The Second Son
“Do I need an appointment?”
Dr. Love looked up slowly, squinting nearsightedly through his spectacles.
A young man was standing in the doorway, fidgeting.
“Why…yes, yes, I’m afraid you do. Why don’t you speak with…Mary, my receptionist. She’s just outside the door there…in fact, that is where she is supposed to be right now, pardon, but…”
The young man glanced behind him. “Small, mousy, somewhat rotund?”
Maxilian Love put down his papers and sat back in his chair. “An uncharitable description of Mrs. Carstairs, but…apt. She’ll make you an appointment.”
“Well, you see, sir,” The young man said, apologetically, “I didn’t want to disturb her.”
Maxilian Love took off his glasses and set them on his desk.
“You won’t disturb her,” he said, mildly puzzled. “It’s her job to make the appointments.”
“Oh, yes, I quite agree, but she was looking quite woeful, so I said she might prefer to take her lunch break now, and that I could just show myself in…” He glanced behind himself again. “She’s putting on her coat.”
Mildly nonplussed, Dr. Love accepted this with a shake of his head.
“I suppose if it’s that important that you can’t wait for Mary to make an appointment…yes, I can see you now. It’s hardly as if I’m swamped with patients right now.”
“Oh good. Thank you, doctor.” The young man beamed and swept into the room, suddenly energetic, as if someone had pulled all his strings. “I’m afraid it is indeed a matter of great importance.”
The young stranger looked to be about twenty-two, with the long, curled hair that was incredibly unfashionable nowadays and this particular specimen was a rather alarming shade of ginger. He certainly looked sickly; his skin was a distinctive, clear white, and his alarmingly blue eyes were rather hollowed and shadowy. Besides all this, and despite the fact that it was high summer, he was wearing black velvet with an upturned collar, decorated with silver, and black wool breeches, with shiny black cavalry boots and thin, black cotton gloves. Several heavy rings glittered on his fingers, despite the gloves- a square cut ruby and two rectangular emeralds that Maxilian was fairly sure would pay his bills in the impending future.
Desperate young men, eager to keep their presence unrecorded, were usually the victims of a certain sort of social disease that wasn’t to be mentioned in polite society.
Maxilian resigned himself with a sigh.
“Can I ask what exactly is so pressing that you cannot wait for Mary to come back on her unauthorized lunch break?”
“Oh, yes, indeed.” The young man had seated himself, but showed no sign of taking off the gloves. Interesting.
“I’m afraid I have something…incurable, and I was told that you were the best for this sort of thing.”
Maxilian took a moment to curse any gods who might be listening and who might have had a hand in making him the go-to physician for the young and promiscuous.
“Nothing is incurable,” he replied as gently as he could, bracing for it. “Mostly, it just requires treatment and, ah, certain personal sacrifices.”
Large blue eyes stared at him for an instant, and Maxilian wondered for a brief second if he had said something other than what was running through his mind.
“I’m sorry, did I alarm-?”
“Oh, that’s wonderful to hear!” The young man enthused, his whole, fragile face lighting up in delight. “That is really quite excellent!”
Maxilian blinked. “I’m glad you think so,” he managed, as best as could be demanded on such short notice. “May I ask who referred you to me?”
“Oh, my brother mentioned you, but he was quite put out at the time, so I was half-thinking he’d sent me to another black alchemist like the last time, but I assure you, you look nothing at all like a dog.”
Maxilian blinked again. Rapidly.
“Thank you?” he managed again, wishing he could come up with something wittier to say. “Um, how does your brother know me?”
“I have no idea,” The young man said, flipping a hand; a ruby glittered in the dim light of the cramped little office. “He reads medical journals for fun, so I imagine he ran across something you wrote, yes? An article explaining the behaviors of that man they hanged three months ago? Something about blood in the brain.”
“Oh,” Maxilian said stiffly, recognizing that dismissive tone and armoring himself for a familiar, condescending argument. “Yes. That. That was…more of a side-study for me. A hobby, really. I am a credited doctor, and I have license to treat all manners of illness.”
“Yes, I…”
“So please disregard that bit of nonsense, I’m afraid I wrote that on…on the suggestion of someone who was not quite as trustworthy as I thought she might be and…forgive me. Disregard the article entirely. It is utter rubbish and shall remain that way.”
The young man peered at him gravely.
“I thought it was brilliant.”
Maxilian blinked another time or two, feeling rather like a goldfish. That article had made his life hell for two months after it was published, and not even his family members had gone so far as to concede that he was altogether well. Althaea hadn’t spoken to him for a month.
“I’m…glad you thought so,” he said at last, since the reproachful blue eyes seemed to indicate it was his turn to say something and smooth over the awkward moment.
“Well, I hope you don’t think it was rubbish,” the young man said at last, somewhat sullenly. “I’m here because of it.”
Because of…
“I’m sorry, but permit me to ask your name…?” Maxilian said at last, nonplussed by this entire exchange.
The young man didn’t seem to hear him.
“My brother Abelard was at wits end trying to do something for me. If it wasn’t for that magazine article, he never would have heard of you and I would probably be spending quality time in Newbridge.”
Maxilian was beginning to suspect that whatever ailed the boy it wasn’t social.
“I beg your pardon, did you say Newbridge-?”
“Yes, Newbridge Prison, I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s quite famous, and it held the fellow that your article was about, up until they hoisted him. Abelard said that they wouldn’t send me there, but father was awfully upset the last time, and the King threatened to demote father from Admiral to…”
“I beg your pardon, did you say King? Admiral?”
The boy looked only slightly less sullen than he had when Maxilian had dismissed his own article.
“Yes, that’s the one. Big, fat, round fellow, with an absurd wig. The King, anyway, not my father. I’m sure you’ve seen him. He’s on all the coins, anyway.”
“Then your father is the Admiral of the Navy…”
“Yes…”
“And that makes you-?”
“His second son.” The boy stuck out his jewel-laden hand and smiled dazzlingly. “Lockson Sealth.”
Maxilian wasn’t sure if he was shocked or massively flattered that the Admiral’s eldest son read his articles and his younger son came for help. He shook the delicate hand mostly on reflex.
“But none of this is important,” Lockson said, waving a hand after freeing it from Maxilian’s bemused grip. “I came here for help and I trust it’s the sort that you will be able to provide.”
“Oh, yes, of course, naturally,” Maxilian said on reflex, withdrawing his own hand almost apologetically. “Of course, to business, to business. Of course, I am perfectly willing to keep your presence here a secret, and there’s really no need to inform your father of the results, but…”
"I already know the results,” Lockson said severely, his tone pettish. “I’ve witnessed them first hand.”
“Ah,” Maxilian said, and coughed into his hand to cover his own bemusement. “Ah, yes, that can be…awkward…”
“My father wants me to apply to the Aerial Corps, but naturally they won’t take me in this condition.”
If Maxilian wasn’t entirely incorrect, Lockson sounded distinctly pleased with himself when he said that. The doctor was careful to paste a concerned expression on his face. “Yes, yes, naturally, but please understand that not all social diseases can be healed, and some of them have long-term, damaging effects…”
“Doctor.”
“I…yes?” Maxilian said, somewhat helpless and utterly lost again.
“I don’t think you’ve been listening to me.”
“On the contrary, I have been listening to every word you said, and after studying the situation I can tell you that I can try and treat it, but you’ll have to tell me where you got it first.”
“I don’t know where I got it,” Lockson said, pursing his lips. “We think it was from my mother.”
“Your mother-?”
“But she’s dead, so we can hardly ask her, can we?”
“I…No, no, of course not, that would be absurd.” More to stave off his own wave of dread than anything else, Maxilian cleared his throat. “Why don’t you tell me the symptoms, first?”
The boy pursed his lips, worrying his rings around the soft, cotton gloves.
“Well, you see, I don’t rightly know what the symptoms are,” he said at last. “And I don’t know what caused it.”
“My dear boy, I think we both know what caused it-“
“Doctor,” Lockson said flatly, his blue eyes cold. “I haven’t got syphilis.”
“Well, there are other sorts of…”
“I steal things.”
Maxilian blinked.
“I beg your pardon, did you say you steal things?”
“I did,” Lockson said, sniffing. “I steal things. Compulsively. I can’t seem to help myself. Fortunately, I’m very good at it, and Abelard’s gotten very good at seeing when I do, so he’s kind enough to return them for me.”
"So you…so you…haven’t got syphilis?”
“I may never say this again, but no doctor, I’m sorry, I haven’t got syphilis.”
“Oh. Oh, well, that’s…that’s excellent. That’s a step in the right direction, isn’t it?” Maxilian took a hasty drink of water; the boy’s eyes followed his hand up and then back down again.
"So you steal things?”
“Oh yes, doctor. Compulsively. I can’t help myself. I have an entire box full of ladies earrings at home. And gloves. I am particularly fond of gloves.” Here, the boy stopped and adjusted his own immaculate black gloves, anxiously. “I really don’t mean to, but there you are. Father finally put his foot down three nights ago, and said I either had to stop this nonsense on my own, or I was going to Newbridge.”
“So this is quite serious.”
“Oh, not really,” Lockson said airily. “They’ve been threatening to send me to Newbridge since I was six years old and stole the golden candlesticks off the chapel steps. I still have them,” he confided in a low voice.
“And your father…?”
“Gave me an ultimatum just yesterday, when they found the bracelets. Either I stop this nonsense at once, or I get taken to Newbridge. Do you know, I actually think he means it this time.”
“That would be…very bad?”
“Oh yes. I toured Newbridge with my elder brother just last month; he said it would be good for me to see the situations in which the prisoners live.”
“I imagine they don’t allow in gloves.”
“Oh, no sir.”
“I see.”
That was a lie. Maxilian did not see. In fact, Maxilian was beginning to wonder if this was not some sort of elaborate ruse in further punishment for daring to print that little article several months ago with a dissenting opinion that the hanged man was not, in fact, the spawn of demons.
Lockson was waiting patiently, so Maxilian cleared his throat again.
“And you’re hoping I can fix it?”
“Well, yes, that was the general idea in my coming here. Abelard’s insisting that there’s something wrong with my brain, and the family doctor has bled me so many times that even he is beginning to wonder whether it is actually working or not. So here I am, humors fully balanced.”
“Yes, bleeding is effective against most ill humors, but if it’s a behavioral issue…” Maxilian trailed off, interested in spite of himself. “Can you tell me a bit about what you mean by ‘stealing’?”
“I mean that I see something I quite like and I take it.”
“And you know that stealing is…wrong?”
“Oh yes.”
“And you have no qualms with returning the taken items?”
“Oh, no. Abelard is quite good at finding their owners; I can never remember what belongs to whom. I still have piles of things that no one can quite place.”
The young man certainly looked earnest; he wasn’t even sweating, in all that black velvet, and had the drawn look of a patient who had been the victim of excess bleeding. A treatise on the dangers of excess bleeding…that would put Maxilian back in the public eye again…
“Could I perhaps see where your physician has been bleeding you?”
“Why, on the arm,” the boy replied, astounded. “Isn’t that the usual practice?”
Maxilian nodded, conceding the point. The boy seemed quite flighty and temperamental; there was a curious edge in his voice, when he had spoken of stealing things, and Maxilian didn’t want to push him too far yet.
Instead, he pulled out a thick sheaf of paper and set several pages down on his desk, scribbling intently with a pen. Lockson leaned forward to peer interestedly at the paper, but Maxilian’s shorthand was illegible to anyone but himself.
“Perhaps, before we go further, you can tell me feelings you have to the objects you steal?”
The boy looked at him, and Maxilian looked up again, meeting his gaze. Talkative, but now he was reticent, making no effort to answer the question, or indeed carry on a social interaction. Interesting.
“Ah…has your father made efforts in the past to curb this…habit?”
“Yes,” Lockson answered slowly, “But they were never successful.”
“And why is that?”
“Because,” the boy answered shortly, “He wanted to fix me.”
“I see…”
The boy watched as the pen scratched across the thick paper’s surface. Perhaps his writing was making Lockson nervous?
Maxilian deliberately set the pen down and folded his hands.
“You’re going to have to talk to me again, if you want this taken care of.” He pointedly avoided the word ‘fixed’. “You said that your father had found something you had stolen and was angry about it?”
Clear blue eyes stared at him, gravely.
“Oh yes. Abelard found them first, and he was yelling at me when father came home for the evening and walked in on our disagreements.”
“Them?”
“Yes, the stolen items.”
“Could you perhaps tell me what the items were?”
The boy worried his lip again; he seemed tense, and was decidedly uncomfortable, as uncomfortable as he had been when he had first walked in the door.
“Diamond bracelets,” he said at last, looking past Maxilian to the blank wall.
Perhaps he was embarrassed?
“Were they valuable…?”
“Of course they were!” The boy snapped, nettled. “They’re diamonds.”
“Well, yes, but one diamond is more valuable than another, and if they just ad small diamonds or were reproductions…”
“They were sixteen carats apiece,” Lockson replied with cold aplomb, “And were family heirlooms. I never steal reproductions.”
Maxilian felt his eyebrows shoot up.
“Sixteen carats?”
“Each,” the boy replied, nodding. His red hair slid over his shoulders, and he shook it back impatiently, as if he was neither used to nor liked long hair.
“That is…quite a lot of money,” Maxilian allowed, trying to think past his own astonishment. “Did you break in later and-?”
“Do you take me for a carpet thief?” Lockson demanded hotly, his blue eyes glittering stonily. “I see something I like, and I take it. That is why I am here. Is it really so hard to understand?”
“They were on display?”
“She was wearing them!”
Maxilian’s next question evaporated on the spot. Who could afford to own sixteen-carat diamond bracelets (multiple!) and then be seen in company actually wearing them? The boy’s agitation was high, and Maxilian could feel he was loosing him.
“Did Abelard return them?”
“Oh yes, he was making such a fuss about how we couldn’t keep them and how there would be such a row if word got out that she had lost them, so he went straight away that morning and told her himself. He even put them in my sister’s diamond ringbox, for protection. She was quite astonished.”
“Of course,” Maxilian said, sighing. “Sixteen-carats usually aren’t returned that quickly, or that willingly.”
Lockson’s empty blue eyes narrowed.
“She hadn’t noticed they were missing.”
Maxilian opened his mouth, and then shut it again.
He was in no way qualified to deal with this.
“I am sorry,” he said at last, “But who-exactly-did you take two sixteen-carat diamond bracelets from, while she was wearing them, keep them for ten hours, and then return them without her even noticing that they were gone?”
“Queen Beatrice II,” Lockson answered, quite seriously. “She threw a garden party yesterday afternoon.”
Maxilian stared.
“And there were three,” Lockson added, as an afterthought.
__________________
Why I should never under any circumstances be left alone. Ever. This is the unholy spawn of too much Swordspoint and too much Sherlock fanfiction. I have no idea why I named a character Lockson. I am sure his family has equally ridiculous names.
-Irene V