Page 7 of Riches and Romance

Not that my attention is anywhere but here, anchored in this moment that I’ve been working my fanny off for. Eight years of intense focus, sacrifice, and fear.

Tonight, I turn the corner and move toward the light. The winding serpentine-like tunnel this portion of my life has been is almost over.

In just a few minutes, I’ll be granted entry to the profession I’ve chosen to make my life’s work. My eyes are drawn to the vaulted dome of the Temple Church, the earliest Gothic building in London. Built by the Order of The Knights Templar in 1160, it was designed to imitate the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem—the site of Christ’s death, burial, and rising.

This building was the reason I chose The Inner Temple Inn where I’d complete my training to become a barrister.

This building’s history feels like an echo of my own. It was nearly destroyed in the great fire of London in 1666, but it was restored to a glory far greater than its original.

I don’t have delusions of grandeur, nor do I believe that this place could resurrect the part of me that’s dead. The fire that took away everything I love also gave me the chance to live a life of wondering what else I might have been.

I wasn’t born for a life spent in the sheer magnificence of the Inns of Court. Nor was I reared to dine with men and women whose quick and ready wit was as nourishing as the decadent meals we shared.

The sharp jab of a hard elbow into my side draws my unfocused gaze from the master of ceremonies to my friend, Reena. The sparkle in her eye that’s been there since she came back from her weekend jaunt to California is undimmed, even in the low light of the hall where we’ve gathered. The man at thepodium cedes his place to a woman garbed in the black silks and gleaming white starched bibs worn by all the Masters of the Inn.

It’s time, Reena mouths just as the woman begins to speak. She mimes a scream of elation that I return with a grin that hides the turmoil I really feel. I grip her hand that rests on the seat of the wooden pew next to me and turn my attention back to the front of the room.

“Master Treasurer, the students here present are desirous of being called to the Bar of England and Wales. Student members of the Inner Temple, being called to the profession of barrister, you have declared that for as long as you remain a barrister, you will solemnly use your knowledge and skills in keeping with the principles of the profession’s ethics, uphold the rule of law, and in doing so, comply with the code of conduct and court duties of the Bar of England and Wales.”

The desire of which she speaks is a visceral, vibrating thrum on every nerve ending in my body.

“I confirm that the students here at this Michaelmas term Call Night 2021 have made the required declarations and have gained the qualifications necessary to be called to the Bar of England and Wales and therefore deserve to be called by the honorable society of the Inner Temple as follows.”

The master of ceremony begins to call the inductees, in alphabetical order, and my heart lodges in my throat. My gut crests and crashes in a tumult of excitement, anticipation, and panic that sets my pulse racing.

The row in front of us rises, and Reena squeezes my hand. The tiny stone set in the ring on the third finger of my left hand bites my skin. The pain does more than ground me in the moment, it’s a reminder of what I sacrificed to be here. And that every tear I have shed along the way has been proof that I survived what should have killed me.

“I wish she’d hurry. I’m ready for cake and champs.” Reena’s parents have come from Rome to witness their daughter fulfill her lifelong ambition. After the ceremony, I’ll join in the celebration with her friends and family. She let it slip that her mother bought two cakes—one for both of us—and begged me to act surprised when she brought it out.

But I’m also beset by self-pity that I know is pointless and usually beat back. I’ve gotten used to being the only one of my peers whose head doesn’t swivel about the room looking for friends and family. But tonight, I wish someone who knew me was here to see what I’ve made of myself.

An usher comes to stand by our row and places a hand on my shoulder.

My heart beats hard and slow as I stand and lead the queue to the aisle. I’ve dreamed of this for ten years. When I charted this course, the moment I would gain access to the tools I need to rewrite my history was a prize so far in the distance that I could barely fathom it. Yet I set my eyes on it and never looked away.

As the person in front of me steps forward, I take a deep centering breath and start counting. In our rehearsal, they said each presentation should only take twenty seconds.

One,two, three, four.

In accepting the call, I will gain access to the tools I need to rewrite my history. But I’ve decided that I’ll never use them.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

I don’t want to look back to where I started and measure how far I’ve come.

The life I’d only meant to leave behind temporarily—the life I’d begun this journey to resurrect—is better off dead.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

This night is whereIbegin.

“Juliana Quist. Bachelor of Law, The London School of Economics and Political Science, CPE City Law School, PrincessRoyal Scholar, proposed by Master Bone.” I move to stand before Master Hugo Bone. His shrewd eyes meet mine, and we exchange a smile.

“Master Treasurer, I move her call,” he says in his deep, authoritative voice. He sticks his hand out. “Congratulations, Ms. Quist.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bone.” I shake his hand, and he gives mine a warm squeeze at the end. “And see you on Monday.”

I smile, a million hopes fluttering inside me as I float back to my seat. He’s a Kingmaker. Only in his early fifties, he’s one of the youngest Masters of this Inn and the only Black one. A pupilage at his chambers, one of the best criminal practices in all the Inns of Court, is one of the most sought after. I’m one of the lucky four they’ve brought on. My hard-won future is here.

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