He awoke to the rush of cold water over his head, Jack throwing himself upright and rolling out of bed, the wet sheets sticking to him. Wiping his hair out of his eyes, breath heavy and shaking, he shouted, "What the fuck?"

Doyle stood over him, bucket in hand. "Compliments of your father, Little Master," the butler said, leaning down to place it on the floor. "For your...recent purchase." The sigh in his voice suggested secondhand disappointment, resignment.

Jack stood, his flannel drawers and nightshirt soaked through, and moved over to the fire; the bedsheet followed after, slapping the wooden floor once it rounded the footboard. He turned with his back to it, shivering. "Was the bucket needed?" he asked, staring daggers at the wooden thing. "I-it – I only spent the money I had on hand."

He said nothing. Doyle turned to the wardrobe, withdrawing dry clothes and lying them at the foot of the bed. "When you are done, I have been told to escort you downstairs to the library," he explained. “Your father – ”

"Why am I not surprised?" he sighed, peeling off the sopping nightshirt. “Is it just about the motorized bicycle, or am I to be left in suspense?” When Doyle said nothing, Jack sighed, stripping off the drawers. “Fantastic.”

Doyle remained silent, his stony face sagging with dismay. He turned his eyes away and sighed.

“Is there something you would like to say?” he asked. “I will not tell him if you disapprove of all this.”

Doyle turned back to him once his underclothes were over him. "My father woke me up with the bucket when I was your age, so I have no complaints against that." His eyes, usually stony, narrowed, though something lingered in his eyes, as well. “Little Master, if I may speak freely...”

Jack, after a moment, nodded.

“You seem to enjoy squandering everything that is being given to you.”

Jack met the man's eyes. “That is a lofty accusation, Doyle,” he said, tone tinged with disbelief at the words spoken. He turned away to pull on his wool socks. “Why should I not treat it as my own? It will be mine when Father passes.”

“How macabre,” Doyle sighed again, brushing something off his nose.

“Is it not true?” he asked earnestly, eyes narrowing at the older man's comments. They had the money; why was it shameful to spend it like that?

“Little Master, I only ask you to consider your future role. You have the chance to do such good, make your family proud.” Doyle's shoulders relaxed slightly. “Do you not consider that?”

Something in Jack's stomach flared. He turned to the older man, glaring. "Do you dare deign to look down on me? I should have stopped you from speaking freely. I could fire you." The teen turned back to the blaze in the fireplace, throwing on his knockerbockers. “I do not need you. Tell Father I will be down when I see fit.”

“...yes, sir,” he sighed. “I will be in the hall.” Doyle nodded his head curtly. He left, leaving the door closed but not entirely.

Jack grunted. “The audacity,” he muttered, slipping the shirt over his head. “How dare he – ” Jack turned, the room large and empty. Suddenly the gravity of his words hit him. Clenching his jaw, he started buttoning up his shirt.

He was confident it was too early to rise like this, yet the morning sun peeked through the drawn curtains. His room, so comfortable, burned of silence; it twisted his stomach in a feeling Jack knew but could not name – fear, anger, confinement, that this was all life was meant to be, tangling like a cluster of angry snakes. Pressing his palms against his forehead, Jack yawned. The more he thought about the heaviness in his gut, the angrier he became. His hangover lingered, pounding in his head.

Sighing, his skin still damp with the cold, Jack fumbled with his remaining clothes, their scratchy warmth providing a distraction from that feeling burning inside him.

After several minutes of watching Mr. Byrd Sr. finishing writing three letters, he glanced up, started with, “I have seriously considered sending you away.” His eyes dropped to the letters again, folding them carefully into their envelopes, and set them aside. His father sat upright, hands clasped together on the desktop. “Your mother does not want me to, but I see no other options presently.”

Jack folded his hands behind his back. He raised a brow. “If I am to be sent away, may I recommend somewhere in Europe? I might be learning three languages, two of them absolutely useless, but I do not believe I am fully utilizing them while staying here.”

“This is not a game, John,” Mr. Byrd Sr. sighed, placing his fingers against his temples. A fire burned behind him in the fireplace. “Hoping we could facilitate your education here, tailor it so you would have more ability to take over when I retire, now appears, in hindsight, as wasted time.” He met his son's gaze. “Is it wrong to want that for my eldest son?”

His nose wrinkled at the thought. “If that is what you intend for me, let me assure you that I do not intend to follow in any of your footsteps. Regardless of what you plan for me.”

“Jack – ” his father sighed, dropping his head in his hands. His tone dropped, defeat and dissatisfaction, hesitancy washing over his words. “This is not a game, John. How many times must I explain that to you?”

“Just make Laurence your successor.” He shrugged. “What is the issue in that?”

“He is not the eldest.”

“I do not want it.”

"What are your plans then?” Mr. Byrd Sr. asked. “You plan to travel the world? Pray tell – where would your finances for your fanciful, wander-lust voyages come from?”

That feeling in his stomach roared into life again. “I would figure it out,” he snapped back.

“You have no plan? Even if your intentions were possible, should you, at least, have some idea of how to do it?”

“I want to travel.”

“Your tutors tell me you still struggle with writing. Your prospects are limited in that regard, then.”

“I will be like Nellie Bly.”

His father slammed his fist on the desktop, letting out a tremendous sound. “She writes; you cannot do what she has done. A woman has already beaten you to it. George Train has beaten that, as well!” Pain flashed through his eyes. “Please, try to understand, John. I do not wish to fight you anymore.”

Jack turned his eyes away, glaring. He wished only to recoil into himself. To leave the house for the afternoon. Return to his room, even.

Mr. Byrd Sr. sighed. “John, I am growing weary, and concerned, of your thoughtlessness. Of your recklessness.”

He glanced back. “Recklessness? I assumed it was more 'disappointment' than anything.”

“How can you mock the severity of this? This is not – ”

“A joke, I know.” Jack still rolled his eyes.