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)
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.”
Mr. Carrow sighed and pushed the book aside. “Men like the chancellor don’t need reasons. They need victims. They need to remind everyone, constantly, of their power. And the surest way to demonstrate power is to destroy someone without cause.”
“But Marco always did everything the chancellor asked of him.”
“And for that very reason, the chancellor was never going to respect him. Loyalty only offers momentary protection. The real currency that matters with bullies is fear.”
It was the first time he ever heard Mr. Carrow call the chancellor what he actually was—a bully. It made Jack proud but also nauseous with fear. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
The chancellor reshaped reality any way it suited him, manufacturing a stunning amount of lies in a single day just to manipulate others and shape the world to his narrative. He lied so much, people doubted the truth right in front of their eyes. It was a trick to control others, not through strength but through confusion.
“Just once,” Jack whispered, shaking his head, “I wish someone would call him out on his lies.”
“They need to believe him, Jack. The alternative is admitting they’ve given their loyalty to a monster. That they were wrong. So they double down and defend him even more fiercely.”
The tutor met his eyes with a meaningful stare Jack was afraid to translate. He looked at him that way for a long time, as if seeing the real him he kept carefully hidden from everyone else.
“You deserve better, Jack,” Mr. Carrow finally said after a long moment. “You’re remarkable, you know? Brilliant, but also strong. Most children who’ve endured what you’ve endured would have shattered by now. But you...” He shook his head. “You see the world for what it is and somehow manage to still show shocking integrity for a boy your age.”
Jack didn’t know how to respond to such praise, so he fidgeted awkwardly, accidentally knocking his arm against the table in a way that made him flinch.
“Can I see your arms, Jack?”
The request was quiet. Not a demand. Not an order. A secret. And Jack learned long ago how dangerous secrets could be.
But he trusted Mr. Carrow more than anyone else in this world, so he carefully pushed up his sleeves.
“Jesus.”
Fat purple fingerprints had started to yellow at the edges. Scars showed in silver dashes along his skin.
Mr. Carrow’s jaw tightened as his hands curled into fists. “You won’t be here forever,” he finally whispered. “Somehow, we’ll figure this out.”
Jack rolled down his sleeve, glad Mr. Carrow couldn’t see the other parts of his body. That was where the real ugly marks hid.
They never talked about his bruises again. And the months that followed blurred together like watercolors in the rain. Spring eventually surrendered to summer, summer burned into autumn, and through it all, Jack sensed something shifting in the pressure, the way it does before a terrible storm rolls in.