The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 46
Myrtle is back and no longer works for the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections.
Chapter 1:
Chapter 45:
The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 46
Endymion Radcliffe grinned at Vincent while he set up the dais by draping velvet here and there around the armchair where Vincent waited to pose for his portrait.
Vincent returned the smile. “You appear to be in excellent spirits, Mr. Radcliffe.”
“Yes, I am!” The painter glanced around the room to be sure nobody was listening. He looked reassured to see the studio was uncharacteristically unpopular that morning, probably because it was morning. It was, moreover, a foggy morning. Only Vincent, Percy, and Radcliffe occupied the studio. “Are you aware the streets are plastered with new handbills, as of last night?”
Percy plopped down upon a sofa and raised his eyebrows. “How are they different from the old handbills?”
“The latest handbills—and indeed a pamphlet someone handed me as I descended from my curricle—are political cartoons ridiculing Cornelius Fawlkin!”
Vincent briefly exchanged a look with Percy before saying, “Is that so? How terribly droll.”
Endymion peered around at the dais on which Vincent sat. Satisfied, he donned his painting smock. “Not only Fawlkin but also the Marshals—drawn with skeleton hands, as though they were Grim Reapers! Do you know, this is a clever strategy, indeed. Ridicule makes them less frightening to the general public.”
Vincent sat up straight. “Splendid!”
Radcliffe surveyed the results of his rearranging. “Well, done, Whisperwood!”
Vincent blinked. “What have I done?”
Radcliffe stepped behind his canvas and picked up a paint brush. “You’ve set off the resistance, of course! Do you not see this? Before you came to London, only a handful of people protested in the streets. You arrived, painted symbols and pasted up handbills without the Runners or Marshals catching you, and here we are with many more protestors, for whom you’ve set an example!”
Vincent drifted his eyes toward anything but the painter. He felt his cheeks burning. “Oh. Do you mean… I’ve influenced the population out of their seeming apathy?”
“Yes, of course! Thanks to you, it is clear the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections is extremely unpopular amid most of the population, and therefore much easier to topple.”
Vincent toyed with his watch chain. “Well… do you know… that was my intention. If I had stopped to praise myself about having such an ambition, I suppose I would’ve thought it presumptuous.” He shrugged.
“Presumptuous? Certainly not! You had hope where others had fear or apathy. Now sit up straight and gaze to your left. A dreamy look would be ideal.”
Vincent posed as directed. He let his eyes focus on a painting of a horse. “Surely you don’t think I have a… a knack for leadership?”
“It is quite possible, dear boy! It is quite impressive in one of your age.”
Vincent felt warmth in his heart. This was a far cry from Caldecott’s criticisms. “T-thank you. But I don’t feel as though I’m a leader. Perhaps all I’ve done is… set an example.”
Percy chuckled. “I never thought of you as a particularly modest type. I suppose people assume you have a much larger ego than you have.”
“Perhaps.” Vincent gazed into the distance. He was accustomed to being perceived as young and pampered.
#
Having finished circumambulating the room and checking on her assistants and apprentice, the milliner, Charlotte, settled down and picked up a straw bonnet, upon which she resumed tacking pink ribbon around the brim. It was easy to lose herself in thought while she stitched. She took pride in her profession, never mind that grand ladies looked down their noses at her.
With this thought, Charlotte pictured Lady Callandra, whom she was expecting to arrive any minute. The milliner took pride in how hard she had worked all her life, starting as a teen apprentice and working her way up. She worked fifteen hours a day for twenty years, and now she could afford the luxury of only working twelve hours a day, sometimes fewer.
Yet lately Charlotte’s confidence was faltering. She felt ill at ease about the Marshals. She alternated between worrying that they knew she was a Sensitive and sensing she was being followed by Marshals. This wasn’t paranoia, since her intuition was strong and always accurate.
Previously Charlotte was under the impression that the Marshals were mostly focused on aristocratic Sensitives, judging by the first few they imprisoned. That didn’t bother her terribly much. A year passed by before the burgeoning class and occasional working-class Sensitives became targets. Ever since then, Charlotte attempted to be more discrete with her Sensitive powers—refraining from moving objects with her mind (which at first proved to her that she was remarkably clumsy for one who until then had presented herself with so much dignity) and from looking directly at ghosts and the Fae if she knew other mortals to be present.
The most unpleasant side-effect of ignoring ghosts and the Fae was that they, especially the Fae, noticed Charlotte was ignoring them and didn’t take too kindly to being snubbed. Nowadays if she so much as strolled in Hyde Park, pixies approached her and pulled her hair or snagged her stockings. Twig-shaped Fae lay on the path and tripped her. It simply wasn’t fair, she thought.
Even now, after three years of this escalating oppression, the milliner kept assuring herself that she was merely paranoid in believing a sense that Marshals were following her and watching her. She reminded herself that surely she wasn’t important to attract their attention.
The rather glaring problem with dismissing this sense was how Charlotte’s intuition had never previously been inaccurate. She could enter a room and sense an argument had just happened. She could make eye contact with someone and instantly know, no matter how deadpan their facial expression, how that person felt about her. And lately she frequently sensed someone was following her and didn’t wish her to notice.
The last time she felt this was this very morning. She turned quickly to look at the individual. She distinctly saw and heard a bush moving and rustling as though someone had plunged into it. She nearly took chase, but she had to return to the shop and unlock it for her employees. After opening shop and recalling the rustling bushes, she figured Marshals were so powerful they needn’t be secretive. It was more likely a pickpocket. She shook her head and stabbed her finger with a needle.
The arrival of the Marchioness Lady Callandra Davincott interrupted Charlotte’s thoughts and stitches. Lady Callandra swooped in with a reticule dangling from her arm and a maidservant dogging her steps. The lady’s eyes were on Charlotte and completely ignored everyone else in the room. In contrast, the maid cheerfully smiled at everyone. No matter what Charlotte might think behind her back about this beautiful and haughty aristocrat, She forgot all that in the lady’s presence. It was automatic for the milliner to behave graciously to her face, show her the hats, and help her try them on while flattering Lady Callandra, who stood before a looking-glass.
Charlotte made eye contact with Myrtle, her newest assistant, and gave her the subtlest gesture indicating she should bring Lady Callandra her hats.
While Lady Callandra exchanged pleasantries with the milliner, Myrtle carried two hatboxes, one hanging from each hand. Charlotte noticed Myrtle’s hands were shaking, as though Lady Callandra made her nervous. The milliner narrowed her eyes at Myrtle, who blushed. Charlotte recalled something about Myrtle previously working for the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections and wondered if the girl was embarrassed because Lady Callandra’s son had been imprisoned.
Her Grace grasped one of the hatboxes and looked at Charlotte as though Myrtle weren’t good enough for her, or so Charlotte thought. Lady Callandra said, “Please wait whilst I try the hats on. I know you took precise measurements in the shop, but I wish to be quite certain they’re up to scratch.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
Jane, an assistant milliner, stood nearby.
Callandra lifted out the first hat, a pale green broad-brimmed bonnet with pink satin bows and long ribbons to tie under the chin. She tried on the bonnet in front of a floor-length looking-glass and admired the hat from various angles before nodding, taking it off, and handing it back to Myrtle, who returned it to its box.
While Charlotte hovered near the looking-glass and, grasping her hands together, showered Lady Callandra with flattery, she felt a shadow enter the shop. Her heart fluttered in alarm. She turned to the front entrance flanked by large glass display windows full of hats on forms, and her eyes confirmed what her senses told her: a group of five Marshals had crossed the threshold. Charlotte grasped her hands together.
Though their faces were partially hidden by their hoods, Charlotte sensed the Marshals were all looking directly at her. She felt a flutter of panic and glanced about the room at her two assistants, whose nimble fingers had stopped working as they stared at the cloaked figures. Charlotte turned back to Lady Callandra, who had just donned a plumed orange hat and, oblivious to the intruders, was still gazing in the glass.
Charlotte wrung her hands. “Please excuse me, milady. I have a bit of business to which I must attend.”
“Yes, yes.” Callandra turned to look at the milliner, and in doing so she finally saw the cloaked figures beyond Charlotte. The Marchioness froze and widened her eyes.
Charlotte reluctantly approached the Marshals. “Good afternoon, Marshals.” Charlotte attempted, with some success she hoped, to sound calm. “To what do I owe this honor?” Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte noticed Myrtle, the former herald, slipping silently into the back room.
The taller cloaked figure spoke in an aloof, deep voice. “Come quietly. The less fuss the better for you.”
Charlotte stood taller and threw back her shoulders. “What is this? What have I done?”
“It has come to our attention that you talk to ghosts.”
The milliner crossed her arms. “And what, pray tell, is the harm in that?”
“And you fly under your own powers. We aren’t fooled by your pretense at seeking a cab to ride to work.”
Callandra Davincott was staring with her mouth wide open, a rather foolish expression and hardly helpful, in Charlotte’s opinion. Her attitude toward aristocrats plummeted. Would this woman who had been a devoted customer for years merely stand there gaping like an idiot, or come to her defense?
As though reading Charlotte’s mind, Callandra stepped forward hesitantly and raised a dainty little hand. “Wait! Why are you taking away my milliner?”
Charlotte relaxed her shoulders. Although she doubted the Marchioness could save her from these five authorities, she took some comfort in the knowledge that the lady tried. This aristocrat had a heart and had, Charlotte surmised, merely taken some time to speak up because she was, quite simply, speechless with shock.
The most talkative Marshal appeared to be frowning under that shadowy hood, while he paused in his tracks to peer down at Callandra. “Is it not obvious? She is a dangerous Sensitive and must be imprisoned.”
Callandra removed her new hat and glared at the Marshals. “What dangerous behavior has she done?” Charlotte nearly beamed at Lady Callandra, who surely had reason to dread the Marshals might take her away, too. The milliner believed the lady was a Sensitive. She furthermore knew her son was the first to be imprisoned.
The Marshal shifted, straightening his back and looking even further down at the diminutive Marchioness. “Mr. Fawlkin has decreed that anyone with Sensitive powers is a threat. And this milliner is known for her Sensitive powers.”
Two Marshals stepped closer and grasped Charlotte by the arms. She attempted half-heartedly to pull her arms away from them, and they held on tighter, while the Marshals directly behind her edged closer, so she felt the breath of one of them on her neck. She decided to try presenting the appearance of someone who wasn’t frightened. “Since when is using Sensitive powers to see ghosts a crime?”
The seemingly head Marshal spoke. “Since now.”
“But—but this is preposterous!” Callandra hitched her skirts slightly and walked toward the Marshals. Charlotte appreciated her concern, but she wasn’t saying much that Charlotte hadn’t already said herself. “You can’t change the laws at the drop of a… hat!” As she spoke, she glanced at one of her new hats.
Charlotte almost rolled her eyes.
The Marshals ignored Callandra and, with two of them practically dragging Charlotte, headed out of the shop. The assistants, Charlotte observed, were ducking under tables, and Myrtle was nowhere to be seen. The milliner took little comfort in knowing the Marshals weren’t harassing her staff.
The milliner was unaware that Callandra, whose defense of the milliner had seemed weak and half-hearted, anticipated informing her son of the latest and increased intolerance toward Sensitives, for she suspected he was behind the handbills and the eye-cauldron symbol.