“It’s still quite the risk,” Linus said.
“A time will come,” she said, “when all of us will have to make a choice between what is right and what is wrong. I worry that time is closer than we think. And I don’t know that we’re prepared. If Rowder continues on the path she’s on, then no one—not you, not your children, no one—is safe. This hearing isn’t meant to be a condemnation of DICOMY, DICOMA, Extremely Upper Management, or the practices of said departments, past, present, or future. It’s a PR campaign.”
“To what end?” Linus asked.
“The complete and total annihilation of the reputation of one Arthur Parnassus.”
Arthur and Linus exchanged a glance. When Arthur looked back at Larmina, he said one word, and one word only: “Why?”
FIVE
“Please state your name for the record.”
“Arthur Franklin Parnassus.”
“Mr. Parnassus, do you affirm that the testimony you have agreed to provide today will be truthful?”
“Yes.”
“And to confirm, you are without a representative.”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand that you are entitled to have a representative present?”
“Yes.”
“And you are choosing to continue, knowing what you say is being broadcast live around the country.”
“Yes.”
The man settled against his high-backed chair, hands folded on the table in front of him. The other committee members—two women, one man—sat in similar chairs on a raised stone dais, putting them at least three feet above Arthur, each under a powerful spotlight shining down from above. Arthur sat at a smaller table in the dim light of the rest of the courtroom with a single microphone set before him next to a glass of water and a half-empty pitcher. Behind them and attached to the wall, an electronic reader with red words moving from the right to the left, reminding everyone in attendance that there were to be no outbursts, no interruptions, and that such things if they occurred would lead to the immediate dismissal of the person with no questions asked, regardless of their intent.
The chambers—called Netherwicke—were enormous, made of dark wood and stone. It was as if the absence of color that engulfed the city had leached its way into these hallowed halls, leaving behind only the dreary brown-black of coffee dregs at the bottom of a mug. The floors creaked, the walls groaned. The ceiling was a dome-like structure made entirely of glass, revealing a dark, windswept sky, the clouds heavy, rain falling in sheets. The smell of the downpour had seeped its way into Netherwicke, thick and wet, mingling with the scents of old wood and parchment.
It was strangely quiet, given the hundreds of people sitting in the hall. Behind Arthur were rows and rows of reporters, the public, and more than a few elected officials. Though he didn’t turn around, Arthur knew Linus was sitting directly behind him, a wooden railing separating them. Above them—to the right and left—a second-floor gallery opened up to the hall below. This, too, was filled with people, representatives of the government, their faces mostly hidden by shadows, gesturing as they leaned over and whispered to one another.
Arthur ignored them all, his focus firmly on the four people sitting before him. The man who’d spoken first was older, his face lined with canyons. His white hair appeared to have migrated from his head to his ears, curly tufts sticking out. He—like his colleagues—wore a black robe, the arms of which were a tad too long, falling over the backs of his hands. The nameplate before him declared him to simply be BURTON.
Next to him, a grandmotherly figure, her hair a pile of pink candy floss, a pair of gold spectacles sitting on the bridge of her nose attached to a beaded chain around her neck. Her painted-on eyebrows gave her an appearance of perpetual surprise. Her nameplate read HAVERSFORD.
The third person was a young man who looked as if he would still get asked to verify his age when he went to a pub. He was a fidgety sort, and his black hair was slicked back and shone wetly in the overhead lights. He had a nervous habit of chewing on his fingernails and seemed a bit ill at the sight of so many people before him. The plate named him as SALLOW.
And then there was the last: Jeanine Rowder. At ease in front of the audience, barely giving them any notice aside from the flick of her cool gaze toward the second floor. Roughly Arthur’s age, she was a tall woman with robes that billowed as she took her seat, smiling widely before sitting down. Her shoulder-length hair was a soft shade of reddish-brown, her teeth perfect little squares of white. She looked like anyone Arthur would pass in the street, but there was something off about her, something that chilled Arthur to the bone. Perhaps it was the way she held herself: shoulders squared, posture perfect. Or perhaps it was the way she barely acknowledged his presence, glancing dismissively in his direction once or twice, her focus mostly on the stack of folders she had sitting before her. Burton, Haversford, and Sallow, too, had folders, though nowhere near the number Rowder had. And hers appeared to have dozens of tabs, marking what, Arthur didn’t know.
Burton appeared to have seniority, as he spoke for the rest of them. “The Council of Utmost Importance is gathered here today, facing a question that never seems to have a satisfactory answer, at least not one that can be agreed upon by a majority. What is to be made of the magical community? This has—”
Arthur leaned forward and cleared his throat pointedly into the microphone.
A low titter rolled through the crowd.
Burton frowned. “Yes?”
“Apologies, sir,” Arthur said. “But you have made it a point to ensure my honesty, which I appreciate. To keep things fair, I ask that you do the same.”
The titter turned into a rumble.
“I beg your pardon?” Burton snapped.
Arthur adjusted the microphone. “You said that no answer has been agreed upon by a majority. Hopefully you’re aware of the government-sponsored poll from six years ago that showed fifty-one percent of those asked believed that any and all magical beings should have the same rights as their human counterparts. Though this poll declined to invite anyone magical to participate, I believe fifty-one percent of respondents is still a majority. Again, my apologies for the interruption, but it’s important that the record show there is a majority.” He smiled. “Granted, the government’s response to the findings was to launch the ‘see something, say something’ campaign, so I can understand how there might be some confusion.”
“Mr. Parnassus,” Burton said sternly. “There is an order to these proceedings. Please refrain from speaking unless it is your time to, or you have been asked a direct question. Understood?”
Arthur nodded.
Burton waited a beat and then resumed. “We are at a crossroads. The purpose of this hearing—and any that may follow—is to determine what, if any, changes need to be made to the current RULES AND REGULATIONS that govern the magical community. As has been covered by the press ad nauseum, the Departments in Charge of Magical Youth and Magical Adults have recently come under heavy scrutiny. With the dissolution of Extremely Upper Management, the departments are without permanent leadership.” He folded his hands. “To that end, Mr. Parnassus has been invited to give evidence as he finds himself in a unique position: not only did he live in one of the government-sanctioned orphanages in his youth, he is currently the master of the same orphanage, located on Marsyas Island.” He looked down at the folders before him, lifting one of the pages. “As of today’s date, there are six children occupying this—”
“Living,” Arthur said.
Burton pinched the bridge of his nose. “What was that?”
Arthur leaned toward his microphone. “You said occupying as if they were some sort of invading force. They don’t occupy their—our home. They live there. Perhaps that’s semantics, but I believe words matter.”
“Mr. Parnassus, I’ll warn you one last time. I do not like being interrupted.”
“Understood, sir. But if we’re going to determine the best path forward, I’m sure you would agree to avoid language that some might consider offensive.”
Burton gaped at him. “And who might be offended?”
