All he heard was his father's heavy footsteps. The door to Jack's room flung open, his father pulled the sheets off his bed. "This is enough, John," he said, balling them in his arms and dropping them to the floor. "I don't care how late you came back; it is past nine o'clock, and it is time to wake up."

He propped himself up, yawning, the dull ache of a headache in his temples. "What day is it?" Jack mumbled, rubbing away the crust around his eyes. He could barely open them. The crackling of his bedroom's fire radiated dully in the distance.

"I expect you downstairs in three minutes, do you understand?" his father asked. He gave no room to answer, for Jonathan Byrd Sr. departed, leaving the door ajar. Jack's father called for someone, but his son did not hear.

Sitting up, Jack yawned and stretched, his back pressed against the wooden headboard, cold against his back. He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion setting in again; Jack groaned, a long, low, drawn-out sound that, if gone on any longer, would have resulted in falling back to sleep. He forced his eyes open.

Doyle stood at attention by his wardrobe, the butler's stony face meeting Jack's eyes before turning, opening the french doors, and exposing the immaculately-kept collection of clothes. "I was told to help you dress," Doyle said, removing an off-white shirt and gray trousers.

Jack groaned again, swinging his legs out of bed; he shivered at the frigid air. He moved to grab the pair of trousers hanging in the back of the wardrobe. "Doyle, I am not a child. I can dress myself."

"Your father also told me not to let you do that," he continued, removing the corresponding vest, suspenders, and jacket. A cravat was tucked into one of the vest pockets. "If I recall correctly, last he asked you to speak to him, you made him wait a quarter of an hour while you decided to bathe."

He moaned. "I came down, did I not?" he asked.

Doyle's stern expression turned back to him. "Would you like me to remove your shoes, or do you feel awake enough to do it yourself?" he asked, standing perfect and poised at the end of the bed, even when leaning down to fold Jack's things. His uniform was crisp and clean, without any blemishes in sight.

Jack glared, though he wondered how someone could dress like a penguin every day of their lives. The thought made him nearly laugh. "I am not a child," he said, having not risen from the bed. Another yawn caught in his throat. "Let Father have a few extra minutes to stew," he sighed, threatening to lean back onto the mattress. "Patience is a virtue, he always says."

"I believe he said that about you, Little Master," Doyle responded, his tone calculated and low, "though I believe he followed that up with saying something along the lines of, 'Mine is wearing thin with you'."

He waved his hand, his reclining continuing. "Father's never been pleased," he whispered, sighing again. "Let him have his few extra moments."

The butler said nothing, grabbing Jack's arm and thrusting him back into the upright position. He forced into Jack's lap the trousers and shirt.

"I could have you fired for grabbing me like that."

"Should you be displeased with my service, I recommend you lodge that complaint with your father first." Doyle stared down his nose, blocking the door to the bath room.

Jack sighed, a frustrated anger blooming in his stomach, followed by resentment. He stood, throwing the shirt over his shoulders, slid his arms into the sleeves, and started buttoning.

"...behind in your classwork, your expenses are becoming all the more gaudy and tasteless, and your – are you listening to me, boy?" Mr. Byrd Sr. asked, his fingers tapping against the wooden top of his desk. He stood from the chair, the man's silhouette backlit by a fire encompassed by a massive, glimmering, white stone hearth. The library reeked of deep woods and damask greens, accented in brass fixtures ornamented with frosted glass.

Jack blinked. He folded his hands behind his back, standing at attention. "I am sorry, Father. I was out late last night."

Mr. Byrd Sr. scoffed. "Your impudence only makes me consider further if I should send you into the office all ready to work. Is that what you're asking me?"

He rolled his eyes. "Father, it is too early for this.”

“How do you not understand this?” he asked. “Is this all a joke to you?”

“I'm behind in schoolwork. And? What consequences are there? It’ll be done eventually. But, Father, haven't you ever been so..." Jack turned his eyes to the globe sitting comfortably in the corner of the library. The round, gently textured map called to him. "There's, there a world so much greater outside, how can you be content sitting about when, when there are places to see? Explore? Have you never experienced such restlessness? J'apprends le français pour une raison, n'est-ce pas?"*

"We have a duty, not just to our community, but to the people we employ as well as our family," he enunciated. "The only thing your 'restlessness' has done is cost our family a place in society."

"How droll," Jack sighed. The fifteen-year-old rolled his eyes again. “Is this the part where you tell me, yet again, that what I am doing is not enough?”

"Do not mock me, Jonathan Byrd. This is no laughing matter. I have spent too long working to give you and your siblings a life I wish I had for myself, and I will not have your insolence undo my work." His father sat back down, the chair groaning underneath him. He pressed his fingers to his temples. "You have your lessons today?"

"Yes." His fingernails dug into his palms, hidden, still, behind his back. “Mr. McIntyre is expected at eleven.”

"Don't bother," he sighed, sitting forward. "Doyle?"

The butler opened the door behind Jack. "Sir?"

"Cancel John's lessons for today. He will be taking some of my work. Set up a desk for him in the drawing room."

Jack's skin prickled. He grit his teeth.

The door closed.

"Your tutor has told me time and time again that you remain unfocused, inattentive, and unwilling to participate in the lessons," he said, standing again. Mr. Byrd Sr. gathered a stack of papers in his hands before offering them to his son. Despite the severity in his tone, his eyes gleamed, pleading. "This is not something you will turn down. Prove to me you can do this."

He took them.

His father sat back down. "Your desk awaits, Jack," he whispered, nodding his head towards the front door.

Jack turned and left.