The familiar weight of his touch sent ice through Jack’s veins. But he’d learned long ago not to flinch.
“Can you believe it, son? I remember when you were just a scrawny little thing. Look at you now—practically a man!”
The assembled staff offered a wave of wobbly, hollow grins, formed for performance in order to avoid backlash.
“I’ve invited Thomas to celebrate with you,” the chancellor gestured toward Marco’s son. “Marco, bring the boy over. Let them get acquainted.” He grinned at Thomas. “Later, Jack can show you some of his toys. You wouldn’t believe how good Jackie has it here. Don’t you, Jackie boy? All the best toys and games a kid could dream of.”
Marco’s face faded like old cheese. He placed a trembling hand on his son’s shoulder and guided him forward. “Say hello, Thomas.”
“Hello.” The words came out flat.
Jack didn’t know how to be a child with another child, or play with other kids. He wasn’t even sure Thomas was there for him.
He frowned at the inexplicable instinct screaming that Marco’s kid was a threat. As soon as he acknowledged that he might actually be jealous, he wanted to throw up. This place was a palace of nightmares. A prison where innocence came to die.
But it was also his sanctuary. He had books and heat and warm clothing and time with Mr. Carrow and he was not letting some little shit take that away from him.
Lifting his chin, Jack paid the boy no mind. He could hate himself later for ruining his one chance at possibly making a friend. In that moment, he only cared about protecting his things. They were his things. His toys. His books. His prison. He gave his soul and more to earn them. And his acceptance of such bribes had warped him in ways there would be no fixing now.
“Presents first!” the chancellor boomed. “Open this one, Jackie.”
The box required two hands to hold. The gold paper crinkled beneath his fingers. It was the first time anyone had ever given him a gift like this.
“Go on. Tear it open!”
He ripped through the thick, metallic paper, revealing a box. The lid slid off with a soft swoosh. Nestled in the tissue paper lay a leather-bound, first edition that greeted his inspection with the musty-sweet smell of aged pages and time.
“Dell’arte della guerra.” Jack read, cocking his head. “Italian?”
“Did I not say he was smart? The Art of War, by Niccolò Machiavelli. It’s a collector’s piece. A first edition, published back in the fifteen hundreds.”
Mr. Carrow had taught him a little about the shrewd, calculating man named Machiavelli who would deceive anyone to achieve his goals.
Snatching the book with little regard for the tattered pages and aged binding, the chancellor waved it in the air. “Every influential man has a library full of books about power.”
Jack honestly preferred authors like Fitzgerald who created worlds for underdogs like Gatsby, but he appreciated the gift all the same.
“Now, you have something proper for your collection. Not just those dusty old fairytales and boring texts Carrow keeps dragging in.”
“Thank you, Chancellor.”
“That’s my boy.” His hand found his shoulder again, squeezed. “Like a son to me, this one. Made you into a fine young man, didn’t I?”
Mumbles of dubious agreement murmured from the onlookers.
“A toast!” The chancellor lifted a crystal glass, though no one else had been served. “To Jackie. Fourteen and more impressive than anyone would have predicted. From a young sprout to a young man.”
The room echoed the toast, “To Jackie.”
Marco cleared his throat. A small cough, barely audible, the kind of involuntary noise that escapes when saliva goes down wrong. But the chancellor’s head swiveled toward his advisor with the sudden, predatory focus of a hawk spotting a fieldmouse miles below.
“Something to say, Marco?”
“No, Chancellor.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just—wrong pipe.” He coughed again, glancing sideways.
The chancellor set down his glass with a deliberate click, warmth draining from his ruddy face. “Did my toast offend you?”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect?—”
