“I beg you, explain why we are in possession of a...a motor-cycle now? You have no use for one. We have five fine horses in the stables that can take you anywhere.”

Jack turned his eyes up to the ceiling and sighed. Irritation grew inside him. “One of the boys was selling it. It was a good deal.”

“So you bought it for one-fourth of what we pay Doyle yearly? Fifty dollars?” He laughed, a desperate sound of disbelief. “You – have you no shame? Where did you get the money for it, anyway? You have no allowance anymore after that whole debacle with the World’s Fair Corporation.”

Jack smirked to himself despite the burning anger in his stomach. ‘It is not that difficult to open your safe, Father,’ he wanted to retort, ‘remove a few bills when the fires have gone cold, and lock up.’ His father, Jack knew, worked methodically, always like clockwork. The whole attempt to squash Jack’s spending was charming but child’s play.

“John.”

“It was a good deal,” he insisted. Jack's hidden hands curled into fists.

“It is a waste, John.”

“It was – ”

“Enough,” his father interrupted, voice reverberating off the walls of the library. “I do not want to hear the same excuses over and over from you anymore. I am at my wit's end, boy, and I believe you know that.” Mr. Byrd Sr. stood, his hands outstretched on the tabletop. “I have allowed your childishness to be time and time again, but this is what broke the camel's back.” He leaned forward. “I will start plans of sending you to a military school despite your mother's wishes. She hopes I send you to some boarding school, but I do not believe that is enough. Maybe a military academy will finally be enough to straighten you out.”

Jack's eyes narrowed. “Is this a threat?”

“What else would it be?” his father answered on cue. He met his son's stare, glaring. “If you will not listen to myself or your mother, maybe you would listen to someone who makes you stand for hours holding dictionaries out like a scale.” His father raised a brow, staring down at Jack. “Was certainly effective when my father punished me that way. Maybe I should bring it back.”

A draft made his skin crawl. He laughed, the sound uncertain. “Y-you would not.”

“I already have the paperwork set aside. Your mother and I will discuss it tonight, and if we cannot decide together, I will send you to military school.”

“Mother would be heartbroken.”

A pained look crossed his father's face. His eyes darted to the side for a moment. “I am aware, but this is of your doing,” he pointed out slowly, shaking his head. He clasped his hands together. “Now then, do I finally have your attention?”

Never before had Jack wanted to gut-punch his own father.

“Good. From now on, you will begin taking your role in this family seriously. All schoolwork completed, any work I ask of you related to the factory, all of it done with few or no complaints. There will be no reckless spending, no nights drinking, all of it gone. You are now the model son, the kind that makes others envious. If you cannot fulfill these requirements, which I believe is not much, I will send you to someone with less compassion to beat that insolence out of you.” Mr. Byrd Sr. frowned. “I do not wish to send you away, but you are offering few options otherwise.”

That feeling in his gut, burning nauseous holes in it, returned tenfold. Jack clenched his jaw, his eyes dropping away from his father. This was a betrayal, one of great magnitude. His hands trembled behind his back. Tempted to simultaneously scream and attack him, his childish fury burned inside him harder than the blaze behind his father. Jack sat down, paralyzed by his ambivalence. He ran his hands over his face, through his hair, eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. His breath, steady, made his head spin.

“Do you understand what I'm saying?” his father asked after several tense moments of silence.

He did. He did not. Jack said nothing. All he could do was, after another long period of stunned, annoyed quiet, nod.

Mr. Byrd Sr., after drawing in a breath, retrieved a hefty stack of envelopes from his desk. “The factory has not escaped the year unscathed. Studies to export our textiles overseas have been shelved for now. Investors have been pulling their support, and our shipping contracts have been their own mess. With everything happening, I have not had the time to pick the scholarship recipients.” He walked around the desk and offered the envelopes to Jack. “Read through the applications carefully. Sort them by academic achievement. Musical ability is always worthy of consideration.” The man dropped them into his son's lap. “Keep an eye on location, as well. We do not want anyone from some unknown middle-of-nowhere place with little ability to receive it when someone more academically adept is more worthy.”

Jack held the stack of envelopes, eyeing the at least thirty requests in hand. He swallowed thickly, the motion singeing his throat, meeting his father's eyes again. “I...” he started, shaking his head. He stood, keeping his gaze low. “Please ask Doyle to set aside a place for me to work on this in the drawing room.”

“It is done and ready.” He retrieved three letters, placing them on top of the stack. “These are for whoever you pick. The addresses and names need to be written, and then posted.”

His stomach twisted, a hot breathless exhale escaped his lips. Still, the headache pounded. “...I...will take my leave,” Jack whispered, moving out the door and into the drawing room just across the hall.