Chapter 9

Finnian looked over his shoulder at the bundled figure asleep on his couch. Abbott had fallen asleep almost as soon as he had finished spilling his life story. Finnian felt bad just leaving him there after all he had gone through, but he had a job and a life to tend to, and he had to find a balance between helping this kid and his own duties. He watched as a flicker of a grimace passed over Abbott’s sleeping face, his dark hair slick with sweat against his clammy forehead, and closed the door behind him.

His feet carried him away from his house into the town, where he felt he truly belonged. He was by no means an introvert, as he was fueled by interactions with others, and he found that sitting in his home alone all day didn’t cut it. He looked forward to his excursions when he would make small talk with all he ran into on the street, because that just who he was. If he couldn’t talk, he didn’t know what he would do. That was just how he coped with everything in his life- if he had a problem, rather than letting it well up and stew inside him, he just spoke to someone about it. Perhaps that was why he felt a disconnect with Abbott. While all Finnian ever wanted to do was talk and be talked to, the other kid just wanted to listen.

He was like a blank book. He had supposedly grown up, if you could even call it that, locked in a room by some alcoholic maniac. Because of it, he had never had a chance to be properly socialized, and he had trouble communicating with others. He had a lot to learn if he was going to survive out in the real world, but Finnian didn’t doubt for a minute that he could figure it out. It would take some work, but Finnian knew that he could help this boy become all he was meant to be.

He hadn’t exactly had the easiest life either, but it was by no means comparable to what Abbott had gone through. His ma had gotten sick and died when he was young from some odd form of the flu, and his dad was crippled in an accident and couldn’t work some days when his injury was acting up, so Finnian was stuck scrounging for coins however he could get them. He remembered clearly the day the newspaper man found him sitting on the street corner, humming a little ditty as he waited for someone to drop a coin at his feet. People didn’t tend to pay any mind to him- after all, he was just another child, wasn’t he?- and he often could make a dime a day just sitting there and snatching up coins whenever they happened to fall, as if they were gifts from the heavens themselves. One day, a pair of feet had strolled by, but instead of continuing on with their path, they stopped, right in front of little Finnian’s face.

Finnian had looked up in confusion, following the feet all the way up to a long, horseish face. It belonged to a man, dressed in a crisply pressed suit, with a finely manicured mustache. Finnian scrambled to his feet, as men like these usually yelled at him for loitering, whatever that meant. He grabbed his coins off the ground with grubby fists and was about to run when he heard the man speak.

“Wait,” he commanded in a clear voice. Finian stopped where he stood; voices like these usually carried authority, and he had learned in his short years that it was better to do what they said. “Are ya looking for money?”

Finnian’s little ears perked up at the question, but he then hesitated. Sometimes people didn’t like it when he asked for money. They would yell at him and then he would feel tears slip out of the corners of his eyes as they scolded him. He wished he could make the tears go away, but they just kept flowing.

He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just kept staring. The man sighed and crouched down to eye level, looking the boy deep in the eyes. “I can get you a job.”

Finnian’s heart raced. A job? He knew that would make his parents proud, and maybe he would be able to buy the train from the toy store that he had always wanted. Maybe if he saved his pennies, he wouldn’t have to dig for scraps in the garbage can outside of the market.

He smiled at the man, just a corner of his mouth at first, but soon it had spear into a full on grin. The man smiled back at him knowingly. “I’m Mr. Costanzi. You can call me Wilson, though. Follow me.”

The small job of standing on the corner selling papers had turned into a career with the company. He now wrote the days articles in the morning, helped print them in the afternoon, and delivered them in the evening. He loved his nightly walks, when he would hand out the papers as the moon peeked out from overhead, and make small talk with those he delivered to. He had his routine down pat, and it was only if another worker was unable to work that he would deviate from it.

That was why he had delivered to the Empyrium just that one day. His coworker Calder just had to go and get conveniently ‘kicked in the leg by a carriage-mule’ on a day he simply didn’t want to shop up, and Finnian had gotten stuck running his papers for him while he ‘recovered’. What an ass.

While Finnian loved his route, after meeting Abbott, he had considered asking Calder to switch deliveries. There was just something about the boy that captivated him, that drew him in. Finnian just wanted to peel back each layer of his personality, taking time to examine all that he would find beneath. However, he knew that Abbott would do this himself with time, and that was what he was going to give him.

Finnian jogged up the stairs to the front of the building, taking the steps two at a time. He pushed the front door open with a squeal, announcing his presence to the workers inside. They greeted him with a friendly chorus of “Finnian!” as he stopped by Wilson’s desk to check in for the day.

The man regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “Your friend stopped by for a visit this morning,” he said in a low tone. “What’s the story there?”

Finnian fought to keep the gravel out of his voice. “Oh, nothing,” he lied quickly. “Just a friend who was in town and needed a place to spend the night. Didn’t know where I lived, though,” he added after a suspicious glance from his boss.

The man shook his head. “Whatever ya say, kid. He said he needed help. Did’ya give it to him?”

Finnian nodded and tried to retreat from the desk. Wilson could be an intimidating man, even though the two had known each other forever. Instead of the freedom he had wanted, though, the ability to return to his desk and just write, letting his creativity run wild, he was beckoned back to Wilson with a single finger. “We’re not done here. What’s really going on with that kid?”

Gulping, Finnian muttered a quick version of the story he had heard. That Abbott had been basically held hostage by Alastair O’Leary, and that he had escaped. He was currently at Finnian’s house, recovering from the ordeal.

“Good lad,” Wilson said, and slapped a hand down onto Finnian’s shoulder as he rose from behind the desk. “Looking out for yer mates, eh?”

Finnian felt his head bobbing up and down in agreement, and Wilson removed his hand from his shoulder. “Now,” he said with a hint of irony in his voice, “go write me some articles.”

Finnian sat down in his chair, his quill tapping against the mahogany of the desk. He usually had so many ideas, but all he could focus on was the mental image of Abbott alone in his house, curled up in a ball on the sofa. He shook the picture out of his head and began writing in a neat print, his letters dancing on the page, arcing and spiraling over and around each other, weaving and intermingling like the threads in a piece of clothing. Holding the world together.

Wasn’t that what friends did? Held each other together? Without friends, without anyone but a raging drunk to turn to, how did Abbott ever manage to survive? Finnian knew he couldn’t have handled it. He had such a need, a craving for social interaction, for attention, that he would have rather died then lived the life that Abbott had.

But then, Abbott had even briefly mentioned wanting to die. Why hadn’t he gone through with it? What was so important in his life that he would have stayed alive for? Was it the fear of what would happen if he failed, or the fear that whatever came next could be worse?

Finnian had never been a religious person, and he guessed that Abbott hadn’t either, if he was raised by a follower of magic. However, he knew that those who practiced religion believed that there was a place that your spirit went after you died, and depending on the choices you made in life, you would either end up in a place of eternal peace- or eternal punishment. He never quite agreed with this way of thinking, as he didn’t like to believe that one wrong choice could uncontrollably mess up your entire life. Instead, he liked to think that there was some sort of redemption that was available to everyone, if they were willing to take the chance and work hard for it. It didn’t really matter to Finnian how a person was for the majority of their life if: they were able to show that they had changed, he would try to accept them, no matter what they had done before.

Finnian believed, deep down, that O’Leary must have had a reason for why he acted as such, and he felt that Abbott did too. The difference between the two boys’ viewpoints, however, was that while Finnian felt that the behavior was uncalled for, Abbott surely felt that what had happened to him was his fault. Finnian had interviewed victims of long-time abuse before, and almost all of them seemed to have some sort of reasoning that it was their fault. If Finnian could show Abbott that he was worthy of love, of a chance to start over with a new life, would he be able to? Or would he fall into the pit of despair that so many others had, and never fully live?

His coworker Calder came hobbling by on a pair of wooden crutches, the bottoms making a loud clicking noise with each step. The sound caught Finnian’s attention, and he snapped back to reality, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be working. Instead of doing so, however, he turned to Calder as he passed, a question itching in the back of his mind. “Calder…?”

The man stopped. “What, Finnian? Gonna ask me to the festival dance again? I already told you, I’m not interested.” He smirked, knowing that he had hit a soft spot.

Finnian took a deep breath and stated, “Calder, you know I didn’t write that note. Now knock it off. Seriously, I have a question for you.”

Calder was ready to shoot back a snarky reply, but thought the better of it when a glare from Wilson caught his eye. His mouth closed, then opened again, and finally a small “okay…?” escaped.

Finnian leaned in a little closer; everyone around him was hushed, trying their best to listen in on the conversation. Upon seeing that he had recognized this, they turned back to their desks and began conversing loudly again. He focused his attention on the man leaning impatiently against his desk. “You know the Empyrium?”

Calder scoffed. “That trashy old shop? Yeah, of course I know it. Why wouldn’t I?”

Finnian rolled his eyes. “Just let me finish. When I went to deliver your papers the other day while you conveniently got kicked by a mule-” he paused as the other man grinned, winking, “-there was a kid inside. About my age, maybe a year or two younger. Longer dark hair, green eyes, really skinny. Have you ever seen him around before?”

Calder seemed to be deep in thought for once in his life, but then the moment broke and he shook his head, as if Finnian were stupid. “No, dumbass, O’Leary doesn’t live with anyone. He’s just a lonely old hag. Don’t pay any mind to him, unless you want a good love potion. Then he can hook you up with any girl you fancy, if you get my drift.”

He sauntered back to his desk, looking very much not injured.

Finnian sighed. He didn’t want any girls, he just wanted answers. How was it that people could visit the Empyrium every day and never catch wind of the atrocity that was going on inside of it? It simply didn’t make sense. Surely someone had to hear the screams every time O’Leary beat the kid nearly to death.

He picked up the pen, tapping it against the bottom of his lip, and continued writing.