I’m having technological difficulties wtih this post, but hopefully it looks as it should now. There was inexplicably a link in the midst of dialog in Chapter 54.
Chapter 1:
Chapter 53:
https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/the-vanquished-and-the-surviving-542?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 54
The table didn’t fall entirely into silence. While Percy dragged an amiable discussion out of Vincent and his mother, Vincent overheard murmurs at the center of the table, as guests attempted to make the best of an unpleasant situation.
“I see you learned a great deal in the tower.” Fawlkin openly smirked at Vincent, who frowned and wondered if Fawlkin noticed his power nearly took over. This suspicion inspired a flutter of panic in his heart.
Vincent suspected Fawlkin was goading or testing him. The boy reminded himself: the Organization believed he was trained so thoroughly he no longer had his dangerous power. He resolved to ensure they, especially Fawlkin, continued to believe that. Otherwise, Fawlkin would imprison him again, possibly in less comfortable accommodations.
Percy deftly shifted the conversation by babbling about some of the latest fashions. Vincent sat back and sighed, casting a grateful glance at his friend. He overheard the drone of other conversations down the table and felt further comforted. He was no longer the center of attention.
Vincent was so unaccustomed to the servants changing the tablecloths and bearing dishes manually that he found it challenging to refrain from staring. Not wishing Fawlkin to notice his astonishment, Vincent bowed his head to the freshly changed tablecloth. He looked up, however, to scope out the third course. Despite all the food already in his stomach, his mouth salivated at sight of scones, chocolate bonbons, strawberries, cherries, blueberries, cashews, and ice cream. Many sweets were easily within reach of Vincent, so he helped himself while the footmen brought more Madeira and lemonade.
After dinner, everyone occupied the drawing room and sipped from cups of coffee. Vincent opened his sketchpad in a corner by the fireplace. He managed to sketch as well as he could without keeping his eyes on Fawlkin the entire time. He made several quick sketches, from different angles, and finally settled on a silhouette for the sake of drawing on handbills. He was in the process of drawing quite a detailed silhouette, when Daffodil Hennessey, a young lady with a high soprano voice, spoke. “What is this you’re drawing, milord?”
Startled, Vincent hastily turned the page and looked up at Miss Hennessey. She was wearing a particularly bright version of her favorite color, pink, with a feathered turban. He hadn’t perceived her proximity until she spoke. This was unfortunate, he thought, considering the mischief on which he was working. He recalled shivering alone by a window while drawing in the tower on a wet and windy night and shook the memory out of his head.
Vincent smiled at Miss Hennessey. “I’m a mere dabbler, but I’ve taken a liking to portraiture. At least, I’ve taken a liking to it until I become bored with the practice and try something new.”
“La, how droll!” Miss Hennessey, apparently comforted by his words, sank into a chair beside him. “May I see this portrait?”
Vincent froze and gazed at her. He knew she was a strong Sensitive and thought she must be in danger attending a dinner party at which one of the guests was Cornelius Fawlkin. Of course, she must be acutely aware of Fawlkin’s presence. Vincent reflected that throughout the evening her voice had sounded tremulous and more high-pitched than customary.
Vincent smiled. “Yes, you may.” He flipped back several pages, to an illustration of his mother in which she wore a morning frock quite different from her current maroon evening gown. He hoped Miss Hennessey wouldn’t comment on the change of garb.
She inhaled slowly and audibly. Vincent glanced at her face with raised eyebrows. They discussed drawing techniques for a few minutes, until Vincent sensed someone behind their chairs and flipped the page over. “Now I should work on another one. That illustration was a dismal failure, I fear. I don’t fool myself into believing I can compete with the great Endymion Radcliffe.”
“La, do not denigrate your skill, milord. I’m impressed.”
Vincent heard the creak of a floorboard and the faintest swish of cloth as the person behind their chairs stepped around to face Vincent. It was Percy. Vincent’s shoulders sagged in relief, and he waved at the nearest chair. Percy exchanged a meaningful glance with Vincent, who figured Percy would refrain from making an indiscreet comment in Fawlkin’s presence.
The party continued for another half hour, and Vincent yawned behind his hand. Most guests took a hint and made excuses within a few minutes. Vincent exhaled loudly as soon as Fawlkin had parted from the drawing room. Except for Percy, Fawlkin had been the last of the guests. Vincent sensed the unwelcome guest was attempting to be the last to depart, but Percy prevailed.
Standing near the door, Vincent abruptly swung around to glare at his parents, who were both peering at his sketchpad.
“We’re treading carefully, Vincent,” Papa said in response to his son’s scowl. “You were the first Sensitive to be imprisoned, you know. And we have some Sensitive powers ourselves.”
Vincent crossed the room with his sketchbook and sank into his favorite chair, a velvet armchair in a corner by the fire.
Mama added, “Our only powers are those of sensing, seeing, and interacting with ghosts and the Fae, but best to be safe. We must be civil to Cornelius Fawlkin or be imprisoned ourselves, and we certainly don’t wish him to harm you.”
“We don’t wish his ministry doing anything else to you, dear boy,” Papa said. “Surely you understand why we’re doing this.”
“Is not inviting him to dinner a trifle much?”
Papa blushed and lowered his voice. “Truth be told, he invited himself. Rude oaf.”
Vincent raised his eyebrows. He felt considerably reassured it wasn’t entirely his parents’ choice. He wondered how they could have given Fawlkin excuses to refuse… without potentially dire consequences. He lowered his shoulders and sat back.
His mother sat in a chair across from him. “Vincent, please. Please understand. I cringe every time I see that abominable man. It pains me to allow him over our threshold, as though we invited a vampire.”
Vincent smirked. “I don’t know which is worse, a malignant vampire or Cornelius Fawlkin. Is one any less harmful than the other? I suspect Cornelius Fawlkin is far more dangerous and has caused considerably more harm than I—more so than I am capable of! How many families has he destroyed by imprisoning family members? How many lives has he ruined? How many Sensitives has he broken? How many suicides has he caused? The man is a menace to society! He and the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections have ruined this country!” Vincent’s palms felt warm. “Oh, may I refrain from harming anyone!”
“Yes, please do refrain,” Papa said. “And please calm yourself.”
Staring at his father, Vincent raised his eyebrows again. “I’m making an effort to calm myself. This is me trying to calm myself.”
“Vincent, dear,” Mama said. “I suggest you join Roland and Margot in France and stay at their chateau. You’ll all be safe if you remain in exile. Such strong Sensitives are not safe in England’s current climate.”
“You wish us to live in exile, to avoid the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections rather than overthrow it?”
Mama leaned forward. “Yes, dear, please! You’re only seventeen, a mere boy. What can you do against such a formidable force?”
“I can… organize.” Vincent rose. He leaned against the mantel, his back to the crackling and hissing flames. “I am working on a plan.”
“I don’t know what you can possibly do all by yourself,” Papa said.
“Did I say I would overthrow Sensitive Corrections and Cornelius Fawlkin all by myself? No, I didn’t. I need help, and a great deal of it. I shan’t hide in France, or any other foreign country, as long as Sensitive Corrections oppresses England.”
Papa eyed a decanter but didn’t open it. “Your mother and I agree about your exile in France. Remain there until Sensitive Corrections ceases to exist, or failing that, ceases to be a threat to all Sensitives.”
“You two are Sensitives yourselves.”
Papa frowned. “That’s all very well, but we’re no threat. We shall simply lay low—keep quiet about our Sensitive powers—until the proper time comes.”
Mama nodded. “Our Sensitive powers are hardly what anyone could call threatening. So we can see and hear ghosts and Fae folk. That’s hardly extraordinary, is it?”
Vincent frowned, remembering what they had indicated earlier—how they were humoring Fawlkin so they wouldn’t end up imprisoned, too. Their bravado didn’t fool him.
A corner of Papa’s lip twitched nervously. “Considering the attitude of Cornelius Fawlkin and his corrupt ministry, it’s quite enough that we may well be in danger. At least, until Sensitive Corrections topples.”
Vincent leaned forward. “It is my responsibility to help make that happen. Who more so than I?”
“It seems Fawlkin is correct in perceiving your imprisonment has failed to humble you.”
“Did you wish it to humble me, Father? Whose side are you on?”
Papa threw his hands in the air. “La, this talk of sides!”
Vincent inhaled sharply. “I mean I was the first imprisoned, and you know what I witnessed before my imprisonment.”
His parents froze and stared at their son. Mama’s face paled, and Vincent regretted using such a painful memory to defend himself. He turned away from them and pretended he found the hearth fascinating. “I shall discuss this no more with you. Well, except this: Margot and Roland have helped encourage citizens to rebel and… they made and posted some of those handbills about London.”
Papa gasped. “That was foolhardy of them!”
Vincent tensed his shoulders. His father’s comment confirmed he made a wise choice in refraining from telling his parents about his part in the handbills and the eye-cauldron symbol. “I’m quite certain a great many people will be similarly happy to help.”
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Fawlkin walked away from the dinner party and clambered into a cab with a sense of shock as the image of Vincent hovered in his mind. He had been struck by not only his fashion sense—the boy was a dandy yet not a ridiculous fop—but also by his strong presence. This was a worthy foe. The boy had the advantage of a strong character and extraordinary beauty, in addition to wealth and position and, at least formerly, formidable Sensitive powers. He had too much privilege and good fortune for one individual. Fawlkin shook his head in sync with the bumpy cab ride and the clopping of the horse’s hooves.
He knew it would be difficult to deal with such an adversary and wished Vincent were on his side. He truly wished he could get to know the boy better, as a chess player would wish to play against a skilled new opponent. He would wait and see and hope the boy didn’t continue to be the threat he once was, before his imprisonment. If Cavendish’s feedback were accurate, then the boy’s Sensitive powers were so under control they were now latent, and he was harmless. He’d be unable to interfere with the continued imprisonment of all these menacing, still-functional Sensitives.
Fawlkin found the sheer volume of active Sensitives to be daunting. How to train them all to refrain from using their powers? Now that dungeons were full of them, it was challenging for Marshal tutors to supply individual training. It seemed to Fawlkin that many of them must remain in their dungeons for an indefinite length of time, probably a significantly longer time than the Viscount of Whisperwood’s merciful mere three years.
But Fawlkin didn’t dislike the idea of keeping those Sensitives imprisoned for decades. He nonetheless couldn’t bring himself down to the level of his predecessors, who had confided in him their intention to kill off all Sensitives except servants. No, Fawlkin preferred to consume Sensitive souls only as needed rather than kill them messily.