The writing desk remained prepared for him, placed into the vacant corner between the upright piano and a wall, facing away from any windows and doorways. Resigned, he sank into the seat, balancing the envelopes on the tiny amount of desktop space available. Opening the first envelope, he started reading, black ink looping out endless accomplishments for someone whose name Jack could not read. Glancing around, he placed the papers to the side, onto the closed top of the piano.

Five applications deep, that feeling in his stomach resurfaced, glowing like the embers of a dying fire, igniting. He was unsure how long had passed, every minute aching by, yet his irritation in the task made it all the more agitating. 'Was this supposed to be some sign of resignation Father intended for me?' he wondered, breath hissing through his teeth. He turned back to the door, frowning. Jack opened the sixth envelope, scanned it, eyes glossing over every word written, and tossed it to the side. He did this for the rest of them without so much of a second thought.

It was three minutes after when Doyle appeared, a glass of water on his tray. “Little Master,” he asked, finding the teen standing against the fireplace mantle, staring into the hearth. He placed the drink on the closest surface unoccupied by paperwork. “Your organization system is...quite interesting.”

“What do you need, Doyle?” Jack asked, deadpan.

Doyle hummed lowly, placing the tray behind his back.

“I am only taking a mental break.”

“Your father neglected to tell you that three applicants are needed this year, of any age.”

“Did he, now?” Jack turned his eyes back to him, eyeing the three envelopes hidden underneath countless applications. He wanted to snap back, saying he had figured that out already, to tell him the job was fruitless, that no stupid, backwoods imbecile would or could accomplish anything from this damned scholarship. He kept his mouth tightly shut.

The butler nodded. “He hopes you will have sorted through the recipients by supper tonight.”

Jack scoffed, turning back to the fire. “Maybe it is to show everyone I have turned over a new leaf.”

Doyle said nothing. “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“No.”

The older man left.

Jack threw himself back into the writing desk's chair, peeling through the loose pages before leaning back into the seat, groaning. After a moment of dread, sifting through every application again, he sighed. Jack grabbed a paper with a return address simply and legibly written, scribbled the name into the start of the letter, addressed it, dripped some wax on the envelope's opening, then sealed it closed under the press of their family crest stamp. He tossed it aside and grabbed another application, regardless of legibility; again, he filled in the letter, sealed it, and tossed it aside. Jack could not even recall writing the last response, yet knew there were three when he handed the bundle to Doyle. “Send these out as soon as possible.”

The butler nodded. “I will have one of the footmen head to the post office now.”

He nodded, returning to the drawing room and combining every paper into a great stack of disorganized applications. Jack disappeared to his bedroom, placing the pages in a corner to ignore and forget about, only reappearing when supper was called.

“How has your work gone?” asks his mother, sitting upright as the soup was placed in front of her. Behind him, the Christmas decorations glimmered, already being hung up.

Jack leaned his head up slightly as the footman placed down the first course. “It was fine,” he said. “I have already finished.”

Mr. Byrd Sr.'s eyes darted to his wife before asking, “You went through every single one of them?”

Spoon to his lips, Jack watched the concern spread across his parent's faces. “I – yes. I reviewed the applications, sorted them based on academic and musical achievement, and filled in the letters.”

“You already picked the recipients?” asked his father.

His tone made Jack nervous, yet he sighed, feigning nonchalance, and waved his hand. “You said I needed to prove myself.” Jack slurped the green soup, licking his lips as he did so. “I have posted them already, as well. Is there an issue?”

"N-no," his father said, a confused smile spreading across his lips. He chuckled a moment after, the sound so stunned, disbelieving. "Well done. Well done, Jack."

His mother leaned over, touching Jack's arm — a soft, relieved smirk on her face. She turned to her husband and said, “I told you he would.”

“Yes, yes, Ida,” he sighed, smirking. “You seemed to know everything.”

She smiled, her hand placed over Mr. Byrd Sr.'s fingers before withdrawing to eat.

Jack wrinkled his nose at the obvious affection before eyeing his younger siblings at the table. “They are here?” he asked, pointing his spoon between Marjorie and Laurence. “Where is Nanny Lynn?”

Mrs. Byrd shook her head. “She is ill tonight. I would normally have them eat in the nursery, but I thought it would be nice to see them here for a change.” She smiled at them. “How are you, my loves?”

“Papa, I wanted to tell you about my lessons,” Laurence started, the eleven-year-old moving onto his knees as he did.

“Laurie, sit down,” his father laughed. “That is not how you sit.”

“Can I play a song on the piano tonight?” asked Marjorie. She pressed her hands to the table, lifting herself out of the chair slightly. “Ms. McGrady said I've gotten real good at a Debussy piece and I wanna share it!”

“Done well, Jiji,” Mr. Byrd Sr. corrected, smirking. “Of course. We will retire together this evening.”

“A lovely way to end the night,” Mrs. Byrd said, smiling.

“Now then,” began Mr. Byrd Sr., folding the napkin into his lap, “Laurie, how are your lessons?"

“Good. Oh! We started learning Latin today! It's a weird language. Why do they teach it, Papa? Nobody speaks it.”

Jack snorted. “I cannot argue with that.”

“Who'd you pick, Jack?" Majorie asked between spoonfuls of soup.

He hummed, his own mouth full.

“For the scholarship.”

“I knew what you were talking about, Jiji,” Jack told her.

“Will we meet them, Papa?” asked Laurence.

Marjorie's eyes turned back to her eldest brother. “I hope you picked someone who can play the violin. Do you remember that violinist from a couple years before that Mrs. Hutchinson picked to support?” The seven-year-old turned her eyes away. “I think about him sometimes. He was quite handsome.”

"Marjorie, you are too young," her mother warned, laughing.

Mr. Byrd Sr. cracked a smirk. “I concur. Maybe next year.”

“John,” Mrs. Byrd chastised, swatting his arm.

He snorted. “Yes, we will meet them, Jiji.” Mr. Byrd Sr. turned to his son. “Actually, do tell us about the recipients. I had not expected you to pick them so quickly. Their applications must have impressed you. You were able to pick through the fifty to find them in one afternoon.”

'Fifty?' Jack bit his lip and smirked. His hands started shaking; moving them into his lap, he cleared his throat. “I was..amazed, honestly,” Jack started. He chuckled. “I feel woefully inefficient compared to them.” He picked up his spoon. “Well, they have been sent, and that is what matters, right?”

His parents, unsure, moved the conversation along. Mr. Byrd Sr. engaged with Marjorie and her singing lessons. Laurence and his curiosity in the sciences.

Jack's eyes narrowed. The unease in his stomach settled finally, and he felt...accomplished.

His mother placed her spoon to the side. She dabbed her napkin across her lips before asking, “Jack?”

He met her gaze.

She asked, “You read through them, right?”

“Of course,” he said, his tone calm. If he was going to disappoint them, why bother doing this at all?

Mrs. Byrd dropped her head, staring. “Jack.”

“I did,” he insisted.

She stared, frowning. She knew.

Jack held her gaze, folding his hands together in his lap. Caught. He clenched his jaw, anger and embarrassment and so many other emotions shooting through him. “I did,” he insisted again.

His mother watched him a moment longer before tearing her eyes away. “John,” she whispered, leaning over to touch her husband's arm.

“Yes, my love?” he asked.

Mrs. Byrd whispered something.

From the corner of his eyes, Jack watched her lips move.

He laughed.

She did not.

His father shot him a glance. A horrified one. One of betrayal, disappointment, disgust. “Jack,” he stammered. The one word said it all – “Tell me she is wrong, I beg you.”

Jack frowned, glaring. “I did what you asked of me,” he whispered lowly, returning to eating.

Mr. Byrd Sr. sighed, throwing his napkin down. He rose from the table. “Do not mind me. Please continue. I will meet you all in the drawing room for Jiji's piano, all right?” he asked. The man withdrew, calling for Doyle to follow after.

Doyle, side-eyeing the Little Master, followed after.

He kept eating. Never before had Jack so desperately wished he could burn away, disappear into the smoky air of the city.