Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
“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—”
“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!”