He looks at her and it’s like yesterday that they stood in court apart from one another, both novices in their own right and yet, him with the unfounded confidence that he’d already conquered all the world had to show him. She’s older now -- if, indeed, this was Mia Fey, and not simply some hallucination on his part, because he knew Mia Fey to be dead -- but the fire hasn’t diminished from her gaze, nor the steady determination from her posture. Words haven’t passed between the two of them since that fateful day in court what seems like an eternity ago, and frankly, he’s not entirely sure why he’s standing here right now, but all the same, he feels more compelled to stay than to leave.
They’re standing in the middle of Wright’s office, attending the party the defense attorney had decided to throw to celebrate today’s victory in court, but all Miles Edgeworth can think of is the day, months ago, when he’d been sitting in his office only to have a new case file slapped down onto his desk. He’d raised his eyebrows, curious, and when he leaned in, had been appalled to discover the victim’s name -- Mia Fey. Surely, he’d thought then, it was some cruel trick of fate, that he should be prosecuting her murder. He’d almost forgotten about her until then, and after that it had seemed that all the memories had flooded back to him in a deluge, filled his heart with both an old resentment and something else -- something distressingly close to shame.
Yet, now she stands in front of him -- but how does she stand in front of him? How is it possible to commune with the deceased? -- and he supposes it’s just as good an opportunity to clear the air as any. Without her help, he might not have been acquitted at all.
“Miss . . . Fey.” The words leave him weakly, the halting intonations of his voice betraying the usual cold stiffness with which he holds himself. “Is it really--? That is, are you . . . ?” He pauses, gives himself just a moment to arrange what he wants to say, and then presses onward, confidence restored. “You . . . were at the trial today.” It’s a statement, not a guess, spoken with his usual unflinching attitude. “Thank you.” And he’s surprised to find that those words cut a little less each time.
