Chapter 11
Percival and Cordelia’s marriage fractured.
Not because I ordered it.
Because he learned she hid the rabbit key from him.
He saw that as betrayal.
Interesting.
A man running a secret table offended that his wife kept a secret.
Life has humor.
Cordelia moved out.
No Whitcomb access.
No contact with Beatrix.
Not yet.
Percival remained married on paper—irrelevant to me.
He tried twice to rebuild influence through Anthony Bram.
Failed.
People become less brave when the second table no longer feels inevitable.
Then he came to me.
Not to apologize.
To warn.
“Cordelia will ask for Beatrix.”
I stared.
“She loved that girl.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not warning.”
He looked frustrated.
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
Cordelia might confuse love with entitlement again.
I did not.
If Beatrix asked to see her someday, maybe.
If not, no.
Percival then said:
“You think Amelia won.”
I looked at him.
“This isn’t a game between dead and living people.”
He laughed.
“It always was to Cordelia.”
Maybe.
That was tragic.
Amelia never knew she was competing.
She was dying.
Raising a daughter.
Trying to protect me from politics she no longer had energy to fight openly.
Cordelia built rivalry alone.
That is often how jealousy survives—without needing the other person’s participation.
Percival lost all operational role permanently.
Personal wealth remained.
Family name remained.
No command.
He called it humiliation.
I looked at him.
“No.”
Then:
“Humiliation is taking a three-year-old’s comfort object and making a room laugh while she reaches for it.”
May you like
He stopped speaking.
Good.
