Indeed, a writing desk was ready for him, placed into the vacant corner between the upright piano and a wall, facing away from any windows and doorways. Jack found the location a cruel joke, yet Doyle seemed to have made it purposeful. Blank papers, an inkwell with eyedropper, and pen sat neatly together, waiting in attention for his arrival. There was barely enough space for all the paperwork his father had given him.

Just as Jack found enough space for it all, his shoulders rolled forward, lips twisting into a grimace. He called for Doyle. But as Jack opened his mouth to ask for water, his eyes narrowed, a smirk spreading across his lips. “Get my coat," Jack said, turning back towards the hall. "I wish to take a stroll before work starts. To invigorate myself."

Doyle, his face unmoving, stared back.

"I'll only be five minutes."

The older man nodded, fetching his coat from an alcove in the distance. As Doyle opened the door, he asked, Jack's derby hat in hand, "Shall I have tea set aside for you, Little Master?" A cold breeze swept into the living hall.

"Yes," he answered, keeping his eyes low—anything to remove himself from the modest townhouse.

"Excellent, sir."

Jack stepped out onto the covered portico, the large oak door closing with a subtle click. The air in the city of Allisport stung with icy winds blowing off the lake, mixing playfully with the oily, smoky scents that rose over the buildings. His forehead, peeking out from under the brim of his hat, pained at the stale light, harsh through the cloud cover. Regardless, after fixing his gloves, Jack moved into the open air, rounding around the gate from the front walk, and headed towards Chester Arthur Memorial Park.

Just up the street, the Madison Avenue electric trolley rang its bell.

A lopsided grin grew on his face as his steps, rhythmic against the sidewalks, sped up. He could already see the White City appearing in the distance.

The steps of the covered portico came into view again, though Jack groaned, his head swimming. The pull doorbell was rung, and the door opened a moment later. "Is Mr. Byrd Sr. in, ma'am?" one of the policemen asked.

The footman stepped aside, pulling the door open.

Jack watched the flooring underneath him change from stone to linoleum.

"I will fetch him, sir," he said, closing the door softly behind them.

"Sorry to disturb you this evening, sir," another police officer started. "Your son was caught drinking and defacing the statue in the park. A few other boys were with him."

The first officer drew in a breath. “Some of the other officers wanted to keep him for the night, but...because of what you've done for the neighborhood – ”

He heard his father sigh. "Thank you, officers. Put him over there."

They did as they were told, and Jack found himself upright, sitting on a settee with his parents looking down on him, the staircase hall opening above him to the upstairs gallery. His mother knelt before him, her hands planted on his face, cooing and wishing he'd say something to her. He removed himself from her grasp.

From the staircase railing, his younger brother and sister watched him.

One officer handed him a paper. "I do not wish to give you this, but – "

"No, I understand," his father whispered, crumbling the paper in his fist. "I would not expect you to treat me any less, regardless of who I am. I will see to it that the statue is restored."

The two men nodded their heads, fingers placed gingerly on the brim of their hats. They turned and disappeared back outside.

The door closed.

Mr. Byrd Sr. sighed, pressing his fingers to his temples.

"Are you all right?" Mrs. Byrd asked, reaching out to press her hands against her son's cheeks.

"Look at brother's eyes," said Marjorie, appearing tucked behind her mother. "They're red."

Laurence swung around his mother, leaning forward. "Good God, you smell awful."

"Have you vomited?" asked his mother, the back of her hand against Jack's forehead, cool to the touch.

Mr. Byrd Sr. grunted, turning to his family. "Marjorie, please return to the nursery with Nanny Lynn; practice your piano, even. Laurence, please..." He sighed again. "...find something. Your mother and I need to speak to your brother a moment."

"Go practice your scales," his mother told Marjorie, her hand gentle on the young girl's shoulder. "I won't be a moment."

Marjorie nodded, stepping back and walking into the drawing room.

Laurence, after a moment, followed his younger sister.

Jack's father nodded.

As soon as the children were gone, Doyle closed the door behind him.

"Do you have any idea – " Mr. Byrd Sr. began, his face growing red.

"John, let him explain," his wife insisted, her hand gentle on the man's arm. She sat down next to him. "Surely he has an explanation for this."

Jack's head swam in a fog of spirits and beer. His eyes hurt, mind wobbled on a sea of inebriation. The gas lights around him hissed, as if further tormenting him. His father and mother's voices, less angry and more concerned, continued speaking, a warble of sounds that were incoherent on Jack's ears. His stomach sat empty, yet was still uneasy. A burning lump rolled up his throat. His eyes moved lazily between his mother and father's faces, unfocused, contorted in pleading and an attempt to understand. His hands trembled.

Finally, Mr. Byrd Sr. sighed, apparently in defeat. “Go to bed, John,” his father sighed, wiping his face with his hand. “I hope the night ahead is less torturous for you than it is normally. Doyle?”

The door to the drawing room opened. "Sir?"

“John is not permitted to leave the house under any circumstances unless otherwise stated. Understood?”

The butler nodded, once again closing the drawing room door behind him. The faint notes of the piano slipped through.

“John, he needs a doctor,” Mrs. Byrd whispered.

“I'm fine," Jack slurred, surprised at how uncooperative his mouth moved.

“John, he needs a doctor," said insisted again.

“Ida, he is drunk. He needs to sleep it off.” His father's voice, already tinged with irritation and frustration, disappointment, even, remaining absolute. “Go to bed, Jack,” he sighed, shoulder's sagging. "You'll be worse for it in the morning." He leaned down, a hand on Mrs. Byrd's shoulder. “I am sorry, my love, but I have to go finish some work now.”

Mrs. Byrd, after a moment, nodded. “Go. I will pester you tomorrow?”

Her husband exhaled, a smirk accompanying the sound. His footsteps echoed over the linoleum floor before fading into the distance, another door closing silencing them altogether.

"Jack, I need you to stand, sweetheart," his mother whispered, rising to her feet.

Her son shook off his mother's hands. “I can do it,” he said, legs wobbling as he rose to his feet. Hands against the wall, he led himself to the staircase, winding himself up and up before arriving in his room. Jack only realized he was in the right spot when a footman pressed his hand against his shoulder, guiding him in. The bathwater started running.

In a blur, he was sunk to his chest in warm water, his head pounding and body aching. Leaning over the side and vomiting on the clean white tiles, Jack prepared himself for another terrible, terrible night ahead.