In case you haven’t heard of it, Nanowrimo stands for National Novel Writing Month. That month is officially November—a month in which people get together and each writes the first draft of a novel in only one month. The goal for the month is 50,000 words, rather shorter than a standard adult novel (90,000 to 110,000 words). But that’s okay, because it’s only a month, and that fifty thousand words gets people to write a beginning, middle, and end—not merely an initial idea for a novel. (At least, that’s how I use Nanowrimo.)
To learn more about National Novel Writing Month:
https://nanowrimo.org/
In April, Camp Nanowrimo is more lenient: you get to choose your word count goal. You can even write a play instead of a novel. This month I’m revising the gothic novel I began last November. July is also Camp Nanowrimo, and I’ll probably revise another novel—because I’ve been participating in Nanowrimo every year since 2011 and have plenty of novels that need revision and editing.
The Vanquished and the Surviving wasn’t a Nanowrimo project, because a dream inspired it. However, the next novel I’m sharing on Substack was my 2014 Nanowrimo project.
Chapter 1:
Chapter 52:
https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/the-vanquished-and-the-surviving-a4b?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 53
Vincent froze and raised both his eyebrows. He felt the beginning of heat in his fingertips, proof he still had the ability to set enemies and manikins in flames. He realized that if he didn’t control himself, he could kill Fawlkin in front of all these guests. While that might be tempting, Vincent scowled at the thought of such violence. Feeling a sphere of heat in the center of his chest, Vincent took a deep breath. May I refrain from harming anyone.
Vincent glanced at his mother, who widened her eyes at him and shook her head faintly. He turned to gaze down the table at his father, who raised his eyebrows and frowned. Vincent pressed his lips tightly together, narrowed his eyes at his parents, and turned back to the head of the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections. The silence unnerved Vincent. Fawlkin smiled smugly and gazed at him as though he felt delighted at the drama he created.
Vincent didn’t smile back. He exhibited not a flicker of warmth. “How do you do.” He knew it wasn’t an answer and was something he should perhaps have said when Fawlkin introduced himself.
Cornelius Fawlkin’s smile was crooked, and the gleam in his eye was no friendly twinkle. He appeared to be gloating. Vincent knew himself to be highly sensitive, not only to ghosts, but also to the energy of living beings. Thus, he sensed Fawlkin found him… fascinating. He wondered why. Perhaps it was mere morbid curiosity about the person who had accidentally caused his rise to power. Perhaps that was why the Marshals didn’t put him to death.
Vincent took a deep breath and refused to turn away or blink. May I refrain from harming anyone. The heat in his chest and palms diminished.
“That’s not the answer as I was looking for, Vincent, Viscount of Whisperwood. Learned something in prison, milord?”
More than one guests inhaled sharply.
Vincent’s nostrils flared. His palms heated up again. The man’s impudence is outrageous. He mentally repeated, May I refrain from harming anyone. “Oh, I learned a great deal,” Vincent replied in a deeper voice than customary. He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve also learned much since returning to civilization.”
He knew he should try to hide his disgust toward Fawlkin, for not only his own sake but that of his family and especially other Sensitives. Yet his diplomacy had its limits—apparently much shorter limits, he thought, than those of his parents. He cast a scowling glance at each.
A bit of soup stuck to Fawlkin’s chin, but he didn’t reach for his napkin to wipe it. Vincent found his smug smile ridiculous. What a buffoon.
Fawlkin waved his fork around. “’Tis good you were locked in a tower, because you’re a most dangerous boy. And you most certainly needed to be taken down a peg or two. I hope you were, though by the looks of it, you seem arrogant and spoiled. It must be a great relief to you to have returned to society, to this posh home.”
The room was unpleasantly quiet. Vincent watched with too much fascination as the footmen carried the platters of the second course—truffles, cabbage with onions, broccoli and celeriac, black bean casserole, cream sauce—to the table and placed them heavily onto the tablecloth.
Vincent sipped Madeira before rather pointedly patting at his lips with a napkin. “The conditions of my life are no concern of yours, sir.”
Fawlkin barked out a vulgar laugh. Raising one eyebrow, Vincent took admittedly petty satisfaction in knowing the monster apparently had no idea he was making a great many social gaffs. The viscount felt confident that if any breaches of etiquette from this dinner party made it to the Times, those offenses wouldn’t be Vincent’s.
Percy cleared his throat faintly and raised his glass. “A toast to freedom!”
Everyone except Fawlkin raised their glasses. Sighs were audible. Vincent observed both his parents glancing hastily at Fawlkin, who still had soup on his chin. Vincent thought he saw a bead of perspiration on his father’s brow.
When everyone lowered their glasses, Fawlkin opened his mouth to speak, but Percy raised his glass again. “A toast to frivolity!”
Again, Fawlkin was the only one who refrained from raising his glass—instead he glowered at Percy. Grateful toward his friend, Vincent smiled at Percy and raised his glass in his direction before taking a sip of wine.
Once everyone’s glasses returned to the table, Fawlkin lifted his and gulped wine. “I can’t think frivolity something worthy of a toast. Far too much of it, eh, if ye ask me.”
Percy smiled placidly. “Frivolity and joy are to be appreciated and celebrated. What is the point of living this life if you cannot have joy?”
Papa raised his glass. “Well-said, dear boy. At our age, Fawlkin, we’re old enough to know life is too short to not enjoy what we can.”
Vincent raised his eyebrows, since his father was considerably younger than Fawlkin.
Percy smiled. “No matter what age one is, the world is full of hardship. Even members of high society can be brought down by affliction, melancholy, or bereavement from time to time. Life isn’t easy for anyone.”
Someone spoke under her breath. “Not even Sensitives.” Vincent scanned the faces around the table but couldn’t identify the speaker.
Papa raised his glass of port. “Here, here! Another toast to frivolity!” He didn’t wait for others to raise their glasses, which not everyone did. He gulped down before placing his glass back on the table. For the first time, Vincent wondered if his father had developed a habit of consuming too much alcohol.
However, that notion occupied the back reaches of his mind and hid behind Vincent’s disturbing awareness of Fawlkin’s presence. Vincent hadn’t felt remotely calm since he first caught site of Fawlkin. He felt jittery and almost inclined to believe this was a nightmare. It felt like a nightmare, one in which he was suppressing his outrage and attempting to keep a civil appearance in the presence of his worst enemy.
Percy turned to Vincent and patted his shoulder. Vincent blinked at him and wondered what his next step would be.
Percy raised his glass again and smiled at his friend. “It has been remiss of me not to add the most important toast of the evening. A toast to Vincent de Montmorency, the Viscount of Whisperwood, and his return to society!”
The general response around the table was happy if with a few too many nervous glances toward Fawlkin, whose face turned red. Everyone except him raised their glasses high. Percy set down his glass and smiled at everyone. “Vincent and I have called upon the best tailors and warehouses. I think I can safely say he is well-suited for society.”
The laughter sounded nervous.
Fawlkin emptied his glass and stretched his arm out toward a bottle, before a footman picked it up and poured for him. “Then it’d be a pity if he got himself back in prison, eh!”