“Then why did you interrupt?”
“Sir…” Marco looked up at him, confused by the sudden show of hostility but not surprised. “I coughed.”
“Do you think I’m an idiot, Marco?”
“No, sir.”
“If you don’t want to be here to celebrate Jackie’s special day, maybe you should leave.” The transformation was instant. One moment, he had been the benevolent patriarch, dispensing gifts and affection. The next, he was back to being a cruel force of nature, feeding on the fear of others as it rippled through the room.
“Chancellor, please—” Marco’s voice cracked. “My son?—”
“Are you afraid he’ll see the sort of sniveling coward his father is?” His lip curled. “Look at you, trembling like a whipped dog. Cowering. Pathetic.” He spat the word. “You know what your problem is, Marco? You’ve got no spine. No balls. You’ve turned soft. Weak. And that’s exactly what you’ll teach your son to be.”
“Sir, I’m sorry?—”
“Don’t be sorry! Be a man!” The chancellor boomed. Then mimicked Marco’s trembling voice with savage accuracy. “‘I’m sorry…’ You’re a bloody flea on a lion. A pest!”
His face darkened and Jack watched as unblinking as the rest of them. How many also hoped his heart might explode? That he’d get so worked up he’d drop dead at their feet?
“You’re a waste!” His jowls quivered with rage. “The connections I’ve given you, the opportunities, and what have you offered in return?”
No one spoke. No one moved. Jack stood rooted to the marble floor, the first edition still clutched in his hands, as a grown man was humiliated in front of his child.
“Get out.” The chancellor’s voice turned deadly quiet.
“Sir?”
“Get out of my house! You’re finished! See if you can find better bothering someone else!”
Marco’s face greyed another degree. Years of sniveling to the chancellor, and he was just as dispensable as anyone else.
Snatching his son’s hand, he hauled him out of the room.
The stark contrast of the decorations was more obscene than ever in light of the new mood. Others stood stock-still, terrified of catching remnants of backlash.
Jack should have pitied them—Marco, the kid that just watched his father get humiliated in front of an entire household of servants. But nothing stirred.
How many times had Marco stood there while Jack flinched or cried? How many times had he chosen loyalty to a tyrant over human decency.
If anything, a twinge of justice flickered, but the inconsequential glimmer of compassion died before it fully sparked.
“Well.” The chancellor adjusted his long, clown-like tie and smoothed the thatch of brassy hair atop his head. He turned to Jack with a smile. “That’s how you deal with cancer, son. You carve it out—so nothing’s left behind.” He glanced back at the table still stacked with presents. “Bring out the cake!”
The servants scrambled to obey. Jack stood motionless, the book still in his hands.
That night he paid dearly, not just for his presents, but also the chancellor’s frustration with the staff. Jack did little more than rest over the weekend. His body pained him in ways he couldn’t escape.
The following week, when Mr. Carrow returned, he watched him with acute concern. “Are you feeling ill, Jack?”
Jack shook his head, but didn’t vocalize the lie.
A mixture of grief and concern flickered across his tutor’s face—a helplessness that made Jack’s chest ache. He shut the book in front of him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Jack wanted to talk about a lot of things, but he didn’t know how. Instead, he said, “The chancellor fired Marco.”
“Oh? For what reason?”
Jack briefly explained what had happened at the party and all the awful things the chancellor had said. “All he did was cough.”
