Part 34 (1/2)
”Maybe,” Snips said. ”No, not maybe. Definitely.”
”And so you came here to reprimand me, then? For 'meddling'?”
”No,” Snips said, her eyes drifting to the jars that lined the shelves of his study-as if the answers to her questions could be found among the preserved remains of extinct species. ”No, I didn't come here to reprimand you. But I didn't come here to thank you, either. I'm not sure what I came here for. I just wanted you to know that I know. And that it doesn't change anything.”
”Why would I think otherwise?”
”I don't know,” Snips said, shaking her head. ”Look, what do you want from me? Do you want me to to forgive you? On behalf of the thousands upon thousands you've killed? Do you want me to give you a big, warm hug? Put on a dress, act like a 'good daughter'? Do you want me to come back home?”
”Are any of those things on the table, Arcadia?”
”No,” she said, and there was a murderous force behind the word. ”No. None of those things are on the table.”
”Good,” Nigel said.
”Good?”
”Good,” he repeated. ”As for your question, I will answer it, in exchange for you answering one of my own.”
Snips glared, but nodded. ”Go ahead.”
”Why do you hate me?”
”You're a murderer.”
Nigel snorted. ”Have I killed anyone you knew? Have I killed someone close to you? Your hatred is far too intimate for the callous scorn we heap upon killers and tyrants.”
Snips shook her head. ”Do you know what it was like, growing up and admiring you? Reading the articles about all the wonderful things you'd done, the wonderful things you built?
Hearing all the stories? Wanting to be like you?”
Nigel grew silent.
”And then do you know what happened, Nigel? I ran away to find you. I ran away to meet the man I had read about in newspapers and scientific journals; I ran away to find the kindly, brilliant philanthropist. And do you know what I found?”
Nigel turned his head away.
”I found a man who had murdered thousands in the name of moral righteousness. A man who cloaked himself in shadows and secrets; who manipulated others as if they were mere tokens in a grand game. I went out to find my father. Instead, I found you.”
”And that's why I hate you, Nigel. Maybe it's spiteful.
Maybe it's unfair. But I really don't care. I hate you because you aren't the man you were supposed to be.”
”And so that's what all this is about?” Nigel asked, turning back to Snips. ”The cheap hat, the dirty coat, the silver tooth? Just a little girl rebelling against a father who failed to live up to her expectations?”
Snips was upon him in an instant. Her hands seized either of his wrists, pinning them to the chair; Nigel writhed in pain, but did not cry out.
”You know that's not what this is about,” Snips hissed, leaning forward into him. ”You d.a.m.n well know that.”
”Arcadia,” Nigel whimpered. ”Pl-please-”
Snips released him, stepping back. Nigel coughed, rubbing his wrists.
”What I did with my life has nothing to do with you, Nigel.”
Nigel wheezed and straightened back in his chair, slowly recovering. ”You answered my question, so I will answer yours.
You wanted to know what I want. It is only this: For you to flourish.”
”Why?”
”Because you are my daughter.”
”No,” Snips replied. ”I'm not your daughter. And you sure as h.e.l.l aren't my father.” She turned, moving toward the exit.
”Didn't you hear? My father is dead. He died in a fire.”
When she met him at the Steamwork, Snips insisted on going in first; William patiently waited outside of Mr. Eddington's office until he heard her shout out to him.
”All right,” she told him. ”Come on in.”