Sebastian swallowed. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
Hawthorne’s expression softened by a fraction—calculated, practiced. “I know this transition is… difficult. But you’re a Hawthorne. And Hawthornes don’t stumble, even when the ground shifts beneath them.” He crossed to the bookshelf, selecting a slim volume on strategy. “Your mother was brilliant but sentimental. She’d have you reading poetry and playing violin until your fingers bled.” He placed a book on Sebastian’s desk. “You may not be old enough to drink, but you’re old enough to understand power. Read this, it’s more practical for where you’re headed.”
Sebastian glanced at the book. “Where am I headed?”
“Higher than you can see from here,” Hawthorne replied. “Dinner is at eight. The Hungarian Prime Minister will be joining us. Listen, observe and don’t embarrass me.”
Dinner was formal and humming with low-grade menace. Sebastian sat between two politicians. Across from him, Hawthorne dissected a bishop’s position on morality like it was a chessboard. Silver gleamed. Wine flowed. Sebastian said nothing—just watched, listened, absorbed.
Until the bishop mentioned the upcoming trade conference in Brussels and joked about the Caledonian delegation always being “fashionably late and fiscally absent.”
Sebastian, quiet until then, spoke up. “I read that Lord Devon’s daughter got married recently. To some senior official in Belgium, I think.” He paused, uncertain if he should continue. “Perhaps they’ll want to make a better impression this time?”
The table stilled for a moment.
One of the politicians chuckled. “You keeping tabs on cross-border alliances now, young man?”
Sebastian shrugged, tone mild. “You can learn a lot by reading the society pages. Often they print the same names as the political pages—just with better pictures.”
A ripple of laughter followed—from the amused, the opportunistic. The bishop looked surprised.
Hawthorne’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tapped once against the rim of his glass.
The Hungarian Prime Minister leaned forward. “Your son has quite the observant eye, Charles.”
“Indeed,” Hawthorne replied, sharp eyes never leaving Sebastian. “Though his mother’s influence still… colours his perspective.”
Sebastian felt the subtle barb but kept his face neutral—a skill he was learning by the hour.
By dessert, Sebastian found himself answering occasional questions—carefully, tentatively. He hadn’t meant to draw attention. But he had. He’d passed something invisible.
Later, as the guests drifted off in clouds of cigar smoke and ambition, Hawthorne laid a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder.
“Sharp instinct,” he murmured. “Unexpected. But useful.”
Sebastian flushed. The smallest ember of pride stirred in his chest.
“You’ll do.”
It was the first compliment he remembered from a man calledfather.
It wouldn’t be the last.
* * *
Three months passed in a blur of lessons—not just schoolwork, but a constant education in power. Sebastian learned to recognize when Hawthorne was using him as a prop, when he was testing him, when he was showing him off.
One evening, Sebastian found himself in Hawthorne’s study. Rain lashed against the windows as his father spoke on the phone, voice liquid silver.
“Minister Blackwood, you misunderstand me.” Hawthorne’s tone was reasonable, patient—the same tone he used when pointing out Sebastian’s failings. “I’m not threatening to reveal your involvement. I’m offering to protect you from those who would.” A pause. “Consider it insurance, old friend.”
He hung up and turned to Sebastian, who pretended to be absorbed in his book.
“What did you observe?” Hawthorne asked.
Sebastian looked up. “You weren’t angry, even though he clearly upset you.”
“And?”