A crowd of lawyers, newspapermen, and the gawking curious loitered on the steps. Most were men, and she felt their eyes turn to her before she was halfway up the stairs. They moved aside, letting her pass, until she was at the grand entrance to the courthouse. Above the doors, a sculpture of the archangel Michael stared down at her in bas-relief, his flaming sword of justice raised high overhead. The avenging angel was a stark reminder of who she was and how much she, half-Fallen, did not belong within these hallowed walls. A sliver of doubt wedged its way through her careful armor and into her heart.

“Fortis, Celeste,” she murmured to herself, Abraxas’s Latin lingering on her tongue.

One deep breath, and she walked through the doors. She ducked under the arm of a man in a gray day suit who was arguing with the deputy guarding the entrance. She half expected the deputy to stop her or a ward to sound and reveal her subterfuge, but the lawman didn’t even look up.

The noise rose by an order of magnitude inside. Attorneys, clerks, and men with badges packed the lofty space, going about the regular business of the court. Their voices echoed off the stone walls and marble floor, creating a deafening cacophony. She tried not to react to the aural assault as best she could, but it was impossible not to catch snippets of gossip as she passed.

“… murdered in bed…”

“… body mutilated…”

“… no doubt the wicked deed of that Fallen she-devil…”

She slowed at that last remark, realizing all the gossip was about Mariel. She tried to listen more, but the man who had said it, red side whiskers jutting from below his bowler hat, caught her looking. His eyes were a watery blue and narrowed in suspicion. Cold gripped the back of her neck like the touch of something sinister, and she quickly turned away.

Only to collide into the back of a woman.

“Goodness!” the stranger exclaimed, turning to face Celeste. She was young, surely no older than Celeste, and dressed in a daring unbustled skirt and shirtwaist with a smart black tie.

“Pardon.” Celeste offered her a smile as apology.

The woman returned it, her quick eyes darting over Celeste. “Grace Walter,” she said, introducing herself. “Reporter for the Goetia Daily Howler.”

Celeste knew the Howler. It was one of the less reputable dailies in town, leaning more toward gossip and sensation than sober news, but she preferred it over the more staid Herald, so when Grace offered her hand, Celeste shook it.

“Celeste Anant.” She used her father’s name. At first, she had thought not to, but why shouldn’t he be of use for once? Grace looked at her expectantly, as if all names were accompanied by occupations, so Celeste said, “I’m here about a legal matter.”