Chapter 2
I took Arthur upstairs before answering anything.
The party downstairs could rot.
My son came first.
He sat in my bedroom while the house physician examined him.
No serious injuries.
Mild dehydration.
Empty stomach.
Soot only cosmetic.
Those conclusions should have relieved me.
They didn’t.
“How long were they making you hungry?”
Arthur frowned.
Three-year-olds do not track campaigns.
“Grandma says picture first.”
“What happens after the picture?”
“Snack.”
“Always?”
He looked down.
“No.”
The physician’s jaw tightened.
I stayed calm because Arthur needed calm.
“What happens if you cry?”
“Uncle Russ says good job.”
There it was.
Rewarded distress.
“What if you don’t cry?”
“Grandma takes bread.”
I closed my eyes for one second.
Then opened them.
“You never have to cry for food.”
Arthur looked genuinely confused.
“Never?”
“Never.”
The bodyguard beside the door turned away.
He had children.
I knew that expression.
Arthur ate half the bread, then asked if he could save the rest.
“For what?”
“Later.”
“No.”
He froze.
I softened immediately.
“You can have more later.”
He studied me.
“More bread?”
“Yes.”
That seemed almost unbelievable to him.
I hated everyone involved.
After Arthur fell asleep with a full plate untouched beside him because apparently abundance itself exhausted him, I returned downstairs.
Russell was under guard.
Doreen had cleaned some soot from her dress.
I placed the phone on the table.
“Mercy Table.”
Neither answered.
I opened the group.
Names.
Not strangers.
Sebastian Crowe.
Marcus Vale.
Henry Locke.
Daniel Price.
Older men.
Wealthy.
Some retired Lockwood captains.
Some business allies.
All people who had complained about my leadership over the last three years.
Interesting.
Their messages were not charitable.
They discussed “pledges.”
“Access.”
“future seats.”
One message from Marcus read:
If Russell gets Serena to reopen the old council, my two hundred is guaranteed.
Two hundred thousand.
Not for hungry children.
For influence.
I looked at my brother.
“You weren’t raising charity.”
His face tightened.
“You were selling seats.”
Silence.
Doreen finally said:
“It started as charity.”
May you like
Of course.
Everything ugly starts with a cleaner story.
