“I’ve given you everything a boy your age could want.”
Jackie forced his eyes away from the massive bed and looked up at the man who owned him in ways he would never fully understand.
Barely contained by the fabric of his navy blue suit, the stretched buttons about to pop in an avalanche of ruddy flesh, the chancellor adjusted his red tie with fat fingers. His ring, engraved with the initials RA, glinted in the sunlight as the sweet stench of rotting decay hung in the air, mingling with the ever-present odor of sweaty flesh cologne couldn’t hide.
Jackie’s gaze followed the back of his bruised hand, knowing the exact weight of its touch. “It’s nice, Chancellor.”
“Nice?” Bad breath flowed in the wake of his every word. “Nice, he says! I give the boy a palace, and he says nice. You’re killing me, Jackie. Absolutely killing me.”
Jackie rushed aside before getting trampled. Floorboards creaked as the chancellor stormed further into the room, the world groaning under his weight in ways all too familiar to Jackie.
“Look at this.” He swept a meaty hand toward the shelves lining the wall. “Toys. Every toy you could imagine. Puzzles, books, video games, and every play system there is. I’ve even hired you a tutor. A Cambridge man.” He leaned close, his breath washing over Jackie’s face like a breeze over sewage. “He’s been working on my autobiography, The Art of the Crown. You know, Jackie, you never would’ve gotten an education without my help.”
His stomach sank under the weight of more debt. “Thank you, Chancellor.”
“There. That’s better.” The chancellor patted his head, those fat fingers lingering a moment too long. “You’re a good boy. Your mum was right about that.”
Jackie held perfectly still because resistance only made matters worse, so still he almost stopped existing inside his own body.
“How…” His voice cracked under the weight of building dread. “How long will I be staying, sir?”
The room implied ownership and permanence. The vulgar excess of toys suggested he wouldn’t go home until a sacrifice was made. Captivity.
Jackie had nothing to offer. But the chancellor had a way of extracting other things, things he didn’t like to think about.
The chancellor’s meaty hand squeezed his shoulder. Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough to remind Jackie who was in control. “A few weeks. Better for everyone. Less back and forth. Your mum agrees.”
Jackie’s stomach dropped through the floor, sinking into whatever hell existed beneath this gilded cage hidden so far away it might as well be in the clouds.
“Your mother’s getting worse, you know.” The chancellor said, staring out the window at the undisturbed horizon. “I’ve arranged for more medicine. But medicine’s expensive, Jackie. Very, very expensive.”
His acts of kindness tightened like a noose around Jackie’s neck, making it hard to swallow.
“We don’t want Mummy to get sicker, now, do we?” His tilted posture blocked the sunlight. “Without her medicine, she could die. Then where would you be, Jackie? An orphan. A nothing. No one to take care of you.” He turned and smiled. “You want me to help her, don’t you?”
“Yes, Chancellor.”
“Good boy.” He checked his gold watch, then pointed a sausage finger at the piles of toys. “You settle into your new room. Your tutor will be by this afternoon. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Yes, sir.” He backed away to avoid any further contact as the chancellor left the room. Only when he was gone did Jackie draw in a full, shaky breath.
He looked at the bed. Looked at the toys. Looked at the naked cherubs with their privates exposed. He was going to die in this room. Not a single death, but countless ones.
Moving to the farthest corner from the door, Jackie slid down the wall until his knees were against his chest and wrapped his arms around himself.
Hours later, the tutor found him there.
“I almost didn’t see you there,” the tall, thin man said, staring over the rims of his glasses as they slid down his narrow nose. He set a pile of books on the table by the window. “I’m Mr. Carrow.”
Jackie shrank from the stranger.
“You don’t have to be nervous. We’re going to have fun.” Mr. Carrow moved closer and then paused. He had sharp cheekbones and pale eyes that moved constantly. He wore a proper brown suit that complemented his wheat-colored hair and hung loosely on his slender frame. “Do you like stories?”
Unlike the chancellor, when he moved, he made no sound. When he set his leather satchel on the floor, more books bulged from the opening. His voice was soft and cultured, nothing like the booming scratch of the chancellor’s.
Jackie stretched his neck to better see what was on the covers of the books. Mr. Carrow followed his gaze and showed him a cover with a ship and a whale on the front.
“I can’t read.”
