The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 36
Witch’s Familiar & Whimsical Stories is out as a trade paperback!
Welcome back!
Witch’s Familiar:
In 1820s London, Judith’s mother is dying of consumption, and Judith toils for a milliner. A talking cat appears asking for Judith’s assistance and agrees to make a deal with Judith: if the girl helps the cat go home and save the witch with whom she lives, the witch will help Judith save her mother’s life.
The serialized ebook website Wormhole Electric published an earlier draft of Witch’s Familiar and included it in The Wormhole Electric Anthology (2011).
My fantasy novella Witch’s Familiar has had a long journey. It began as a short story back in the 1980s. I revised it as a university student and shared it with a fiction writing class. Since then, I expanded it into a novella, and its original publication was serialization as an e-book on the website Wormhole Electric… followed by The Wormhole Electric Anthology, which was an e-book on Smashwords in 2012. Today the revised and expanded edition is a trade paperback that includes short fantasy stories: Witch’s Familiar & Whimsical Stories. Fortunately, it doesn’t usually take me forty years to complete a book—Witch’s Familiar is an exception. Some stories need to be mulled and developed longer than others.
You can purchase the trade paperback Witch’s Familiar & Whimsical Stories here:
Now back to Vincent and his adventures in The Vanquished & the Surviving. Vincent learns something weird and disturbing about the head of the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections.
Chapter 1 of The Vanquished & the Surviving:
Well, at least that link works the way I wanted.
Chapter 35:
That makes two.
The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 36
Since his parents both had Sensitive powers, no matter how ordinary those powers were, they must sympathize with the victims of the Organization. Vincent didn’t honestly know whether he could confide in his father about the eye-cauldron symbol. He certainly felt disinclined to divulge to his father his upcoming antics against the Organization. He might appear to be almost an adult, but that wouldn’t be sufficient for parents who disliked stirring up social unrest.
Papa sat back and sipped his wine. “Well, Vincent, your mother and I coped, too, as best we could.” He knit his brow and shakily set down his glass. “Certainly, it was nothing like the sort of hardship you’ve been through. It sounds so solitary!”
Vincent froze and stared at his father. Was he blaming him for that imprisonment? It wasn’t as though he chose it. The son attempted to dismiss this thought as defensive and disrespectful—this was his father, after all.
Papa sipped from his glass and continued cheerfully prattling. “I enjoy my solitude in my study from time to time, certainly, but my dear boy, that wasn’t a wholesome amount of solitude. Perhaps it isn’t the best time to ask this, but… I hope you haven’t forgotten proper etiquette and such.”
Vincent grasped the arms of his chair. Per his memory, his father slipped away to his study, whether it was the one in London, or at Postlethwaite, quite frequently, shutting out the rest of the family.
Vincent gulped and shifted position. He hadn’t been in the habit of questioning his father, but now he felt less certain of him. He felt ill at ease with this parent, someone who might find manners more important than his son’s well-being. That resolved the question of whether to inform his father of his intention to lead, or at least help, a resistance. Papa would probably find such behavior improper. “No, no, of course not, Father. I don’t believe so. Though I shall need some lessons, to be sure.”
“Yes, yes, of course, dear boy. Dancing lessons, for instance. You don’t wish to make an utter fool of yourself at balls.”
“No, not in the least.” Vincent bit his lip. Here he was plotting to overthrow a menace to society, and his father was concerned about etiquette and dancing lessons. He hadn’t changed. Somehow, his father’s frivolity hadn’t irked him in the past… probably because he had been but a child. Why couldn’t his father feel grateful he wasn’t dead or still imprisoned?
“Yes, yes, quite right. Dancing lessons, a bit of a brush-up on etiquette I suspect, no matter what you say, dear boy. Certainly.” Vincent had forgotten that was one of Papa’s favorite words, especially when he was feeling uncomfortable and not entirely sure what to say. Roderick filled his glass before continuing. “We have been quieter than before, what with all the, well, demme if we weren’t experiencing a great deal of grief, what with you and your brother… er… gone.” His voice sank into a whisper. “Oh dear, I shouldn’t have mentioned that.” He swigged from his glass and picked up the bottle for a refill.
Vincent felt pressure on his heart and stinging in the corners of his eyes. He turned to gaze at the crackling fire and didn’t wish his father to see him weep. Perhaps if he kept his glass of wine in front of his face, his father wouldn’t observe his distress. Vincent heard his father return to his seat.
Roderick sighed shakily. His words tumbled out over each other. “It was so unnecessary. In any event, we still entertain at least once a month, certainly. We do have our dinner parties and soirees and such, even out here in the country.”
Vincent opened his mouth, but he didn’t know how to question his parents’ choice of so much celebration while one son was brutally murdered and the other unfairly imprisoned. He stared at his father and attempted in vain to search his mind for something to say. Seeing his father’s hands trembling as he frowned and grasped onto his wine glass with both hands, Vincent felt reassured that no matter what his father said, he nonetheless grieved for Nathaniel. Vincent supposed his father had always been uncomfortable with expressing emotions.
Papa cleared his throat and glanced at his son. “Really, you should take all those lessons here at Whisperwood before going to London for the Season. And good gad, you’ll need to visit tailors and haberdashers before anyone sees you in public. I don’t know where you got that get-up, but it looks like some flummery I wore at least ten twelvemonths ago.”
Vincent winced. He didn’t understand why, but he vaguely felt defensive. “It is something you wore in the past. One of the servants found it at Postlethwaite.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Egad, nobody wears knee-breeches nowadays, except at court. No matter, no expense is too much for our boy.”
Vincent glanced down at his glass and feared his feelings were disloyal and ungrateful. “Er, thank-you, Father.”
“Yes, we’ll have you fitted out well and ready to present to society in no time. Everyone will know you haven’t gone mad from that confinement—do excuse me, boy, but people have talked. They’ll know you’re still alive, which to tell you the truth not everyone believed. Do you know, it is a concern Beau Brummell brought up with me before he had to flee the country because of his debts.”
Papa shifted the discussion to the latest gossip he had heard, which apparently was several months ago, the last time he was in London. While he spoke, he paced the room and returned to the chair in front of the secretary. Vincent sensed Papa realized he wasn’t behaving quite as he should but didn’t know any better.
Vincent attended to his father’s words yet simultaneously managed to look about the room in as circumscribed a manner he could muster. He wondered if his parents kept large sheets of paper in this room, or if perhaps he needed only regular-sized sheets for his purposes. And what of paints, brushes, and paste? He allowed his eyes to hover for a few seconds on the tall secretary with double glass doors above a flip-down desk, below which were several drawers. He reflected that those drawers would be the most likely location, at least for the paper.
Papa was still speaking. Realizing he hadn’t been listening, Vincent focused on his father.
Papa placed his glass of Madeira on the nearest side table. “I hope you understand the reasons why we must use caution.”
“I’m sorry, Father. My mind wandered a bit. About what should we use caution?”
“Do excuse me, dear boy, I fear I’ve been droning on.”
“No, not at all, Father. I’m fatigued.”
“You must be perishing from your long journey.”
“No, only from my long imprisonment. And my stop at the headquarters of the Marshalls. That wasn’t terribly different from torture.”
Papa looked up from his desk and focused entirely on his son’s face, as though seeing him truly for the first time since he arrived. “Dear me.” The words came out as a whisper. Papa appeared to bump his knee on the desk, winced, and pulled out his chair. He rose and approached Vincent and embraced him with both arms this time. “What a terrible fool you must think me.”
Vincent closed his eyes and allowed himself to practically fall into his father’s arms. Papa smelled of alcohol. As they pulled apart, he patted his son’s shoulder. Vincent realized his father was correct about one thing: he was indeed exhausted and felt ready for bedrest, despite his soul yearning to spend time outdoors at last, not in the confines any manor house walls, not even this one. Yet his eyes felt sore, as though they had been open for too long.
Vincent resolved to simplify his plans by asking a servant to bring the desired items up to his personal suite, which consisted of a bedroom, dressing-room, and a cozy little sitting room. His parents didn’t often intrude there, at least not that he recalled since he passed the age of ten.
Papa rubbed his eyes and took out his pocket watch. “Dear me, look at the time. It is nigh three in the morning.”
“It has been quite a long night.”
Papa rose slowly from his chair. He seemed so much… older. “It is late indeed, and time I retire. Here, allow me to call a servant to show you to your room.”
“Ha, Father, there is no need. I should think I’d remember the way to my old bedroom.”
“Yes, yes, but you’ll need your valet, nonetheless.” Papa tugged on a bell pull and began heading for the door.
Vincent knew not whether his former valet, Archibald Ferris, remained with the family. He had been the valet for both Nathaniel and himself, and for the past three years he’d have had nobody for whom to valet. It didn’t take long for Ferris to arrive and, for the blink of an eye, stand in the doorway and stare at Vincent.
Vincent blinked. “Well, Ferris. It is… good to see you after all this time.”
Ferris had been no more than twenty-one years old when Vincent’s imprisonment began. Though the valet was only in his twenties, he appeared to have aged ten years since last they saw each other. His curly auburn hair seemed slightly thinner, and the faintest line appeared on the bridge of his nose. His light brown eyes appeared haunted. Vincent wondered what had aged him: the absence of Nathaniel and himself, or the mayhem the Organization generally caused.
“Yes, milord. The pleasure is mutual. Please, milord, come this way.” Candelabra in hand and shadows under his eyes, the valet lead his young master to the suite of rooms Vincent remembered, down to the blue velvet drapes. In the dressing room, Ferris helped Vincent change into a nightshirt and dressing gown.
Vincent settled into an armchair and picked up a book he’d discarded three years ago. “Ferris, what did you do whilst I was… away?”
“I was fortunate your parents needed another footman.”
“I see. You have been setting tables and such for three twelvemonths?”
“Yes, milord.”
“Oh, one thing before you leave.” Vincent eyed Ferris up and down and hoped he was as trustworthy as he had seemed so long ago, when Vincent realized he himself was still a child. Three years now seemed like three eons. “I have an unusual request.”
“Yes, milord?”
“Would it be possible for you to bring to my dressing room a stack of sizable white paper, along with red paint and paste?”
Ferris blinked but otherwise didn’t react. “Yes, milord.” He bowed while speaking.
“Thank you! I suppose you should also bring me some black ink and pens, for that matter. If I still have ink in my sitting room, it must have dried up by now.” As he spoke, he glanced toward the open door leading to the sitting room.
“Yes, milord. Very good, milord. Will that be all?”
“Yes, that’s excellent.”
The valet turned but then halted. He slowly rotated to look at the viscount, and Vincent noticed the crease in his brow.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Milord…”
“Do you have something to say? Please, say it. I care not if you consider it unimportant. I shall be the judge of that.”
“Yes, milord. Very well.” Ferris cleared his throat. “It is about Mr. Fawlkin.”
“Do tell. Anything you know about him. Er, I have a great deal of curiosity about… someone so… renowned and powerful.” Vincent resisted the temptation to add: Please tell me anything to help overthrow him. Oh… and please don’t tell people I wish to overthrow him.
“I shall be happy to do so, milord!” Ferris clasped his hands together, and a light came into his eyes.
Vincent surmised it was a light of hope. He raised his eyebrows and nodded for the valet to continue. He was becoming impatient with curiosity, though his life in the tower taught him patience.
Ferris cleared his throat again and gazed at the floor. “I thought you should know, milord. Mr. Fawlkin is a Soul-Eater, as were Lady Hester and Sir Hubert before him.”
Vincent’s shoulders sagged. “A Soul-Eater?” Vincent recollected a legend of such a creature and knew them to be rare.
“Yes, milord. This is perhaps the greatest reason why the people are mostly reluctant to act against him.” Ferris leaned forward and gazed at Vincent with widened, unblinking eyes. The connotation of this facial expression wasn’t lost on the viscount. He sensed his valet hoped Vincent would assist in the resistance, or possibly lead it. “They know he would eat their souls and perhaps those of their loved ones. It has become common knowledge.”
Vincent rose from his chair and began pacing. “How did you learn about this?”
“Gossip, milord. And pamphlets. At least one pamphlet. Perhaps… it is possible someone in the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections gossiped.”
“Someone who… dislikes their livelihood, perhaps?”
“Yes, as I’ve thought, milord. I think a great many people in that ministry aren’t happy with their line of work. There’s a lot of unrest in this country, but people are… quiet. They’re scared.”
Vincent whispered, “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Forgive me, milord, if I seem a bit presumptuous. You see, when I was fourteen, I was unjustly accused of a crime and spent a bit of time in gaol. Begging your pardon, but your situation reminded me of mine.”
Vincent exhaled and nodded slowly. “Fear not—I shall keep your secret.”
“Thank you, milord.”
“Thank you for your sympathy.”
Ferris bowed, but Vincent had more questions. He considered asking if Ferris wished him to lead a rebellion, but he dared not.
Vincent’s mind drifted back to the Soul-Eaters. “Eating souls? I almost dread asking… what does that entail? I knew about Lady Hester and Sir Hubert … and then… what they did…in front of me.” Vincent’s throat constricted, and he clutched it.
“I’m not clear on the details, milord, but they’re soulless individuals who gain strength, power, and longevity by feasting off other’s souls.”
Vincent felt giddy, and his knees weakened. He ungracefully dropped onto a blue velvet settee.
“Milord? I hope you are well—” Ferris stepped toward Vincent.
“Please, tell me all you know. Is that how…. Is that how they… killed him?” Vincent ended in a whisper.
“Yes, milord. I believe that’s the surest explanation. I mean to say… please forgive me, milord, for saying this, but… that’s exactly how Lady Hester and Sir Hubert, er, did… did away with your brother.”