Existentially Challenged, page 21
victor: Power level? That’s not a thing. That’s only a thing in Dragon Ball Z.
adam: Victor, would you please just answer me . . .
victor: What are you expecting here? Even if that was me, do you really think I’d say so if you asked? You think I’d crumble under interrogation by the butternut squash that walks like a man?
adam: Whuh . . .
victor: You actually thought it was me. You actually jumped to that conclusion. What happened to trust?
adam: Oh! Oh! Trust? Like how I, I trusted you with all my, my colors?
victor: Sorry, you’re going to have to run that through the butternut-squash-to-human translator for me.
adam: How did the Modern Miracle people know exactly what shade of pink to light the room with so my senses couldn’t tell who had healing magic?
victor: Oh, come on. I can’t be the only person you’ve told that to.
adam: I told you and I told Archibald. And Archibald only leaves his basement when his tea urn needs filling. Be honest. Did you tell someone at Modern Miracle about my pink?
victor: I told you I don’t even post on the forum!
adam: Have you told someone who does?
victor: I . . . um.
adam: You bastard!
victor: Well, maybe I didn’t realize it was classified information! You were always pretty sodding free with it. Usually whenever I wasn’t the slightest bit interested. And it doesn’t mean I was out murdering Alison or whatever.
adam: You pass information to suspects, and then there’s a pyrokinetic on the scene destroying evidence for the suspects. What am I supposed to think?
victor: You could always just believe me when I say it wasn’t me, because we’ve been friends for years and that actually means more to you than trying to suck up to the boss.
adam: Victor . . . you do realize, if anyone other than me found out about this, you’d probably be fired, like, instantly.
victor: Oh. What a threat. Whatever will I do if I can’t sit around the cafeteria all day. I’ll have to go to a Starbucks to make sculptures out of their sugar packets instead.
adam: Be serious.
victor: I’m being totally serious. Because it turns out I can splatter monsters for the government for years and it absolutely counts for bugger all the moment something can get pinned on me.
adam: Oh, come on . . .
victor: No. It’s all been made perfectly clear to me now. Tell Danvers and the rest that they don’t have to worry about keeping me on anymore, I quit. Tell them the next time you have one of your meetings. If your voice isn’t too muffled.
[Long pause.]
adam: Why would my voice be muffled?
victor: Because you’ll be kissing their bottoms the whole time. Should’ve made that clearer. So yeah, good luck dealing with the next big monster attack. Maybe you could kiss its bottom till it dies.
Call ends 10:13 p.m.
THE NEXT EVENING
34
“That was Shgshthx and the Shgshthxes,” said Shgshthx the TV presenter, effortlessly oozing charisma, as well as another substance that was becoming very smelly under the studio lights. “Playing their hit fart single again. Always great to hear the noises that come out of those boys.” He was stalling expertly as a small platoon of off-camera technicians wiped off the other part of the stage.
“Now,” said Shgshthx, turning to camera as his close-up began. “It’s the debate that’s sweeping the nation, and it started right here with one man asking one simple question: Can religion and magic get along? If they can’t, what should we do? Build an ark? Have a crusade? To answer all these questions, we’ve invited two guests to hash it out once and for all. First, please welcome back to the show the man who was the start of it all, the high priest of the Cult of El-Yetch, Miracle Dad!”
The camera cut to one end of the couch, where Miracle Dad grinned and waved in acceptance of the token applause. His colorful T-shirt and the way he bounced eagerly in his seat made him look like a contestant gearing up for their chance to totally humiliate themselves in some kind of brightly colored teatime game show.
“And representing the Anglican Church, and religion in general,” continued Shgshthx, “please welcome Miracle Dad’s own parish vicar, the Reverend Simon Frobisher.”
“Good evening,” said the vicar, with a nod. He was the same thin white-haired vicar that Adam had spoken to after William Shaw’s funeral. He smiled nervously to the camera as his eyes darted around, looking like a weak-willed teacher realizing only in this moment that he had been volunteered for the ducking stool at the school fair.
“Reverend Frobisher, let’s start with you,” said Shgshthx, arranging himself into a rather abstract shape that somehow successfully evoked an interested cross-legged, cocked-head pose. “The church has had a lot of harsh things to say about magic throughout history, hasn’t it? What’s the official position now?”
The vicar laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, we’ve had a pretty poor record on that, haven’t we? Don’t worry, I don’t think the church will be starting up any witch trials in this day and age, ha, ha.” His laughter trailed off into silence, broken only by a single embarrassed cough from the audience. “You’d actually be surprised to see how up on current thinking the modern church is. We believe there’s room on God’s earth for everyone. Magic and, er, not so much.”
“What a load of bollocks,” declared Miracle Dad, proudly sitting fully upright as he spoke.
Shgshthx broke the surprised silence that followed. “Miracle Dad?” he prompted, after quickly glancing at the offscreen producer and seeing an enthusiastic double thumbs-up.
“It’s bollocks,” said Miracle Dad, still grinning chummily. “They do this every time. Everyone starts liking something religion doesn’t like, and, oh lo and behold, turns out God actually likes this thing because it’s popular now. They’re doing it with magic. They did it with gays. And Muslims. And women voting.”
“Well, the, the, interpretation of God’s will has always been an ongoing process,” said the vicar. “It’s like a science.”
“Never had that problem with my god,” said Miracle Dad. “Interpreting the will of El-Yetch is easy. I just ask her. ’Cos she lives in my daughter. If I wanna know if she wants Weetabix for breakfast, she can just tell me. I don’t get a team of experts to go over her nappies from five years ago and argue about it.”
The vicar laughed at Miracle Dad’s joke for slightly longer than the audience did. “Well,” he said. “That certainly does sound a lot more convenient. But just because El-Yetch is in easier reach doesn’t change the fact that our church has been around for many hundreds of years, and that many millions of people all around the world take a lot of comfort from their faith in the Lord, whether or not He truly exists.”
“What do you think of that, Miracle Dad?” pushed Shgshthx. “Is there room in the world for both your god and the gods that are more, shall we say, existentially challenged?”
“Hey, I’d say we’re all entitled to believe whatever rubbish we want,” said Miracle Dad charitably. “But it’s not up to me, is it? It’s a matter of the law now. The X-Appropriation Act says you can’t say you’ve got magic powers or that you worship something with magic powers if they aren’t really magic. So I’m just asking questions on behalf of all those people getting arrested now for saying they believe in crystals and homeopathy and all that. And for all the magic kids who remember when the law was to keep them all locked up. How is the church not breaking the law?”
“Reverend?” asked Shgshthx as the vicar’s terrified silence dragged on. “I think what Miracle Dad is asking is: how can you prove that God exists?”
“The, the Lord is all around us,” said the vicar, sweat visibly beading on his brow. “You can see Him in the beauty of trees, the faces of children . . .”
“Mmm,” said Shgshthx. “But let’s say you have to prove it in a court-admissible sort of way.”
“Well . . . obviously we can’t,” said the vicar sheepishly. “B-but you can’t prove that He doesn’t exist either.”
“Oh yeah, that’s the usual line, isn’t it,” scoffed Miracle Dad. “Unfortunately we’re in the world of law now, and in law there’s this lovely little thing called ‘the burden of proof.’ And the burden of proof is first and foremost on the party claiming, not the party refuting the claim.” He winked to camera, and in the living room of a faraway apartment the Modern Miracle forumite who had typed up four paragraphs explaining this concept to Miracle Dad felt extremely gratified. “So I’ll ask you again. Where’s your proof?”
“I mean, it’s,” stammered the vicar, looking from Miracle Dad to Shgshthx before finally hunching his shoulders and leaning close to Miracle Dad. “Come on, Gus, why are you doing this to me?”
“What did you call him?” asked Shgshthx as Miracle Dad’s eyes and mouth popped wide in astonishment.
“Gus. It’s his name. Gus Arkwright.” The vicar looked around in bafflement as he took in the shocked faces of every person in the crew and audience. “What’s the matter? I’m his parish vicar. I officiated his wedding.”
“Did you just doxx me?!” exclaimed Miracle Dad, recoiling in horror. Someone in the audience shrieked in affronted disbelief.
“We may just have had a doxxing on air,” muttered Shgshthx into the earpiece mike that had been subtly draped over the side of his bathtub.
“I can’t believe I just got doxxed by the church!” said Miracle Dad, rising from his seat. A growing hubbub was developing. Several people in the audience were booing, and a distant producer was yelling at someone.
In the middle of it all, the vicar sat flinching like a meerkat on a busy traffic roundabout. “What? What did I do wrong? How can it be doxxing to say what someone’s name is?”
“Someone cut his mike!” yelled the producer.
“If you’re just joining us, I’m afraid we have just experienced a live doxxing,” said Shgshthx to camera. “Miracle Dad, on behalf of the show, let me extend my full apologies and assurance that we will strive to be better.”
“Thanks, I suppose,” said Miracle Dad, arms folded. “Not like that’s going to undoxx me, is it?”
“Er, we’d better end the debate there. Why don’t we get Shgshthx and the Shgshthxes back on to play us out?” The technicians on the other end of the stage, still holding mops, collectively palmed their faces.
Before long, the chaos and the hubbub were drowned out by the rhythmic squelches of the fluidic band, and the audience settled down. By then, Miracle Dad had already stormed out, and the only lingering trace of the debate was the Reverend Frobisher, who was tactfully led out of the building by an uncommunicative runner, all the while politely requesting that someone explain what doxxing was.
Posts from Twitter (names redacted):
N—— posted:
Complete insanity. They seriously want to put Jesus Christ on trial? What’s the plan after that, prosecute Mother Nature for Hurricane Katrina?
F—— posted:
I’m with Miracle Dad. It’s high time we reexamined the place of the church in modern society. What better way to do that than a public trial? Seems only fair after what they did to Galileo.
W—— posted:
What I’m taking from all of this is that this new generation of magic-using kids is pathologically incapable of respect. They don’t respect tradition, they don’t respect ancient institutions like the church, they don’t even respect the laws of physics.
F—— replied:
If only the magic users would show the church all the respect and dignity the church has shown magic users over the years. Maybe they could politely and respectfully pull out a nice comfortable ducking stool for it to sit on.
L—— replied:
yeah plus I heard they doxx people now
THE NEXT DAY
35
Richard Danvers and Elizabeth Lawrence had lately gotten into the unspoken habit of sharing an office for the first few hours of the day. This was mainly for defense; it minimized the chances of either of them getting cornered by Anderson. That morning, Richard was taking up space on the couch in Elizabeth’s office, going through the first few reports of the day on his laptop. His free arm was propped up on its elbow, holding aloft a steaming mug of tea like a lighthouse in the mist.
“Seen the school report?” he said. “Enrollments went up ten percent in the last six months.”
“Mm,” said Elizabeth, staring at her own computer screen and only half listening. A few moments of thought later, she sat back, tapping her index fingernail upon the desk. “That might call for further analysis.”
Danvers raised an eyebrow. “You think?”
“We’re seeing an increase in magical infusions in young people,” said Elizabeth. “That may be a cause for concern.”
“Or an increase in young people willing to admit they have magical infusions,” said Danvers. “Now it’s declassified, and legal, and dare I say, fashionable.”
“Even so, I’d expect the increase to plateau sooner than this,” said Elizabeth, typing a note to herself. “I’ll ask Archibald to monitor the situation.”
There was a knock on the office door. A short and timid knock, the kind of knock that would like to be heard if it wasn’t too inconvenient but half hopes to be ignored or mistaken for some other sound so that it can go away for a while and come back when it felt slightly readier to face the day.
“Come in, Alison,” said Elizabeth. “And close the door.”
Alison did so, although at first she only poked her head in to get a quick lay of the terrain. Some of the tension noticeably disappeared from her muscles when she saw Richard Danvers. There was something immediately reassuring about the way he was lounging on the sofa with his cup of tea, looking as if he’d only temporarily mislaid his dressing gown and slippers.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Alison, after closing the door carefully enough that it barely made a sound.
“Don’t apologize, almost everyone’s late today,” sighed Danvers. “Take it your train was delayed by a protest? Or was it a counterprotest?”
“Um. Counter-counter-counterprotest.”
Elizabeth glanced up from her monitor. “Hm?”
“Well, it started with some religious people protesting at the Ministry of Justice,” said Alison, standing in the middle of the room and fidgeting with her fingers as she spoke. “Then some pro-magic students counterprotested them. Then there was a counter-counterprotest from, you know, some of those online right-wing people? The ones that might be doing it ironically?”
“The ones wearing Pilgrim hats and carrying around witch-burning stakes,” said Elizabeth, nodding.
“Um. Yeah. It was the counterprotest to them that delayed my train.”
“At the risk of sounding immodest,” said Danvers, “I’m very glad we declared neutrality as early as we did. Both sides seem to be respecting that.”
“That may change if the protests become less civil,” pointed out Elizabeth.
“True,” said Danvers, swallowing tea. “But we’re not in with-us-or-against-us mode yet.”
Alison had taken the seat in front of Elizabeth’s desk. “Um. Anderson’s in the building,” she said. When Danvers’s mug froze midway to his lips she quickly added, “I saw him in the lift, but he got off at a different department.”
“Thanks for the warning,” he muttered, before taking a long gulp.
“He was shouting into the phone about that last Miracle Dad interview,” continued Alison. “The person he was shouting at, he was saying that he could put them in touch with someone who could ‘give Miracle Dad a run for his money.’ ”
“His exact words?” said Elizabeth.
“He said another word between ‘Miracle’ and ‘Dad,’ but I didn’t want to say that one,” reported Alison dutifully.
“Hm,” said Elizabeth. “It probably won’t be relevant.”
“Still, it’s useful to be abreast of all the details,” added Danvers, with a hint of reproach toward Elizabeth when he saw Alison’s eyes drop.
“In any case.” Elizabeth tapped her Enter key with a slight flourish to signal the completion of her current task, then pushed her laptop to one side. “You said Diablerie has resurfaced?”
Alison leaned forward. “Yes. He was hiding out in Worcester for the last week or so, keeping an eye on Modern Miracle, I think.”
“Any specific reason?” asked Elizabeth.
“I’m not sure, but he was living in a tunnel right next to the little shrine where the third vampire victim was.”
Elizabeth’s change of expression, and the gesture with which Danvers set down his mug of tea, might as well have been accompanied with the tolling of an ominous bell. Alison flinched.
“What third vampire victim?” asked Elizabeth, the words firing one by one from her mouth like poison darts from a blowpipe.
“Oh,” said Alison, unconsciously drawing her legs up into a fetal position as the two administrators bored into her with their stares. “Adam said he would call it in. After he looked at the scene. Did he not do that?”
Danvers closed his laptop as if turning over the last page of a very disappointing book. “No, I was not aware of a third body,” he said, rising to his feet. “Neither was I aware that Adam was in the field.”
Whoops, thought Alison as Danvers walked stiff-leggedly across the room to the door, opened it, and scanned the visible offices and cubicles as if standing on the prow of a battleship. “Mr. Hesketh!” he yelled, seeing his prey.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Danvers” came Adam’s voice from across the office floor. “Sorry I’m late. My train was delayed by a counter-counter-counter-counter—”
adam: Victor, would you please just answer me . . .
victor: What are you expecting here? Even if that was me, do you really think I’d say so if you asked? You think I’d crumble under interrogation by the butternut squash that walks like a man?
adam: Whuh . . .
victor: You actually thought it was me. You actually jumped to that conclusion. What happened to trust?
adam: Oh! Oh! Trust? Like how I, I trusted you with all my, my colors?
victor: Sorry, you’re going to have to run that through the butternut-squash-to-human translator for me.
adam: How did the Modern Miracle people know exactly what shade of pink to light the room with so my senses couldn’t tell who had healing magic?
victor: Oh, come on. I can’t be the only person you’ve told that to.
adam: I told you and I told Archibald. And Archibald only leaves his basement when his tea urn needs filling. Be honest. Did you tell someone at Modern Miracle about my pink?
victor: I told you I don’t even post on the forum!
adam: Have you told someone who does?
victor: I . . . um.
adam: You bastard!
victor: Well, maybe I didn’t realize it was classified information! You were always pretty sodding free with it. Usually whenever I wasn’t the slightest bit interested. And it doesn’t mean I was out murdering Alison or whatever.
adam: You pass information to suspects, and then there’s a pyrokinetic on the scene destroying evidence for the suspects. What am I supposed to think?
victor: You could always just believe me when I say it wasn’t me, because we’ve been friends for years and that actually means more to you than trying to suck up to the boss.
adam: Victor . . . you do realize, if anyone other than me found out about this, you’d probably be fired, like, instantly.
victor: Oh. What a threat. Whatever will I do if I can’t sit around the cafeteria all day. I’ll have to go to a Starbucks to make sculptures out of their sugar packets instead.
adam: Be serious.
victor: I’m being totally serious. Because it turns out I can splatter monsters for the government for years and it absolutely counts for bugger all the moment something can get pinned on me.
adam: Oh, come on . . .
victor: No. It’s all been made perfectly clear to me now. Tell Danvers and the rest that they don’t have to worry about keeping me on anymore, I quit. Tell them the next time you have one of your meetings. If your voice isn’t too muffled.
[Long pause.]
adam: Why would my voice be muffled?
victor: Because you’ll be kissing their bottoms the whole time. Should’ve made that clearer. So yeah, good luck dealing with the next big monster attack. Maybe you could kiss its bottom till it dies.
Call ends 10:13 p.m.
THE NEXT EVENING
34
“That was Shgshthx and the Shgshthxes,” said Shgshthx the TV presenter, effortlessly oozing charisma, as well as another substance that was becoming very smelly under the studio lights. “Playing their hit fart single again. Always great to hear the noises that come out of those boys.” He was stalling expertly as a small platoon of off-camera technicians wiped off the other part of the stage.
“Now,” said Shgshthx, turning to camera as his close-up began. “It’s the debate that’s sweeping the nation, and it started right here with one man asking one simple question: Can religion and magic get along? If they can’t, what should we do? Build an ark? Have a crusade? To answer all these questions, we’ve invited two guests to hash it out once and for all. First, please welcome back to the show the man who was the start of it all, the high priest of the Cult of El-Yetch, Miracle Dad!”
The camera cut to one end of the couch, where Miracle Dad grinned and waved in acceptance of the token applause. His colorful T-shirt and the way he bounced eagerly in his seat made him look like a contestant gearing up for their chance to totally humiliate themselves in some kind of brightly colored teatime game show.
“And representing the Anglican Church, and religion in general,” continued Shgshthx, “please welcome Miracle Dad’s own parish vicar, the Reverend Simon Frobisher.”
“Good evening,” said the vicar, with a nod. He was the same thin white-haired vicar that Adam had spoken to after William Shaw’s funeral. He smiled nervously to the camera as his eyes darted around, looking like a weak-willed teacher realizing only in this moment that he had been volunteered for the ducking stool at the school fair.
“Reverend Frobisher, let’s start with you,” said Shgshthx, arranging himself into a rather abstract shape that somehow successfully evoked an interested cross-legged, cocked-head pose. “The church has had a lot of harsh things to say about magic throughout history, hasn’t it? What’s the official position now?”
The vicar laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, we’ve had a pretty poor record on that, haven’t we? Don’t worry, I don’t think the church will be starting up any witch trials in this day and age, ha, ha.” His laughter trailed off into silence, broken only by a single embarrassed cough from the audience. “You’d actually be surprised to see how up on current thinking the modern church is. We believe there’s room on God’s earth for everyone. Magic and, er, not so much.”
“What a load of bollocks,” declared Miracle Dad, proudly sitting fully upright as he spoke.
Shgshthx broke the surprised silence that followed. “Miracle Dad?” he prompted, after quickly glancing at the offscreen producer and seeing an enthusiastic double thumbs-up.
“It’s bollocks,” said Miracle Dad, still grinning chummily. “They do this every time. Everyone starts liking something religion doesn’t like, and, oh lo and behold, turns out God actually likes this thing because it’s popular now. They’re doing it with magic. They did it with gays. And Muslims. And women voting.”
“Well, the, the, interpretation of God’s will has always been an ongoing process,” said the vicar. “It’s like a science.”
“Never had that problem with my god,” said Miracle Dad. “Interpreting the will of El-Yetch is easy. I just ask her. ’Cos she lives in my daughter. If I wanna know if she wants Weetabix for breakfast, she can just tell me. I don’t get a team of experts to go over her nappies from five years ago and argue about it.”
The vicar laughed at Miracle Dad’s joke for slightly longer than the audience did. “Well,” he said. “That certainly does sound a lot more convenient. But just because El-Yetch is in easier reach doesn’t change the fact that our church has been around for many hundreds of years, and that many millions of people all around the world take a lot of comfort from their faith in the Lord, whether or not He truly exists.”
“What do you think of that, Miracle Dad?” pushed Shgshthx. “Is there room in the world for both your god and the gods that are more, shall we say, existentially challenged?”
“Hey, I’d say we’re all entitled to believe whatever rubbish we want,” said Miracle Dad charitably. “But it’s not up to me, is it? It’s a matter of the law now. The X-Appropriation Act says you can’t say you’ve got magic powers or that you worship something with magic powers if they aren’t really magic. So I’m just asking questions on behalf of all those people getting arrested now for saying they believe in crystals and homeopathy and all that. And for all the magic kids who remember when the law was to keep them all locked up. How is the church not breaking the law?”
“Reverend?” asked Shgshthx as the vicar’s terrified silence dragged on. “I think what Miracle Dad is asking is: how can you prove that God exists?”
“The, the Lord is all around us,” said the vicar, sweat visibly beading on his brow. “You can see Him in the beauty of trees, the faces of children . . .”
“Mmm,” said Shgshthx. “But let’s say you have to prove it in a court-admissible sort of way.”
“Well . . . obviously we can’t,” said the vicar sheepishly. “B-but you can’t prove that He doesn’t exist either.”
“Oh yeah, that’s the usual line, isn’t it,” scoffed Miracle Dad. “Unfortunately we’re in the world of law now, and in law there’s this lovely little thing called ‘the burden of proof.’ And the burden of proof is first and foremost on the party claiming, not the party refuting the claim.” He winked to camera, and in the living room of a faraway apartment the Modern Miracle forumite who had typed up four paragraphs explaining this concept to Miracle Dad felt extremely gratified. “So I’ll ask you again. Where’s your proof?”
“I mean, it’s,” stammered the vicar, looking from Miracle Dad to Shgshthx before finally hunching his shoulders and leaning close to Miracle Dad. “Come on, Gus, why are you doing this to me?”
“What did you call him?” asked Shgshthx as Miracle Dad’s eyes and mouth popped wide in astonishment.
“Gus. It’s his name. Gus Arkwright.” The vicar looked around in bafflement as he took in the shocked faces of every person in the crew and audience. “What’s the matter? I’m his parish vicar. I officiated his wedding.”
“Did you just doxx me?!” exclaimed Miracle Dad, recoiling in horror. Someone in the audience shrieked in affronted disbelief.
“We may just have had a doxxing on air,” muttered Shgshthx into the earpiece mike that had been subtly draped over the side of his bathtub.
“I can’t believe I just got doxxed by the church!” said Miracle Dad, rising from his seat. A growing hubbub was developing. Several people in the audience were booing, and a distant producer was yelling at someone.
In the middle of it all, the vicar sat flinching like a meerkat on a busy traffic roundabout. “What? What did I do wrong? How can it be doxxing to say what someone’s name is?”
“Someone cut his mike!” yelled the producer.
“If you’re just joining us, I’m afraid we have just experienced a live doxxing,” said Shgshthx to camera. “Miracle Dad, on behalf of the show, let me extend my full apologies and assurance that we will strive to be better.”
“Thanks, I suppose,” said Miracle Dad, arms folded. “Not like that’s going to undoxx me, is it?”
“Er, we’d better end the debate there. Why don’t we get Shgshthx and the Shgshthxes back on to play us out?” The technicians on the other end of the stage, still holding mops, collectively palmed their faces.
Before long, the chaos and the hubbub were drowned out by the rhythmic squelches of the fluidic band, and the audience settled down. By then, Miracle Dad had already stormed out, and the only lingering trace of the debate was the Reverend Frobisher, who was tactfully led out of the building by an uncommunicative runner, all the while politely requesting that someone explain what doxxing was.
Posts from Twitter (names redacted):
N—— posted:
Complete insanity. They seriously want to put Jesus Christ on trial? What’s the plan after that, prosecute Mother Nature for Hurricane Katrina?
F—— posted:
I’m with Miracle Dad. It’s high time we reexamined the place of the church in modern society. What better way to do that than a public trial? Seems only fair after what they did to Galileo.
W—— posted:
What I’m taking from all of this is that this new generation of magic-using kids is pathologically incapable of respect. They don’t respect tradition, they don’t respect ancient institutions like the church, they don’t even respect the laws of physics.
F—— replied:
If only the magic users would show the church all the respect and dignity the church has shown magic users over the years. Maybe they could politely and respectfully pull out a nice comfortable ducking stool for it to sit on.
L—— replied:
yeah plus I heard they doxx people now
THE NEXT DAY
35
Richard Danvers and Elizabeth Lawrence had lately gotten into the unspoken habit of sharing an office for the first few hours of the day. This was mainly for defense; it minimized the chances of either of them getting cornered by Anderson. That morning, Richard was taking up space on the couch in Elizabeth’s office, going through the first few reports of the day on his laptop. His free arm was propped up on its elbow, holding aloft a steaming mug of tea like a lighthouse in the mist.
“Seen the school report?” he said. “Enrollments went up ten percent in the last six months.”
“Mm,” said Elizabeth, staring at her own computer screen and only half listening. A few moments of thought later, she sat back, tapping her index fingernail upon the desk. “That might call for further analysis.”
Danvers raised an eyebrow. “You think?”
“We’re seeing an increase in magical infusions in young people,” said Elizabeth. “That may be a cause for concern.”
“Or an increase in young people willing to admit they have magical infusions,” said Danvers. “Now it’s declassified, and legal, and dare I say, fashionable.”
“Even so, I’d expect the increase to plateau sooner than this,” said Elizabeth, typing a note to herself. “I’ll ask Archibald to monitor the situation.”
There was a knock on the office door. A short and timid knock, the kind of knock that would like to be heard if it wasn’t too inconvenient but half hopes to be ignored or mistaken for some other sound so that it can go away for a while and come back when it felt slightly readier to face the day.
“Come in, Alison,” said Elizabeth. “And close the door.”
Alison did so, although at first she only poked her head in to get a quick lay of the terrain. Some of the tension noticeably disappeared from her muscles when she saw Richard Danvers. There was something immediately reassuring about the way he was lounging on the sofa with his cup of tea, looking as if he’d only temporarily mislaid his dressing gown and slippers.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Alison, after closing the door carefully enough that it barely made a sound.
“Don’t apologize, almost everyone’s late today,” sighed Danvers. “Take it your train was delayed by a protest? Or was it a counterprotest?”
“Um. Counter-counter-counterprotest.”
Elizabeth glanced up from her monitor. “Hm?”
“Well, it started with some religious people protesting at the Ministry of Justice,” said Alison, standing in the middle of the room and fidgeting with her fingers as she spoke. “Then some pro-magic students counterprotested them. Then there was a counter-counterprotest from, you know, some of those online right-wing people? The ones that might be doing it ironically?”
“The ones wearing Pilgrim hats and carrying around witch-burning stakes,” said Elizabeth, nodding.
“Um. Yeah. It was the counterprotest to them that delayed my train.”
“At the risk of sounding immodest,” said Danvers, “I’m very glad we declared neutrality as early as we did. Both sides seem to be respecting that.”
“That may change if the protests become less civil,” pointed out Elizabeth.
“True,” said Danvers, swallowing tea. “But we’re not in with-us-or-against-us mode yet.”
Alison had taken the seat in front of Elizabeth’s desk. “Um. Anderson’s in the building,” she said. When Danvers’s mug froze midway to his lips she quickly added, “I saw him in the lift, but he got off at a different department.”
“Thanks for the warning,” he muttered, before taking a long gulp.
“He was shouting into the phone about that last Miracle Dad interview,” continued Alison. “The person he was shouting at, he was saying that he could put them in touch with someone who could ‘give Miracle Dad a run for his money.’ ”
“His exact words?” said Elizabeth.
“He said another word between ‘Miracle’ and ‘Dad,’ but I didn’t want to say that one,” reported Alison dutifully.
“Hm,” said Elizabeth. “It probably won’t be relevant.”
“Still, it’s useful to be abreast of all the details,” added Danvers, with a hint of reproach toward Elizabeth when he saw Alison’s eyes drop.
“In any case.” Elizabeth tapped her Enter key with a slight flourish to signal the completion of her current task, then pushed her laptop to one side. “You said Diablerie has resurfaced?”
Alison leaned forward. “Yes. He was hiding out in Worcester for the last week or so, keeping an eye on Modern Miracle, I think.”
“Any specific reason?” asked Elizabeth.
“I’m not sure, but he was living in a tunnel right next to the little shrine where the third vampire victim was.”
Elizabeth’s change of expression, and the gesture with which Danvers set down his mug of tea, might as well have been accompanied with the tolling of an ominous bell. Alison flinched.
“What third vampire victim?” asked Elizabeth, the words firing one by one from her mouth like poison darts from a blowpipe.
“Oh,” said Alison, unconsciously drawing her legs up into a fetal position as the two administrators bored into her with their stares. “Adam said he would call it in. After he looked at the scene. Did he not do that?”
Danvers closed his laptop as if turning over the last page of a very disappointing book. “No, I was not aware of a third body,” he said, rising to his feet. “Neither was I aware that Adam was in the field.”
Whoops, thought Alison as Danvers walked stiff-leggedly across the room to the door, opened it, and scanned the visible offices and cubicles as if standing on the prow of a battleship. “Mr. Hesketh!” he yelled, seeing his prey.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Danvers” came Adam’s voice from across the office floor. “Sorry I’m late. My train was delayed by a counter-counter-counter-counter—”
