Punch's Cousin, Chapter 150

The cabinet felt cramped to Mr. Punch who was, at once, comforted by the confinement and terrified by it. Though his neck was stiff, he tried to turn his head—for it was his head, not Julian’s—which sat upon that neck. He felt as though someone else was with him in the cabinet. Yet, he could not quite tell who it was.


It wasn’t the cabinet to which he’d become accustomed. It wasn’t the cabinet in which he’d sat in Fallbridge Hall for thirty years—excepting the time he spent in Julian’s townhouse in Belgravia. This cabinet had no glass. Or did it? Punch couldn’t see out. There were mullions, yes. But, the glass had been replaced with angry wood—painted a brilliant red, the red of his coat, the red of his hat, the red of his mouth. No, it wasn’t the same cabinet. Or was it?

How did he come to be returned to his cabinet?

“Mr. Punch,” a voice called out from nearby. Yet, Punch could not turn his head—his head.

“What’s that?” Punch asked. “Yes, I’m Mr. Punch.”

“Mr. Punch,” the voice repeated.

“Master?” Punch asked frantically. “Where are we?”

“We?” The voice laughed. “Where are you?”

“That’s not me master.” Mr. Punch grunted. “Who’s talkin’ to Mr. Punch?”

Punch strained to turn his head. The hot breath of another body tickled his ears. First from the left, then from the right. He wasn’t alone. The cabinet was well-lit. But, how? Surely there was no lamp, no wick, no candle in with him to light it. But, there it was, aglow in red. Red, red, red. It was hot, but cold.

Distant shouting made Mr. Punch tremble. Female voices. Angry voices, despondent voices. Moaning, screaming, angry voices.

“Mr. Punch,” Another voice called. A man’s voice. A familiar voice, not unlike Julian’s, but not Julian’s. A formal voice, a voice of wisdom, of dreams.

“Father?” Mr. Punch said.

“Chin up, my boy,” The voice said. “It’s not as bad as all that.”

“It is, Father,” Mr. Punch moaned. “I failed. Locked in the cabinet, I am.”

“No.” The voice responded. “You’re not. Look around.”

Punch shut his eyes and when he opened them again, he was in Covent Garden, in the arms of a little boy with pale cheeks and dark auburn hair which curled at the sides. The boy panted. Punch looked up at him. “Master?”

“Quiet, Mr. Punch.” the boy whispered. “They mustn’t know that we talk. The Duchess must never know.”

“What are you muttering to yourself,” Agnes Rittenhouse asked. Mr. Punch could not see her, but he knew her voice. “Such a peculiar lad. You must stop your talking, you know. Little boys who talk too much find their mouths sewn shut. Do you want that? Do you want to be like a puppet, relying on others to talk for you?”

“No.” Mr. Punch said.

“No,” the little boy said.

“Pay no attention to her.” The male voice responded from somewhere in the distance. “Talk all you want.” Who was speaking? Was it Julian’s father? Mr. Punch couldn’t tell. All he could see was the face of the ruddy-haired little boy.

“Now, close your eyes and go to sleep.” Agnes said.

Mr. Punch closed his eyes. But, he did not dare to go to sleep. He opened them again and he was no longer in Covent Garden, but rather in the skeleton of Julian’s rooms at Fallbridge Hall, in the reliquary that served as his home. He looked out and saw Julian slouched over his table, studying something closely. Something sparkling.

“Master!” Mr. Punch shouted.

Julian looked up, “We must be quiet, Mr. Punch.”

“No.” Mr. Punch answered.

The scene changed before him, melting into a muddy puddle and, again, Punch was returned to the redness. Again, his ears tickled from warm, angry breath.

“I will not bend to your will, Marie.” A woman’s voice said from faraway, but close enough that it sounded like a scream. “Not again.”

“You have no choice,” Another woman replied.

The female voices startled Mr. Punch so that his whole body shook, and in shaking, it loosened his neck so that he could turn his head. And, turn it, he did. Turned it so much that it stuck. To his left, the Duchess stared at him. Her face slack with death, her eyes cloudy and pained.

“You left me, Julian.” The Duchess moaned. “You left me to die.”

“No.” Mr. Punch cried. “You didn’t want to go. You left yourself.”

“Now, you must come with me, Julian.” The Duchess answered without moving her lips—her chin touching her clavicles.

“I ain’t Julian!” Mr. Punch screamed. “I’m another man all together. You got the wrong man.”

“Come with me, Julian.” The Duchess repeated.

Mr. Punch hollered. The force of his screams jolted his head into the other direction where it locked again. Naasir sat on the other side of him in the cabinet. It was Naasir as he once was, before Iolanthe burned him. Naasir spoke, but the voice that rose from his chest was not his own, it was the voice of Sir Colin—the voice of Julian’s father.

“Pay her no mind, Great Man of the Rocks, my boy. You are on the path of beauty. Follow your own path and protect what really matters.”

“Naasir, you’re whole again.” Mr. Punch sobbed. “You’re whole!”

“I’m not Naasir,” The man responded.

“Who are you, then?”

“I’m you.”

“I don’t understand!” Mr. Punch screamed.

“Stop talking,” Naasir said, this time in his own voice.

“Listen to him,” Another voice echoed throughout the crimson cabinet.

“Marjani!” Mr. Punch shouted.

“Yes, I done found you. Follow me.” Marjani’s voice answered.

“I can’t.” Mr. Punch said. “I’m locked in.”

“You can.” Marjani’s voice giggled. “You can.”

“Don’t do it!” Julian said. Yes, it was Julian’s voice. “Don’t let her fool you! Stop talking! Silence!”

“I don’t understand!” Mr. Punch repeated.

Suddenly, his face stung. Mr. Punch winced, clenching his eyes shut. When he opened them, he was in a gray brick room, slumped against a wall. Barbara Allen stood over him.

“Quiet,” She whispered.

“I’m not really here.” Mr. Punch said.

“Listen to me,” Barbara said softly. “I don’t know what they’ve given you, but you must stop your chatter.”

Mr. Punch took a deep breath. He could smell oil and smoke. He could smell Barbara’s scent—sweat and lavender.

“There now,” Barbara whispered. “Are you waking up?”

“I’m not sure.” Mr. Punch muttered. “Where am I?”

“Iolanthe’s.” Barbara said.

“Is it real?” Mr. Punch asked.

“All too real.” Barbara nodded. “I’ve been told to guard you.”

“By what party?” Mr. Punch asked.

“Iolanthe.” Barbara responded softly. “And, Marie Laveau.”

“Are you sure it’s real?” Mr. Punch asked.

“Would you dream of me?” Barbara smiled.

“You’d be surprised.” Mr. Punch grunted. “How’d I get here?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Barbara knelt down next to Mr. Punch. “All I know is that Iolanthe’s men carried you in.”

“I was at the ball.” Mr. Punch responded. “Where’s Robert?”

“Shhhh…” Barbara said. “You must be quiet.”

“She killed our mother.” Mr. Punch whispered.

“I know.” Barbara nodded slowly.

“Does she aim to kill me?” Mr. Punch asked.

“Probably.” Barbara sighed. “Presently, she’s struggling with Marie Laveau.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“I thought I was in a cabinet.” Mr. Punch sighed after awhile.

“They gave you something—some kind of potion. You were rambling like mad.” Barbara said in a hushed voice. “You called out to Father.”

“I thought he was here.” Mr. Punch said in a trembling voice.

“He isn’t.” Barbara muttered.

“But, you are.” Mr. Punch croaked.

“Julian,” Barbara began. She studied her brother’s face. “But, you’re not Julian are you? You’re someone else.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not mad.” Barbara sighed. “You’re just…different. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve misjudged you.” Barbara sighed. “At least you accept who and what you are—even if there are two of you in one body.”

“I can’t change it. Nor do I want to.” Mr. Punch shook his head.

“I had a person inside of me once.” Barbara said weakly. “My child.”

“I know.” Mr. Punch nodded.

“Will God ever forgive me?” Barbara asked, touching Julian’s hand.

“I think so.” Mr. Punch responded. “But, you’ve got to show you’re worth forgivin’.”

Barbara nodded.

“Are you gonna let Iolanthe kill me?” Mr. Punch asked.

“She might not kill you.” Barbara squinted. “She doesn’t kill everyone. Sometimes she sells men—overseas. She’ll sell a strong man to a foreign ship’s captain.”

“That’s not much better.” Mr. Punch frowned.

“We’re all that’s left, you know.” Barbara mumbled. “Mother and Father are gone. My child belongs to someone else now. So does my husband. And, now, Iolanthe has both of us. Well, she has me, and how ever many people you are. I set this in motion, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” Mr. Punch nodded.

“If I let you go, she’ll kill me.” Barbara sighed.

“Probably.” Mr. Punch answered.

“Would that be such a loss?” Barbara laughed to herself.



Did you miss Chapters 1-149? If so, you can read them here.