of her choice to whom she will assign power of attorney for the purpose of transacting business until her condition improves.”
Cecelia felt as if she could float out of her chair and up to the ceiling. Around her, rustles and scrapes and carefully muffled mutters indicated the legal actors reacting to the verdict. She pressed the keyboard and the synthesizer said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Now,” her lawyer said on the way back to the house, “Now you can start living again.”
Cecelia let herself sink into the cushioned seat. Living again? This was far better than a few months ago, but she’d hardly call it living.
“Of course there’s a lot of busywork stacked up,” he went on. She knew what that was—medical and legal bills, that Bunny had guaranteed for her, but that she would now need to authorize. “It won’t take too long,” he said, in the tone that business people used when they meant less than a week. “As soon as the accounts are accessible again—tomorrow, probably, for the local lines, and within a week for the others. I don’t expect the . . . other side . . . to make any trouble about it.” From a firm with long experience in dealing with prominent families, he was not about to bad-mouth her relatives, even now. It had all been a matter of business, he had assured her. Nothing personal, just the need to keep the family assets from evaporating in a crisis.
Now, with her credit restored, with the ability to pay her own bills, and choose her own medical care, she was surprised to find herself as angry with her family as ever. She still didn’t think it was only a matter of business; there had been some satisfaction at seeing the renegade brought low . . . and while Berenice and Gustav had not actually done the deed, they had consented to the humiliation she’d suffered far too easily. She longed to stride into Berenice’s parlor and tell her sister exactly what she thought.
With that thought, she realized that in restoring her legal competence, the magistrate had unwittingly told her attacker she was alive, dangerous, and—worst of all—where she was. Panic stiffened her; she fought to reach the keyboard which, in the car, was out of her reach.
“What? What’s wrong?” He was smart enough to hand it to her, and hit the power switch.
“L.o.r.e.n.z.a. w.i.l.l. k.n.o.w. I.D. w.i.l.l. g.o. a.c.t.i.v.e.”
“Oh . . . dear.” From the tone of his voice, he understood the problem. He should. “But—it’s automatic when legal status is restored. At least she won’t know where you are; that’s not part of the system . . .” She waited impatiently for him to figure it out. “Except—she knows your sister. No doubt your family told everyone about this hearing.” Yes, of course. And worse. She had respected the king’s desire for secrecy; she had not told anyone at all what she knew about the prince. She was now sure, though she had no proof, that Lorenza had provided whatever it was that made the prince stupid. If Lorenza panicked, and started picking off Cecelia’s relatives on the grounds she might have told them something, she might soon be the only person who knew about the prince.