Chapter 10
The Second Table met one final time.
With me present.
I chose the same black cloth Amelia photographed.
Placed it on the table.
Six chairs.
Then remained standing.
Percival hated the symbolism.
Good.
I asked each member one question.
“What were you protecting?”
Not what were you planning.
Protecting.
Anthony Bram said tradition.
Marcus Cole said stability.
Daniel Vale said representation.
Another said old families.
One admitted influence.
Finally Percival said:
“Your father built a structure where no man ruled alone.”
True.
My father also spent half his life trapped by cousins with opinions.
Both.
I said:
“You were allowed to disagree with me.”
Percival answered:
“You stopped listening.”
Maybe partly true.
That mattered.
Had I become too centralized?
Yes.
Grief and pressure made me shorten discussion.
I could correct that.
Without giving six men a secret council.
I separated criticism from conspiracy.
That frustrated them.
They wanted me to reject everything so they could call me tyrant.
Instead I admitted where they were right.
Then removed their shadow authority anyway.
“No Second Table.”
Percival laughed.
“You can’t stop us having dinner.”
“Have ten.”
I leaned forward.
“What you cannot do is claim those dinners speak for Whitcomb.”
Silence.
I created a formal monthly advisory meeting.
Visible.
Rotating membership.
No hereditary seats.
No veto.
Anyone could disagree.
Nobody could build authority by proximity alone.
Some called it compromise.
It wasn’t.
It was ventilation.
Shadow groups grow where disagreement has nowhere legitimate to go.
Amelia had understood that better than me.
Then I burned nothing.
Melted nothing.
Destroyed no black cloth.
Objects are not responsible for adults.
I folded it.
Stored it with Amelia’s note.
May you like
Context.
Not shrine.
