The crowd murmured around him.
“One million pounds,” Burton announced grandly, as if he’d scored a point in his favor, whatever that might be. “A godly sum, wouldn’t you agree? Especially to a child. Though I do empathize with your plight, Mr. Parnassus, I can’t help but think you’ve been adequately compensated. And now, instead of financial gain, you appear to be after a pound of flesh.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Arthur said. “Another might be that I was paid a settlement as penance for years of government-sanctioned abuse.”
“Now, see here,” Sallow said, eyes bulging. “There has never been sanctioned abuse. Why, the very idea is as preposterous as it is sickening. The RULES AND REGULATIONS clearly states that a child should not come to any harm, regardless if they’re magical or not.”
“Strange,” Arthur said. “Because according to public records from the three decades since I was taken from the island, DICOMY has had seventy-six masters accused of some form of abuse toward minors in their care. Twenty-seven were sacked. Five quit of their own accord, though they were given severance. The remaining masters were relocated after going through what was called sensitivity training. More than half of that group went on to have further allegations levied against them. As of today’s date, twelve are still active masters in orphanages around the country.” He looked from Burton to Haversford to Sallow to Rowder. Her eyes matched the stormy sky above: gray and flat. “If it wasn’t sanctioned by the government, that would suggest DICOMY has the unfortunate luck of recruiting people who feel physical abuse is necessary when dealing with children.”
“And how did you come by this knowledge?” Burton asked, a sour expression on his face. “I highly doubt public records were that specific.”
Secreted out by one Linus Baker, of course, before he left DICOMY. But Arthur wasn’t about to tell them that. “Do you deny it?”
Sallow puffed out his chest. “We are not the ones being interrogated here, Mr. Parnassus. You are.”
As the crowd began to murmur from above and behind him, Arthur watched as Haversford frowned, glancing at Sallow. She said nothing as she looked back at Arthur.
He arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware we’d moved on from voluntary testimony to interrogation. I might have prepared differently had I known that was going to be the case, especially in light of being in front of the Council of Utmost Importance.”
Sallow said, “It wasn’t … that’s not what I mean! I’m merely trying to—”
“You claim abuse,” Burton said.
Arthur nodded. “More than claim, but yes. While I won’t speak for others who have found themselves in a similar position, I can and will speak to my own experiences. That sort of abuse—the pain it causes—is cumulative. Whether physical or psychological, each new blow lands upon a wound not yet given time to heal. It builds until something has to give.”
“You were paid an exorbitant sum because of it.”
“Blood money,” Arthur said, voice clipped. “If you think for one moment I’d take the payment over my innocence, you’d be gravely mistaken. And since I know you’re all arbiters of truth and justice, I will add that, when cross-examined, my former abuser suggested that not only did DICOMY know about the abuse at the hands of the masters, it turned a blind eye.”
“Even if that were true,” Sallow said, “it was never meant to be permission or endorsement of that sort of conduct.”
“Do any of you have children?” Arthur asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, he said, “I have six. Children, especially while young, begin to learn the difference between what is right and what’s wrong. Many times, you must tell them no. And I dare you to find any child who won’t follow the word ‘no’ with the word ‘why’?”
A few in the crowd chuckled. Maybe even more than a few. Encouraging, but then people could be extremely fickle.
“And that’s to be expected,” Arthur continued. “Because their wonderful brains are growing just as they are. When you tell them no, you must explain the why of it, so as to provide them with context, boundaries. That’s how children learn. If you say nothing at all when a child does something they shouldn’t, to the child, it could imply permission. So I ask that you, as members of the government, explain why telling a child no is something we all agree is necessary for their growth—as discussed in the seminal tome RULES AND REGULATIONS, chapter four, from pages two fifty-seven to three forty-three, written by a former member of EUM—but you can’t do the same for adults who take advantage of the power dynamic. Are you concerned with them asking why? You shouldn’t be. They’re adults. They should know better.”
“I was punished as a child when I was wrong,” Burton said, eyes narrowed. “My father took a switch upside my rear when I stepped out of line, and I turned out just fine.”
I wouldn’t go that far, Arthur thought but didn’t say. He knew he was already walking a tightrope, and it wasn’t as taut as he’d hoped. “I’m sorry for that. I truly am. A child—human or otherwise—should never be struck as a form of punishment. It’s understood that one should never strike a pet such as a dog because it’s cruel, but when it comes to children, we’re supposed to think that it’s for their own good and they’ll turn out just fine?” He shook his head. “I refuse to believe that.”
Burton scoffed, waving his hand in dismissal. “You aren’t here to tell other people how to parent those in their care.”
“You’re right, I’m not. I’m here to provide evidence that children are suffering. That alone should give you pause. Do any of you know what it means to be unloved? How it feels?”
No answer, only silence. Thick, electric.
“Of course you don’t. You have friends. Family. You can never know the terrible feeling of having no one to love you. I know. I remember how that felt. No child should ever have to feel that way. They are our future. And yet, countless children go to bed every night in DICOMY-sanctioned orphanages, never knowing a kind word or a gentle hand.” Arthur shook his head. “How can you claim that it’s the children who are dangerous when you’ve done everything you can to back them into a corner?”
Sallow cleared his throat, looking wan. “Speaking of children. You have in your possession six children who—”
“‘Possession’ implies ownership,” Arthur said evenly. “I do not own anyone. Again, words matter, sir.”
“The fact remains that they are some of the most powerful beings in existence. Children capable of—”
“Being children?” Arthur asked. “Yes, they are.”
“Be that as it may, they are still children who can tap into an as yet unknown level of magic.” Sallow looked down at a folder in front of him. “Chauncey, for instance. What is he?”
Arthur shrugged. “We don’t know exactly. Isn’t that wonderful? But since you’re asking for something specific, Chauncey is a bellhop, and one of the very best.”
“What hotel would hire him?” Burton asked. “His appearance is … unsettling.”
“What hotel wouldn’t?” Arthur said. “They’d be lucky to have him, should there be an opening. And I think you meant to say ‘unique’ rather than ‘unsettling’ because I have it on good authority he’s handsome as crap.”
“Talia,” Sallow said. “A garden gnome.”
“Yes,” Arthur said. “But she’s so much more than that. She’s fierce, funny, and protective, and she digs some of the most perfect graves I’ve ever seen. Oh, and her begonias are the best in any garden.”
A familiar chuckle from behind him, and Arthur’s lips quirked.
“Theodore,” Haversford said. “A wyvern.”
“One of the smartest children I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. His hoard is unparalleled, and he’s recently learned how to land without tipping over. Quite impressive.”
Haversford chuckled. “And Sal?”
“A gifted writer who has grown before my eyes, both figuratively and literally. He’s coming into his own. I can’t wait to see the man he’ll become. I expect great things from him.”