Okay, so this took me longer than I expected. It's somewhat more raw than the previous chapters, but I'm pleased with it, over-all. I don't think this will be the final chapter, so keep that in mind when you are reading. As always, I so appreciate your thoughts. Thank you!
Constance watched the scene as if suspended in reality. Mr. Curtain was striding across the sand, his eyes full of hatred, and Mr. Benedict was strolling in from the opposite direction, his expression one of calm tenacity. The surrounding people has ceased fighting, and stood in great huddles, watching and waiting.
"Ledroptha," said Mr. Benedict quietly. "Aren't you tired?"
Mr. Curtain stopped, his lumpy nose, distorted in the burning sun. "You dare to speak to me? To look me in the eye? You betrayed me, Benedict. We may be twins, but we are not brothers."
Constance eyed Mr. Curtain, sensing the man's all-encompassing fury. She fought the urge to give Mr. Curtain a good kick in the shins, and something else besides, but knew this was not the time. Not at all.
"Ledroptha," Mr. Benedict said again, "how did it come to be like this? Here we are, fighting a war. You and your Ten Men have become casualties of something very big, yet hard to realize."
Mr. Curtain's eyes flickered. "What is that, Benedict?" he spat.
"Fear."
"Excuse me? Fear does not exist in my world. I wish I could say the same for you."
Mr. Benedict smiled. "Thank you for those kind words, Ledroptha. I daresay they will be quite useful, in time."
Behind Mr. Curtain, McCracken fondled his handkerchief, and Sharpe loosened his navy tie. This was not lost on Mr. Benedict, who said kindly to Sharpe, "Yes, it's quite warm, isn't it?"
"Enough!" bellowed Mr. Curtain. "I will not tolerate your mindless chatter!"
Mr. Benedict looked upon his brother sadly. "I think not, Ledroptha. These are manners."
Constance beamed, and felt a bubble of hope burst into existence in her chest. She knew, even at fourteen, that the remedy to fear was love, and Mr. Benedict was that to Mr. Curtain. Around Constance, her friends stood tall and unflinchingly. Perhaps they were beyond fear. Perhaps they realized, like Constance, that everyone was a mix of light and dark, and what really made them who were, was which emotion they acted on.
"You are in denial, Benedict! You are as blind as your followers! You will always fail, do you not see that? I cannot stand people who live in denial!"
"Yet you live in denial every day," sighed Mr. Benedict, his spectacles glinting benignly in the sun. "And I speak for my friends as well as myself when I say; I think we would all rather live in denial, than live without integrity."
"We would!" shouted Number Two, then winced when Mortis glared at her.
Mr. Benedict smiled in her direction, then turned back to the irate Mr. Curtain. "What," he began, "is there left for you to fight for?"
"Everything," said Mr. Curtain coldly.
The people watching this exchange held their breath, their eyes darting from one man to the other like bizarre dolls. Constance shivered involuntarily, waves of emotion sweeping over her. After a long, full moment, Mr. Benedict nodded—more to himself that anyone, and turned away from his brother. He stood for a second, then approached the Society, his eyes sad but unperturbed. Constance looked around at Mr. Curtain, a man so tired that it seemed he might break. Indeed, there was such an expression of pure anguish on his face, that Constance nearly felt sorry for him. Nearly.
It was McCracken who left. With an utterly unapologetic look, he spun on his well-polished heel, and marched over to a hastily parked vehicle, one like Constance had been driven in after her capture. He swept his cold eyes over the other Ten Men, all of whom stared back at him, undecided. "Well?" He cast Crawlings an appraising glance. "Anyone care to depart this abysmal scene?"
Garrotte swallowed. Sharpe and Crawlings became suddenly quite interested in their fingernails. "Very well," said McCracken. And wrenching the door open, he disappeared into the car.
Constance turned to Mr. Benedict, searching his face for an answer. "Why?"
Mr. Benedict sighed and ran a hand through his snowy hair. "I believe McCracken cannot stand weakness—even when coming from his superior. Perhaps if he had stayed and showed any sympathy, he would have been riddled with self-loathing. McCracken believes weakness is a fatal flaw."
Reynie looked troubled at this, but chose not to speak. He and Sticky moved in closer on either side of Kate, unconsciously protecting her. And all the while, Mr. Curtain stood alone. He was bent over slightly, as though about to be sick. His mouth was twisted into an awful contortion; he looked like he'd just been told that his dearest friend had died. Perhaps it had. His recovered sense of control had no doubt been an immense comfort to him, but now the walls had come crashing down.
Clearing his throat, a police officer that had not been stunned, smacked or lasered, approached Mr. Curtain, bearing a pair of handcuffs that were the same shade of silver as Mr. Curtain's gloves. "It's done," said the police officer to Mr. Curtain, though not unkindly. "The sooner you realize that, the better."
The handcuffs went on, and the police officers converged on Mr. Curtain, directing him into a helicopter of their own.
"I don't believe it," said Sticky. "It's over."
Mr. Benedict nodded, and actually managed a smile. "For now."
No one asked what he meant by that prophetic comment, nor did they want to. They all needed time to breathe, and to recover. That would take time.
The group of weary fighters began to stir; people embraced each other, hugging strangers and hugging friends. Kate's pals came tramping over, full of chatter. They shook Mr. Benedict's hand, smiling and talking all the while. Constance accepted a hearty pat from Tobias (so forceful that her feet sank into the sand) and thanked them all over and over.
There were others there; people whom she didn't know, but would be forever grateful for. As the police helicopter lifted into the air, Constance watched it, and saw Mr. Curtain staring at her. She didn't smile or scowl. She watched him intently, until his face became a shapeless smudge, too distant to make out.
He was gone.
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