It's a couple of minutes before five when Simon emerges from his office. "No sign of Ben?" he asks. I start to answer before realising that he's talking to Jamie.

"None yet. No messages since you last checked, either."

"I'm probably going to be working a couple more hours. Research taking longer than I expected, and it has to be done by start of business tomorrow. I'll take a short break here now, though, catch up with the others when they appear."

"Got it. I'll lock up as normal when it hits five?"

"Sounds good. Hi, Tallulah," Simon says, turning to me. "Tara tells me you've found a case?"

"I have." But if he's busy already and taking a break, then now probably isn't the best time to tell him about it.

"She seems to think this idea of yours is a good one." He steps across the room towards me.

I pause for a second, trying to read his tone. "And you don't?"

It's his turn to hesitate as he slides into the chair next to mine. "I think it's a good idea for a case like this to be brought by someone. I don't know if it's a good idea for us – the firm – to be the ones doing it."

"Can I ask why?" I have some idea of the reasons he might think that, but having it spelt out seems like it would be helpful.

"Of course you can. Let's see… one, no-one here specialises in Malaina law, even if Tara knows a fair bit and Ben's been learning a lot about it recently. Two, the publicity. We're not ready to deal with that, either, and the amount of additional work that it would mean… there's only so many sleepless nights a man can deal with. Three, it might well escalate to levels that would put us in danger. And four…" He stops.

"Four?" I prompt after a few moments.

"Work and family drama don't mix well. I don't know all of what's happening between you and your dad, and I don't need to, but I don't want it interfering in the business of Roberts and Bryant. And taking on this case seems like it would cause that."

I grimace.

"Look, I know this seems like the best option for you. But if you really want to do this, I think you'd be better off looking for another firm."

"It's not quite that simple." The words spill out of me. What he says feels like a rejection, and that hurts. "I – I know you, I trust you. Let's say I can find someone else, who does specialise in Malaina law, and can deal with the publicity. Half of them won't give me the time of day, because I'm a child and I'm Malaina myself. And even if they would listen… how do I know they'll want to do it for the right reasons? Not just to use me to get closer to the Blackthorns, or move against them?"

"I hadn't considered that," Simon admits. "But I don't think it changes anything. I have to do what's best for the firm, Tallulah."

"So you're saying no?" I can feel tears stinging the back of my eyes. I can't cry, not here.

He sighs and stares at me for a long moment.

"If you are, please just tell me that. I – "

"Simon, we can make this work." Tara emerges from the corridor leading to the offices and glides across the floor towards us, already in full flow. "It's risky, but if fighting for justice was easy – "

"Everyone would do it. I know. But that doesn't mean we're the ones who have to – "

"If not us, then who?"

"Tara – "

She lets the silence linger. Jamie breaks it by crossing the room to the door that leads to the street and flipping the sign from Open to Closed.

Simon sighs. "You're just like Ben sometimes, you know. All the noble intentions in the world aren't going to do us any good if one of us says the wrong thing in court because we don't have the knowledge we need, or if one of us has a mental breakdown because the pressure is too much. Better that we fight the battles we can fight."

"You haven't read the case," Tara says.

"You're saying that if I did, I would feel differently?"

"I did," is all Tara says.

"I won't have time until tomorrow afternoon, and even that's pushing it."

"Can I help?"

"Well, if you feel like doing an extra hour's work this evening…"

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Tara considers for a moment. "I could do that, yes. We should probably wait for Ben to get back first, though. Seems like the hearing ran long?"

"I don't know about you all," says Jamie, "but I have a dinner this evening to get ready for."

"With that girl of yours, no doubt," says Simon, smiling. "All right, if everything's in order then go and enjoy your evening."

"I will. Thank you." Jamie hurries out. I feel myself relax; I hadn't noticed until then quite how tense I was in the presence of someone who clearly didn't want me in the same room as them. But I've dealt with it without causing any more problems, which feels like a victory right now.

"All right, Tara," says Simon, "you help me out this evening and I'll read the case. But I'm not promising anything."

"You don't have to," says Tara. And that's another victory, though I'm not the one who's won it.

But Simon's objections are valid, and making this work will mean finding ways to address them. There's not much I can do about his first point, and while the publicity and associated danger can be mitigated they can't be entirely prevented.

Which leaves the fourth point. My dad.

It would be awkward at best if he was pouring hours of his time into this project despite his own opposition to it, and there's definitely the potential for conflict between us which could cause problems for Roberts and Bryant. Could cause problems for the two of us.

Do I really value this project more than I value my relationship with my dad? No. But giving up the project for his sake wouldn't fix the relationship. I have to admit to myself that I'd resent him for it. And he still wouldn't accept my new reality, and I still wouldn't trust him with all my dangerous secrets.

What would fix things, though?

That is not a question with an easy answer.

My dad arrives at about five and ten, just as I'm beginning to worry that he's been delayed by something more than the hearing overrunning. "Evening, all," he says. "Thanks for waiting."

"Not a problem," Simon says. "Tara and I are working late anyway."

"If you need me to stay – "

"No," say Simon and Tara at the same time.

"We've got it covered."

"Go do something nice with Tallulah."

"How did the hearing go, first?"

My dad shrugs. "Granted conditional bail."

"That's great," says Tara. "All credit to your doubtless excellent work!"

"It was the sensible outcome regardless."

"You say that as if most judges are sensible," Simon says. "Well, nothing much to report on our end. We'll update you properly tomorrow."

My dad doesn't know about the case I've found, I realise. And neither Simon nor Tara seems inclined to tell him right now. I can't blame them.

"Tallulah? Ready to go home?"

I still can't think of the apartment as home in any sense beyond the place where I happen to be sleeping. Maybe that will change over the next few weeks, or maybe it won't. "When you are," I say, standing.

We don't talk much on the way back. I suppose my dad must be trying to leave his work mode. That, or he just doesn't want to talk to me. Because he knows the most likely topic of conversation.

I'm having that conversation in my head, over and over again, trying out different phrasings and emphases. How do I persuade him to support this project, genuinely support it rather than going along with it resentfully? How do I persuade him to accept the person I've become and the life I'm building?

What scares me the most is that the answers to those questions might not be the same. That I'll have to choose.

Well, that and the scroll I was given at the library, tucked safely away inside my bag.

"How was your day?" I ask when I can't stand my own thoughts any longer.

"Fine."

Maybe that wasn't the best choice of conversation topic. Ages ago, before I gave up asking, he used to give me that sort of answer. I don't know if it was too complicated to explain to my younger self or if he just wanted to leave the work at work.

I search for a follow-up question, but I can't think of one for a few seconds, and then the silence is back and it feels too awkward to make a second attempt at breaking it.

The apartment still seems unfamiliar when I walk into it, down to the sofa with my dad's blankets spread over it that makes me feel another stab of guilt for throwing him out of his own bed. Even if he volunteered and insisted, it still doesn't seem right.

He sighs as he steps inside. It isn't the sigh of someone finally letting themselves unwind behind closed doors; I can't quite tell what emotion is behind it, but it's not a good one.

"Is something wrong?"

"No – no. Just I suppose I still haven't got used to having to make my own dinner when I get back."

Because my mother cooked for the three of us most of the time. Say what you like about her, she's a very capable cook. I wonder if he misses her, and then squash that thought. "I'll cook."

He raises a sceptical eyebrow. I can't blame him. I am not a very capable cook, I've never enjoyed cooking, and I'm not quite sure what impulse led me to volunteer my services.

But it feels right, in a way. A sort of penance, peace offering. "What were you planning to make? I'll do that. It's fine, I know what I'm doing." I'm lying through my teeth. Most schools teach cookery, but Genford assumed that its young ladies would have servants to do the work of running a household for them and taught them no such skills.

My dad knows that. "Let's do it together."

I can't argue with that, and so that's what we do. I regret offering as soon as I begin methodically slicing vegetables. I just want to be alone to unfurl that scroll, not having to go through the motions of being a helpful, dutiful daughter. But go through those motions I do, and my dad at least seems to appreciate my efforts.

Between the two of us we've soon produced a stew far more edible than anything I could have concocted alone, and eating it together feels more comfortable than it might have half an hour earlier.

"Will you be okay on your own tomorrow?" he asks.

"Don't worry about me."

There's tension for a second before he seems to brush it aside. "Got anything planned?"

I shrug. "Plenty of rest. Might wander around the city. Go to the library. Not sure yet."

"You didn't mention your project."

"I didn't think you'd want to hear about it." Have I said the wrong thing? Did that seem disrespectful?

He doesn't take it that way. "I'm not sure I do. But it's important to you."

It's half a statement, half a question. I hesitate. I can't really hide it from him, but some part of me still wants to. I say it regardless. "I've found a case."

His face is carefully blank for a second. "Can I read it?"

"I – do you want to?"

"Maybe if I do, it will help me understand."

"Then I'll fetch it for you once we're done." I can't work out what he's thinking. I'm not sure even he knows what he wants to do. And the least I can do is give him the space he needs to decide.

So we finish eating, wash and dry the dishes, and then we retire. Him to the blanket-covered sofa and the story of a boy called John who was too inconvenient to live, me to the room that should be his and a scroll with mysterious contents.

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