Ivy emerged into the Wizengamot looking just as exhausted as she felt. The mug of coffee and hairbrush she begged off her guard had done little to improve her appearance; she'd been in prison three days, and had not slept properly, merely lay with her face towards the wall on her cot as each centuries-long minute sluggishly rolled by.

On the morning of the third day time played more tricks with her and sped up. It seemed as if she had just opened her eyes from the briefest moments of rest when all of a sudden Bram was there, and he was speaking words of liberty to her, and the course of her future was changed from one of lifelong imprisonment to ultimate justice for That Man, and an instant later she was being pushed along through the depths of the ministry towards her trial. She didn't understand all that Bram said--what was a fourth unforgivable? What people were taking a stand against him? What was he involved in?--but she did understand that at last, at last, her Kendra was safe. She could tell the court everything.

But now that she knew she could tell all, the words had evaporated from her brain. She had no bloody idea what she was going to say, or if she even had the strength to confess. Ivy walked to the center of the courtroom with a guard on either side of her and wondered just how much strength she had. As she glanced around the courtroom, she saw how packed full it was, and a panic almost completely foreign to her welled up in her gut. And there, out of the corner of her eye--

Don't look at him. Don't look at him.

She tried to ignore That Man's presence, but she could feel his gaze, she could feel its hatred and smug triumph in every bone in her body as she walked across the room. She almost stumbled as she was pushed into a chair in the middle of the room and chained in—the feeling of chains around her arms and legs made her shudder as much as Garrow's gaze did—but then she felt another set of eyes on her. Irish eyes.

Grac a Misneach. Have courage.

With an almost superhuman effort she pushed down her panic. She glared at the guards and yanked her arms out of their grasp defiantly. She was a hit witch; they were practically her employees. Why should she bow her head to them?

Then the wizengamot began reading the charges against her.

“Ivy Ballantine, you have been brought before this court on the basis of....”

Item after item after item. The panic welled up again, a tsunami built by years of abuse and subversion and loss. And more items, and they only became more damning, more unavoidable, and the panic was getting worse—her jaw was set and her chin was up but she felt as if she were going to fall apart inside--

“...what do you have to say for yourself?”

Oh no. Not yet. Not now. She wasn't prepared, she could feel him staring at her, it was too soon, she didn't have it in her—

“Wizengamot; I am innocent.”

Ivy heard her voice ring out, surprisingly calm and loud and clear.

When the realization struck her that she had just said it, that she hadn't bowed to Garrow's plan after all, a flood of relief displaced the panic.

She continued to speak, slowly and carefully, leery of the fear that waited to claw its way out of her.

“I am not guilty of any of the things I have been charged with. And I'm afraid you've used the wrong name. My name is not Ivy Ballantine. My name is Ivy Garrow and I have been married to Junior Undersecretary Edward Garrow for over five years.”

At that moment, in the dead silence her words caused, a child's voice rang out--Máthair!--before she was shushed and the room burst into noise.

Edward had had many triumphs in his life, but he doubt that any would compare to this. He felt that he could safely call it his greatest triumph. It was here, now, in that very courtroom that he would finally and completely conquer his greatest foe: his wife, Ivy Ballantine-Garrow. He had finally won, and this time there was no way out for her. He congratulated himself on his immeasurable patience. He had chosen the right course. Going after her had gotten him nowhere, but a simple change of strategy had delivered her right into his lap.

Go ahead, darling. Try to get out of this one, he thought as he sat in an armchair at the edge of the Wizengamot pit. He smirked as he watched her being led to the center of the room and chained. Chained! He had to try very hard not to laugh. He looked up and stopped smirking as well. There were a few people in the spectator stands who were glaring at him instead of her: a blonde woman in a bulky coat, a middle-aged woman with black hair and strangely familiar eyes, a tall man with the set jaw he had come to know so well, but on someone else's face.

Something's not right.

“Wizengamot; I am innocent.”

Edward blinked, and looked over at Ivy. He'd missed the list of her charges; pity. He had written them up himself. But what was she trying to pull now? There was too much evidence against her. Her only chance was if someone presented evidence of their time in Ireland, proof of their marriage and his involvement with the Fearghus. Edward wasn't worried, though. There was no evidence of any of that--he'd made sure of it. And even if there was, there was no one to present it! He felt like laughing.

"My name is Ivy Garrow and I have been married to Junior Undersecretary Edward Garrow for over five years.”

There was still nothing to worry about. It sounded ridiculous even to him, and he knew it to be true. Then...

"Máthair!"

Edward jumped up.

"Wizengamot, please," he cried. He didn't dare look around for the child, but it didn't matter. He had a pretty good idea of where she was; the face under that blonde hair, which had seemed familiar, he now recognized. Somehow, Ivy's ridiculous relatives had gotten ahold of Kendra...and now, Edward began to be worried. He had no time to rectify the unfortunate situation, and his primary means of leverage was now useless in stopping Ivy from being the stubborn fool she was. He couldn't intimidate her in the presence of the court either--not enough to actually stop her, now that she knew Kendra was out of his grasp. He resisted the urge to tug at his collar, which suddenly felt very tight.

"In the prisoner's interests I ask that we proceed as quickly as possible," he said, trying to keep his voice as clear and calm as Ivy's had sounded, and cursing her mentally with every second. "Ms. Ballantine is mentally unstable; we are probably to blame for this outburst. It was foolish of us to think she was sane enough for the stress of a trial. But I am prepared to give an abridged version of my statement, just enough to assure the court of the evidence against this woman--"

"Now wait a moment, Junior Undersecretary," said the chief warlock. "Is the allegation she's made true? Are you married to this woman?"

"No!" Edward shouted, letting his frustration take the better of him. He took a deep breath and ran a hand over his hair, a lock of which had sprung from the slicked-back mass. Breath was hard to come by. "This woman is delusional, your honor. She has been stalking me for years. I have no doubt that she believes we are married, but I can assure you, it is no more than the fantasy of a sick, deranged Irishwoman!"