The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 59
Vincent and his nemesis, Cornelius Fawlkin, have their final confrontation, and the resistance continues.
Chapter 1:
Chapter 58, in which the Marshals delivered Vincent to his enemy, Cornelius Fawlkin:
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The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 59
“What is the meaning of this?” Vincent focused his eyes directly on Cornelius Fawlkin and refrained from blinking.
Fawlkin nodded at the Marshals. “You lot can go. Close the door behind you.”
As the Marshals left with the shuffling of many shoes, Vincent barely looked at them. “I’ll suffocate with that door closed.”
Fawlkin stared at him as though astonished, hardly the reaction Vincent anticipated. “All the more reason to close it, I figure.”
Vincent frowned. He heard the door snap shut, and he gulped.
Fawlkin leaned forward with both palms against the desk top. “I reckon you know somebody bombed the Magistrates’ Court.”
Vincent finally blinked. “Yes. And…?”
“Don’t play innocent with me.” Fawlkin glared. “I’m not impressed with your aristocratic disdain. You should be scared, little boy. You should be trembling.”
Vincent, no longer fourteen, was quite as tall as Fawlkin. Calling him a little boy didn’t impress Vincent, who merely raised his chin and looked his enemy in the eye.
Fawlkin began again. “I’ve had word that you’ve been spreading rumors about me, and about the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections.”
Vincent frowned and attempted to understand the man’s words.
“Well, boy! Is this true?”
Perplexed, Vincent shook his head. “What rumors?”
“Aren’t you the one as started all this impudent defacement of many a building with attacks against us?”
Vincent inhaled. Defacement, indeed. He hadn’t thought, I’m defacing this building, when he pasted denouncements of Sensitive Corrections on walls.
“Silence, eh? Let me start again: Are you, insolent boy, the culprit of defaming the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections? It’s your doing, innit?”
“Your own actions defame you.”
“You’ve slandered this organization!”
“On the contrary. Slander suggests falsehood. Everything my friends and I have indicated about your organization is true.”
Fawlkin seemed to believe he had the upper hand, for he smirked and crossed his arms. “Ah ha, you admit your involvement, boy! As for those ridiculous eyes and cauldrons. You started it, didn’t you?”
“Would you expect me to gush about what a delightful time I had locked away in a tower for three twelvemonths?”
“Be glad it wasn’t four.”
“Or about how charmed I was to meet Sir Hubert and Lady Hester whilst they murdered my brother?” Vincent felt a lump in his throat and willed himself not to weep.
“That was an unfortunate choice on the founders’ part. However, as you of all people well know, they’s gone. I oversee Sensitive Corrections now, and we no longer kill people for being dangerous.”
Vincent wondered whether this Soul-Eater was being entirely honest. “Perhaps not, but you still imprison those who merely have Sensitive powers. Is this not true?”
“Well, we’ve locked up dangerous individuals, but we’ve got our reasons. And those reasons are none o’ your concern, boy.”
“I happen to know some of the Sensitive individuals who have gone missing recently—taken away by your Marshals, that is—were only able to sense ghosts and possibly other spirits. Such powers are not dangerous in the least.”
“Oy, who’s doing the interrogation here? You started this rebellion, didn’t you? You started all this… unrest! ’Tis you wot riled up all this riffraff!”
Vincent’s pulse quickened with indignation. His own brief mention of his brother’s murder conjured in his mind’s eye images of the dark street and Nathaniel turning green and disappearing. This memory haunted him. He glowered at Fawlkin’s ugly, gloating face. He realized it didn’t matter if he repeated what happened on that fateful night. It would, under the circumstances, be justified.
“Ha!” Fawlkin placed his hands on his hips. “Thinking of doing away with me as you did my predecessors, are you? Did you really lose your Sensitive powers in the tower, eh?”
“Whatever makes you say that?”
“That look on your face, little boy.”
Vincent raised one eyebrow. “a look is hardly the same thing as a pair of glowing hands.”
“Your magic powers aren’t of any consequence here! We’ve an invisible barrier preventing Sensitives from harming anyone within the walls of my office. You can’t harm me.”
Vincent felt stunned rather than indignant. It was as though his enemy’s words caused him to abruptly fade, his intense emotions to recede like a cat retracting its claws. He stared at Fawlkin and felt fearful for the first time since setting foot in this room. An invisible barrier? That sounded like magic, a Sensitive power. This wasn’t the first time Fawlkin and his ministry struck Vincent as hypocritical. Either that, or he was bluffing.
Fawlkin took a nutcracker out of his waistcoat pocket and twirled it around with one hand and clutching his lapel with the other. “How well did ye know your own brother, eh?”
This question took Vincent off guard. He blinked at Fawlkin. “He was my brother. To be sure, we were very close.”
“Did you know he worked for the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections? That he was working on an invention to take away powers from Sensitives?”
Vincent’s throat clenched. “Well.” He gulped and stared at his enemy. “I… suspected something.” But not that.
During the final sennight of his life, Nathaniel had been mixing chemicals—fluids that to Vincent’s eyes were peculiar and inexplicable, in brilliant colors such as blue and green—and developing something he seemed to consider an important invention. Vincent never learned what it was.
Nathaniel had been both secretive and quite distracted by his latest invention. Two days before his brother’s death, Vincent stopped by in his laboratory—a room that before Nathaniel’s enthusiasm was a guestroom next to the older boy’s dressing room. The room had bare floorboards, and in the center of the room was a long table covered with scientific equipment—beakers and vials and pots. The fireplace often contained something diabolical, stinking of sulfur or metal, brewing in an iron pot, though sometimes it smelled of lilacs or something equally aromatic.
During Nathaniel’s final weeks, Vincent smelled no lilacs in that room. Scattered around the room were smaller tables covered with scientific books, glass bottles and jars of powder and dried objects that mostly appeared to be herbs, driftwood, and tree bark. One tall bookcase was filled with tomes that bored Vincent when he took the trouble to open them.
On that occasion, Vincent and Nathaniel had had plans to call on relatives. Nathaniel didn’t even look up from his project.
“Dash it, Vincent, not now.” Nathaniel’s voice had an irritated edge. Vincent emitted a sharp intake of breath and took a step back. “I wish to complete this experiment. I’m too close to finished.” He glanced up at Vincent long enough for the latter to notice shadows under his eyes and perspiration on his brow. Whatever Nathaniel was making appeared to afford him much distress.
Vincent refrained from mentioning that Nathaniel could finish the project later and leave for now but simply didn’t wish to because he was too absorbed in it. Instead, he left the room without speaking.
The following day, Nathaniel’s laboratory door remained closed. A servant brought his meals up on a tray and hastily slipped back out of the chamber. Vincent paused before the door several times but, remembering Nathaniel’s behavior the previous day, he slipped away silently.
Before his death, Nathaniel had behaved almost suspiciously about that final experiment. Customarily he positively boasted about his experiments, using terms Vincent and their parents failed to understand. It made for rather dull conversation, in Vincent’s opinion, never mind how ignorant he felt when Nathaniel spoke that way. It was beyond Vincent’s comprehension. He had to remind himself musical notes and the music he composed were beyond Nathaniel’s comprehension, as were Vincent’s fanciful sketches and poetry.
Vincent shook his head and returned to the present.
“I’ve got all the power here,” Fawlkin said. “I’m physically strong, and I’ve got my wits about me.”
Vincent briefly scanned his enemy’s body, as if to confirm this. He sighed and, wondering what the blue blazes to do, he lowered his eyes to the floor in thought.
Fawlkin rushed forward. He shoved Vincent against the wall. The boy gasped, the wind knocked out of him. He felt too shocked to react.
Fawlkin pinned down both Vincent’s arms with only one hand, in an awkward position. He pressed his gut against Vincent’s lean torso. Vincent turned his head and squirmed. Fawlkin’s left foot pressed down on the top of Vincent’s right foot. Apparently being a Soul-Eater gave Fawlkin abnormal strength, for Vincent was the younger and more muscular of the two.
“You can’t go anywhere now,” Fawlkin murmured in his ear.
His heart fluttering in panic, Vincent wrinkled his nose at the stench of gin breath. He imagined Fawlkin backing off and putting physical distance between them. “Is that so?” For a second, he recalled the lecherous tutor, and his heart gave another flutter of panic.
“I don’t doubt you’ve got something to do with that bombing, pretty boy. I should’ve left you in the tower. It was foolhardy to let you out. Confess! You were involved, weren’t you?”
Pulse beating in his ear, Vincent squirmed in a futile attempt to pull himself further away from this oaf. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Oh ho, you think I believe that?”
Vincent tried to shrug and feign indifference. However, he couldn’t move his shoulders while his enemy pressed his arms so tightly against the wall. Terrified but not wishing Fawlkin to notice his anxiety, he gulped. He imagined shaking free of Fawlkin and dashing out the door.
“You were involved in the bombing! Say it!”
Vincent reminded himself that, as frightened as he felt, he must think his way out of this. A bluff. Maybe the room wasn’t magically protected from Sensitives, after all. “No, I had nothing to do with the bombing! Certainly not directly!”
“Oh ho, and what do you mean, my boy!”
Fear could surely develop into indignation, and indignation into…. Vincent recalled what Fawlkin said about the room being defended against Sensitive powers. Despite his discomfort with their close proximity, he glared directly into his enemy’s eyes. “It seems the people have begun to take action. If someone who learned what I know about the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections chose to resort to bombing your building, that was the choice of that individual—or group of individuals. I wasn’t among them.”
“Humph!” Fawlkin narrowed his eyes. He stared at Vincent, who gulped again.
Heart hammering, Vincent was too close to the man’s homely features, his wrinkles and bushy eyebrows, his pale eyes—to say nothing of his awful breath. That was the worst part… in addition to the pressure on Vincent’s arms and foot.
Fawlkin murmured, “I must confess there is something about you. What a soul you have! Never mind your aristocratic arrogance and your dangerous powers.” The older man pressed Vincent harder against the wall.
Heart pounding, Vincent grimaced, inhaling another round of the older man’s gin breath and painful pressure on both arms. The shock of this inexplicable statement rendered him speechless for a beat. “What nonsense are you saying? You’re mistaken if you think you can distract me with empty words of flattery.”
Oh. He's a Soul-Eater. Vincent felt a flutter of panic and resumed struggling, putting more effort into it. He gave Fawlkin a hard shove back, and the Soul-Eater lost his hold on Vincent for an instant, but without removing his foot. He came forward and gripped Vincent tightly by the arm.
“Do you mean to say you don’t believe me?” Fawlkin growled.
“Enough of this balderdash!” Vincent whispered. “Never mind my actions. What did you mean about imprisoning so-called dangerous individuals? You’re a dangerous individual yourself.”
Fawlkin smirked. “So… you noticed, eh?”
Vincent grimaced. “That was no complement. Your organization is obsessed with imprisoning Sensitives and taking away their power. What do you intend to do with other Sensitives?”
Fawlkin grinned ruefully and slackened his hold on Vincent. He lifted his foot off Vincent’s, and the latter emitted a sigh, as though the lack of pressures on his arms and body released air. Fawlkin stood back and gazed at Vincent, openly admiring his fine features. Noticing, Vincent grimaced and attempted to suppress a memory of his former tutor.
“The purpose of the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections is to take away the power of dangerous Sensitives,” Fawlkin said. “We separate couples in dungeons, so they don’t breed more Sensitives, eh.”
Vincent wrinkled his nose. “My, you’re coarse. You must be aware by now you have no choice but to disband the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections and release all your prisoners. You surely know deep down that what you are doing is wrong and cruel and unnecessary. It is against justice.”
“Spare me your prissy, sanctimonious comments.” Fawlkin stepped further back, released Vincent, and straightened his waistcoat. He looked foolish with a pouting, childish expression on his old face.
Fawlkin moved away slowly, allowing Vincent to sidle away from the wall and cross his arms. The boy felt greatly relieved at being released. Yet he felt frightened by his enemy’s words and wary, oh so wary. He stood in the presence of someone he found intensely distrustful and violent.
“Surely you don’t think the public approves of what you’re doing! Not after last night.” Vincent glanced around the room. “Do you even have an office anymore? This is no more than a cupboard, which I for one find suffocating.”
“Oy, this office is good enough for anybody!”
“So this cupboard is your new office. Quite a step down.”
“I can’t exactly stay in a burnt out shell, innit!”
Vincent threw up his hands. “Your ministry is so unpopular that the people of London burnt it down! How unpopular must you be before you admit it? I read about it in the paper: regular citizens destroyed your office and court.”
Fawlkin looked flushed but crossed his arms. “Since when does an aristocrat like you care about the opinions of the public? You luxuriate in your status and wealth and don’t care about the poor.”
More scathing than anxious now Fawlkin was no longer pressing against him, Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Which is it: I’m a rabble-rousing rebel who posts handbills on the streets and instigates destruction, or I’m idle and useless? It can’t be both, as you know.”
“Your infernal arrogance, boy!” Fawlkin clenched his fists and scowled.
Vincent noticed with a spark of confidence that Fawlkin was the one turning red and flustered. “You seem a bit confused.”
Fawlkin scowled and slowly paced as he spoke. “We want the imprisoned Sensitives to either die in their prisons, or reform. They’ve got to stop using their powers, innit. I’ve got to admit I became too impatient to treat them all as we’ve treated you, so the focus has gotten more on solitary confinement than on reform and education.” He swung around and gazed at Vincent. “Oy, clearly education and an attempt at reform failed, in your case.”
Vincent desperately wished to somehow help all those Sensitives. He pictured other Sensitives, from all classes, chained to stone walls behind bars in rows and rows of dungeon cells. His indignation rose, warming his cheeks… and his palms. In the center of his hands, he felt heat identical to that which arose when he directed his power at the manikins.
“I see those flashing blue eyes, boy! Oh, you know you can’t use your powers within these walls!” Fawlkin chortled. He stared unwaveringly at Vincent, who peered back and mindfully kept himself from blinking.