The Ghost of Winn Peterson

42. Vicar

"You stole my life from me."

"It was never yours to begin with, now was it?"

"Of course it was. I made it my own. I left this horrible place, and yet, you still had to ruin it."

Igor Radcliffe stared at Vicar with an unreadable expression. His hands were clasped under his chin, eyelids lowered almost demurely. The slight impression of spectacles had created a silver line on the bridge of his nose, which even now Vicar found himself transfixed by. Angry beyond measure, hurt beyond compare, and he was still drawn to this terrible creature.

"You understand nothing, Vicar."

"Explain, then. I've read the girl's journal; I've read my brother's last words. What could you possibly say to me that would prove otherwise?" He found that his fists were clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. Slowly unfurling them, he sat back into his chair and crossed his arms instead.

Sighing, the doctor adjusted himself, looking for all the world like a crow ruffling its feathers before preparing to shriek at someone. Preening, Vicar thought.

"The girl, the girl," the doctor said, closing his eyes a moment and baring a pained smile. "If you've read her journal, surely you know what I mean when I say your life is forfeit to me, yes?"

"I... have not finished it, but you stole that, too, didn't you?"

"I am not the cause for all of your misery, my dear. I should not mind taking up the mantle, but you must admit some of your own failings." Igor opened his eyes fully, the brownish reds flashing like candle flames, before continuing. "You lost it, dropped it in your haste to find some other clue, and in doing so, left it for me. It doesn't belong to you anyway, now does it?"

Vicar made a noise of disapproval, distinctly uncomfortable with being called dear by this man, of all people. Who was so dear that they had to watch their only friends burn to death, right along with the only place that had ever felt safe? "It doesn't belong to you, either."

"Of course it does! I'll finish reading it for you, if you like." A dark chuckle formed in the doctor's throat, but he contained it and produced only a sort of growl instead. It was a deeply unsettling sound. "You'll understand, soon enough. I am not nearly as heartless as our little Winnifred would like me to believe. I gave her the desk, did I not, and the pen and the paper necessary to write her fantastic tale of my injustices?"

Vicar frowned, strained his memory. The pen. Winn hadn't mentioned being given a pen, but then... he'd found one, hadn't he?

"The Giaour? Was that your doing?"

"A marvellous gift, I must admit."

Standing suddenly, the doctor rolled his neck from side to side, each loud crack making Vicar wince. "Tea?"

"I - yes, I suppose so."

Left alone for a few minutes while Igor tinkered in the kitchen, Vicar rubbed at his eyes violently. Was any of this even real? Was he trapped in a hallucination, brought on by the grief of losing everyone important to him in a matter of months? Maybe that's all it's ever been, he thought grimly. Still, what was the point in learning languages in a hallucination, of going to university or America, if none of it was real? Unfortunately, this reasoning did nothing for Vicar. If everything was true, then the doctor would come back any minute, expecting more than gratitude for a cup of tea. Whatever he wanted with Vicar, with the family name and the house, with any of it, he would collect.

How lucky for him, that there would be no more Andrews men after Vicar! Nobody had needed to ask Gaston if he would ever marry or sire children - there was an unspoken air of celibacy that followed the chronically ill elder Andrews brother, and Vicar was hardly better off. Romance had never been his friend, nor had he wanted for it. Love was for the books and the young, neither of which Vicar felt a part of.