Not now, not ever." The morning of the hearing, Clara braided her own hair. She stood at the small mirror in the hallway and did it the same way she'd done Lily's three sections, left over middle, right over left, keeping everything equal. It was the only ritual she had that felt like steadiness. And she needed steadiness this morning more than she'd needed anything in a long time.
She heard Lily on the stairs behind her. "You're doing it right," Lily said. "I learned from a good teacher," Clara said. Lily came and stood beside her, looking at their two reflections in the glass. Then she reached up and took the ribbon from her own hair, the blue ribbon, the one from her mother's drawer, and held it out to Clara.
Clara looked at it. "Lily, wear it today." Lily said, "Mama always said a woman should wear something that means something when she's doing something hard." Clara looked at the ribbon in the child's hand, at the seriousness on that small face, at the weight of what was being offered. She took the ribbon.
She tied it at the end of her braid. Lily looked at her in the mirror and gave a single nod, satisfied. "Now you're ready," she said. Clara put her hand briefly on the child's face. "Yes," she said.
"Now I am." The county courthouse in Harland Creek was the most substantial building in town. Two stories of brick that the community had built 12 years ago with the particular pride of people who want to signal that law matters here, that this is a place with standards. The hearing room on the ground floor held 20 people comfortably and 40 uncomfortably. And that morning it held closer to 60 because word had traveled the way word always travels in a small valley, fast and thorough and not entirely accurate, but close enough that everyone understood the shape of what was happening.
Ethan walked in with Clara beside him and Beckett just behind. And the room did the thing rooms do. When the people they've been talking about walked through the door, it went quiet and then tried to pretend it hadn't. Clara walked to the front without looking left or right. She had learned that trick years ago.
When you're the woman, everyone has decided something about you. Don't look for their expressions. You look at where you're going. You keep your chin level. You let them think what they're going to think.
And you go do the thing you came to do. She sat down. Ethan sat beside her. His arm was an inch from hers, and he didn't move it away. Margaret Caldwell was already seated on the opposite side, composed and straight-backed in a dark dress that was impeccably fitted.
She had a lawyer with her, a man from the county seat named Aldis Marsh, known for being expensive and effective, which told Clara that Margaret was taking this seriously in a way she hadn't initially planned to. Beckett leaned over and said quietly, "Marsh, being here is good news." "How?" Clara murmured. You only hire Marsh when you've got something to protect.
He said she wouldn't pay for him if she wasn't worried. Clara filed that away. The magistrate called the room to order a man named Horace Webb, 60-ish with reading spectacles and the air of someone who has presided over enough human disputes to have stopped being surprised by any of them. Beckett opened for their side. He was methodical and clear.