Sallow tapped the folder in front of him. “Who can also pass on his … condition, in the form of a bite.”
“He can,” Arthur said. “And he did, once, in fear after an adult struck him while he was trying to get food. Who would you like to ask about next? Phee? She is a forest sprite who can already grow trees even though she isn’t yet a teenager, and who has taken to her role as an empathetic sister with gusto.” He grinned razor sharp. “No, I think you’re working your way toward one child in particular, aren’t you? You want to know about Lucy.” Larmina—and in turn, Doreen—had been right. This had never been about Arthur, or the wrongs of DICOMY. It was a fact-finding mission, and he’d played right into their hands, believing that some good could come from this.
Oppressive silence, leaving only the creaks and groans of Netherwicke.
“The Antichrist,” Burton finally said, grimacing as he did so.
“We don’t use that word,” Arthur said. “Not because we feel it’s wrong, but because everyone else seems to think that word means the end of all we know. I won’t have this child—or any other, for that matter—believing in such tripe.”
“Tripe?” Sallow asked. “There has never been one such as him before. What is he going to be capable of when he gets older? What if the world doesn’t twist to his every want and whim?”
“Since you’re speaking as if you know my son personally instead of only what’s written in his DICOMY file, I assume you have a point. What do these children have to do with my experiences under the rule of DICOMY?”
“Oh, he does have a point,” a sweet, musical voice said, causing Arthur to turn his head. Jeanine Rowder smiled, cocking her head. Her nose wrinkled slightly, as if she’d caught an unpleasant smell. “Perhaps it was a little artless, but what I believe my colleague is trying to say is something firmly in your wheelhouse, Mr. Parnassus. At least from what I understand.”
“And what would that be?” Arthur asked.
“A philosophical quandary. And since you brought up the Anti … Lucy, as you call him, I think the line of questioning is relevant, as it relates to their master.” She frowned, but it felt like an act. “Oh, that word just won’t do either, will it? The connotations! Let’s call you what you are. As the guardian of potentially dangerous magical youth, do you have a moral duty to act if you have knowledge that could potentially put innocent people at risk?”
Oh, this one, Arthur thought. This one is going to be trouble. “That depends on if you believe in utilitarianism or deontology. Utilitarianism revolves around the concept of the ends justifying the means, the belief that outcomes as the result of an action have greater value than the actual action itself. It is a consequence-oriented philosophy. Take, for instance, DICOMY and DICOMA.”
Burton began to sputter angrily, but Rowder held up her hand and he snapped his mouth closed.
Arthur continued. “I tend to adhere to the theory of deontology, the principles of Immanuel Kant which state that both the actions and the outcome must be ethical. Greater weight is placed upon the action’s morality, but it also says that a wrong action does not make its outcome the same.”
“That could also describe DICOMY, don’t you think?” Rowder asked, steepling her hands under her chin, never looking away from Arthur even as she smiled prettily. She didn’t give him a chance to respond. “But that’s a topic for another day. It seems to me we’re going about this all wrong. After all, this isn’t about the children, but Arthur Parnassus. He has graciously provided a harrowing account of his time under DICOMY’s purview, and I, for one, applaud his bravery.” Her smile melted into a mien of sticky sympathy. “It can’t have been easy, coming here.”
His skin thrummed, and he forced himself to take calm, even breaths. “It was not, but as I said before, it’s important.”
“Quite,” Rowder said. “And while I think there is relevance to hearing about your wards—especially since you have petitioned to adopt them all, haven’t you?—the fact remains they are, as you eloquently stated, just children.”
“In that, we agree.”
“Whose real parents are all … deceased.”
Tightening the screws. She knew the children were listening. “Seeing as how the word ‘orphan’ is part of ‘orphanage,’ yes, that is the case.”
“Why these children?”
Arthur blinked in surprise. “I don’t know what you—”
“Out of all the children in the world that fall under the watch of the Department in Charge of Magical Youth, why these six?”
“Because they needed a home.”
“I suppose that’s one reason,” she said. “But what about you, Mr. Parnassus? You are not a child. And, as much as it pains me to say, after everything you’ve been through, you should, by rights, be extraordinarily upset with DICOMY and DICOMA. From what I’ve heard in your testimony today, you are, and with good reason.”
“Once again, we are in agreement. Though I feel ‘upset’ is, perhaps, a euphemism.”
“Of course you do,” she said with a chuckle. “Let’s turn the focus back where it belongs, shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, she leaned forward quickly, a pair of violet half-moon glasses appearing as if by magic on the bridge of her nose as she looked down at the open file before her. “Dead parents. No siblings. No other family. Into a department orphanage at the age of seven.” She tsked, shaking her head. “How terribly sad, that. Positively awful. You have my sympathies. You are a phoenix, yes?”
Conversational whiplash, but that was her point, wasn’t it? To keep the ground rolling beneath his feet. “Yes. I am.”
She nodded. “Wonderful. Prove it.”
A murmur rolled through the crowd, a low sigh like the wind off the sea under a steel sky. “I beg your pardon?”
She looked surprised. “Oh, silly me. I thought I was being clear. Let me try again, and please let me know if there is still any misunderstanding. I am asking, Mr. Parnassus, that you prove you are what you say you are. I don’t think it’s asking too much. After all, no one at DICOMY or DICOMA has seen evidence since you were a child, and even then, it’s mostly secondhand reports.”
Haversford cleared her throat. “Councilwoman, I don’t think that—”
Rowder ignored her. “Mr. Parnassus?”
He hesitated only a moment before lifting his hand, palm raised toward the ceiling. He could hear the others shifting around him, all craning to see what he would do. Arthur paid them no mind. A small fire appeared above his hand, no bigger than the flame of a candle. It danced above his skin before he closed his fingers around it, snuffing it out, a small cloud of smoke rising from between his fingers.
Rowder blinked. “Is that … is that it? That’s what you can do?” She tsked again. “I must admit to being a little disappointed. From your files, I understood that not only can you take the shape of a phoenix, but it can act as an extension of yourself as well, independent, though under your control. What you just showed us is a parlor trick.” She sighed, sitting back in her chair.
Arthur bristled, knowing she wanted to get a rise out of him, but unable to do much to stop it. “I will not be made to dance for you. You think yourself better than me, and I—”
Her eyes widened. “Mr. Parnassus, I pride myself on being accepting of everyone, no matter their background or lot in life. Any suggestion to the contrary is not only false but slanderous, and I won’t stand for it. That being said, I have a job to do, one I don’t take lightly. Perhaps the files were wrong? As much as I hate to admit it, DICOMY and DICOMA have indeed made their share of mistakes. Extremely Upper Management, for one. Speaking of, Mr. Parnassus, do you know why EUM approved the Marsyas Island orphanage remaining open?”
“I’m afraid my powers do not extend to reading minds.”
“For which we’re all grateful,” Rowder said. “I must admit to finding it strange that EUM just … rolled over when it came to you.” Her eyes lit up as if a new thought had entered her head. “Unless it had to do with Charles Werner. You knew him, didn’t you? And to avoid any confusion, when I say you knew Mr. Werner, I mean intimately.”
“What does any of this have to do with—”
“Do you deny it, Mr. Parnassus?” she asked.