Chapter 2: Where The Heart Is

I knocked on the door to my father's office and waited for his voice to call me in.

Lincoln had told me that I was to see him this morning, but it took me all that time to get out of my own head to what he could possibly want. It was now deep in the late afternoon and I hadn't gone down for lunch with my brothers and sister.

"Enter," I heard him grumble through the door and took a deep breath in. I pushed the wood and saw that my father was at his desk writing something on a document. He placed the pen in the ink bottle before looking up at me. Getting up from his chair, he didn't say a word. I swallowed and waited for him to walk to his drinks. Pouring himself the glass of dark liquor he needed to talk to me, he took a sip.

"Finn, take a seat."

I managed to make my feet move towards the seat that was placed opposite of his desk. My father remained besides the drinks table and I sat myself down, staring at the handful of paperwork that lined his desk. He managed a business that I wanted no part of, but the sole reason of being a Waitstill associated me to it for as long as I lived.

"I've been thinking about introducing you to a couple of people from the firm. You're nearly at the age where both Micah and Theo started getting a handle on the runs and the batches. Hell, Micah runs things smoother than I do sometimes." He said in a hurry. It felt pressed, like my presence in his office was as much of a disruption to equilibrium to him as it was to me. "Would finally give us something to talk about" The last line came out with an awkward laugh.

I looked at the documents again. There was so many that had the Waitstill stamp. I never felt like that stamp belonged to me. Nor did the ring that wrapped around my finger. One that was given to all the Waitstill boys, one that pledged our loyalty to the company.

My mother died when I was around seven years old. I was always closer to her than I was to Father. My memories from when I was smaller are still blotched. Like someone spilled wine over the images in my head, and all that I can see is a faint outline of the time now past. All I can smell wherever I walk is the potency of failure. Ever since she died, Father did near nothing to fill the deficit I had in my heart. Something that large could only be aided with love, and Nicholas Waitstill lacked in that department like a penguin and flight.

I cleared my throat, not moving to look at him. "Father... I," I tried pushing the confidence to my throat. It felt bitter and strong enough to make me want to run out and get some breathable air into my lungs. "I don't think I'm made for –"

"Don't be absurd, Finn. You're my son. It's called a family business."

I felt the tears prick behind my eyes. Trying to swallow down any sense of dejection, I knew this was the only time I could make my feelings known.

"I don't want to be a part of it, Father."

The silence stretched in the air and I could hear the brief sound of the glass being put down on wood. I shut my eyes briefly and my body tensed at the sound of my Father breathing more heavy.

"You're first meeting with the board will be with Micah on Tuesday. Be on time, Finn" his voice returned to the tone I remembered. His words clipped and the message final.

I finally turned my head and looked at him. He had dark circles underneath his eyes and I could see the grey hairs all around his sideburns. This was the image of my father; stoic, stubborn and near whatever poison he chose for the night.

I opened my mouth to repeat what I had said. Thinking maybe I said it in my head, he hadn't heard me.

"And I shall assume by next year you shall be getting a slave of your own. It will be good practice for when you have to train or handle them. Egerton and Crogsworth will guide you and teach you if you'd like. But your mind is as agile as your mothers so I assume it will only take them a couple of sessions."

His mention of my mother brought me out of my stupor. "Father, I don't want a slave. Nor, do I want to run or help run the company." I could hear my voice rising and the power it held surprised me. Apples never fall far from the tree. "I would like to attend a finishing school. I want to to become a medic or a physician. Someone who could cure or find cures. Had there been one smart enough when Ma died, perhaps she would still be with us. I plan on becoming that, Father. I want that!"

"Do not fucking talk of your mother's death, Finn Waitstill!" his voice was booming across the walls now. Instead of sitting down and listening like I usually did, I got up from my chair and faced him head on. He needed to understand.

"Not talking about it doesn't make it disappear! I want to find love of my own. Not someone who you've stolen, beaten or molested from the streets! I don't want to be a part of something that means inducing pain on another human!" My voice had risen to match his.

"You will leave right now, boy. Or I swear on all that is merciful, you shall be begging for it."

I shook my head in manic apathy. I could feel the tears beginning to cloud my vision. I watched my father's eyes find mine. He followed one tear trail down my cheek and before I could open my mouth to try and make him understand once more, I saw his hand rise.

The pain flashed before my eyes before the actual situation happened. I saw his hand connect to my face and the pure pressure of the hit made me shut my eyes and flinch back.

"Man the hell up, you insolent excuse of a son. Only faggots cry. Get out" he seethed.

I moved my head forward and all emotion drained from my face. Without looking at him, I took a couple steps towards the door and stopped. The taste of iron burst in my mouth and I licked my tongue out to feel my bottom lip split in two.

I forced my hand up and exited the office.

The house was bustling. There were servants, chefs and keepers walking around everywhere getting reading for Elle's birthday ceremony. Hers was different to Micah and Theo's. So much so that no one was invited. It was a night solely for her. My father had already reserved a dinner meeting for that night, ensuring his absence. If you could describe my father's relationship with me and my brothers as loveless. His and Elle's was something that bred only in the darkest alcoves of Earth.

I walked forward to the main dining room and past the adjourning kitchen where I saw Elle speaking to a female cook. As if the only god given gift I had was invisibility, I managed to walk all the way to the grand exit with no trouble nor disturbance.

The butlers were all getting ceremonial assets ready, so no one had been at the door. I pulled the handle myself, feeling the weight strain my arm muscles. There were usually three or four people manning the grand entrance, the ceiling high door was heavy enough to make it a difficulty for even then. Yet, determination seemed to take form in an army as I slipped through the exit and finally let in the breath I never knew I was holding in.

The cold winter air stung my cheeks and I felt the prickle sensation of the chill lick where my tears had wet my cheeks.

The carriage boy asked me if I needed to depart somewhere. Like I was out of my own body, I shook my head at him and fleetingly whispered something about going for a walk down the pathway.

Walking down the long path that lead to Waitstill manor, I left everything behind. I put my hands in my coat pocket and savored the ache that the cold brought. I felt a small pouch clink in my pocket and prayed to everything I wouldn't get robbed.

The sun was beginning to set and when I reached the main street, I hailed a riding carriage boy. I asked him to take me to the Main Town Square.

"I'm afraid I can't today, Sir. I 'ave to head home to me Missus. Birds go home. I go home." He smiled apologetically and I saw the tobacco stains that dyed his teeth.

"Where's home?" I asked

The rider looked taken aback by the question. I felt my stomach ache from the lack of any meals throughout the day. I put one foot on the edge of the carriage and waited for his reply out of decency. I didn't care where he said. I just knew I needed as far away from the North side as possible.

"The Valley... O' Excuse me sorry. You ain't gun' know it by that. Baneberry, Sir. Home is Baneberry Lane."

I hadn't heard what he said of course. I had already entered the carriage before he finished his sentence. "Then that's where I'm going."

He briefly looked at the cut on my lip and the potentially blotched cheek I sported and sighed. He looked down at the floor of the carriage before nodding, turning back his head and clacking his mouth. The horses began to ride and soon enough, we were at a steady pace going wherever he mentioned he laid rest.

Maybe a stranger's so called home could be my salvage for the night.