The chamber air thinned when the second door opened. A clerk from the records office scurried through with a rolling cart piled high with ledgers, oblivious to the drama she had almost improved. She squeaked at the sight of rogues and veered to the wall.
Albert chuckled under his breath. “Wrong ghost," he murmured, amused.
Marta banged the gavel once. “Enough theatrics. Identify yourself for the record."
Albert inclined his head as if to a hostess. “Albert Rowan," he said, easy. “Born in Westridge. Currently domiciled in the woods."
Snorts. Gasps. One hiss.
Taylor stepped forward. “You are trespassing," he said. “This chamber is not a circus."
“Then stop juggling," Albert said pleasantly.
“Guards—" Marta began.
The Clerk didn't look up from arranging labels. “Public hearing," she r
