Page 95 of The Black Table
Father’s house in Sarrasford is nothing elaborate. High quality, of course, but only the necessities. Brownstone, three floors, sleek furniture. Mallory is notably not here—presumably either in New York or in Boca or God knows where Morgan’s mother likes to get up to spending the family fortune. This house by Caliburn is allLuther, all masculine energy, all the things that should be my birthright and that I clearly failed to make good on.
And yet, at the same time, there’s something strangely comforting in it. The ritual. Knowing that any failure, all failures, are met with this. That I can count on him in that regard.
“That’s it?” my father barks, spinning on me. “You come here to tell me what I already know?”
“You told me to come here,” I say simply.
It’s the wrong thing to say. He narrows his good eye at me, closes the space between us.
“I should strike you for that,” he says, voice low and lethal. “But it’s unseemly to hit a man when he’s already down.” His gaze falls to my arm. “How long?” he says.
“I don’t know exactly. It’s just a sprain.”
“We’ll find out how long,” he says, “and then take half that time. Dell’Acqua was fine, but we can’t afford to have you out of commission permanently. It’s too risky.”
“I know that,” I say, but my tone must be too strong.
“I want nothing but rehabilitory exercises for you,” he says. “Between now and the next match, that’s it. Eat, sleep, and work that arm back into shape. Have I made myself clear?”
I bristle. I’m not a child. I don’t need to be told how to take care of my injuries.
Or I don’tnow.
Where were you when I was bruised and beat up from all those practices as a kid?I think.Where were you when Kai would pound the shit out of me after I beat him? Where was your insistence on rehab, your attention?
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I do what I do best. I parry.
“What about studying?” I say. “Don’t I need to do that?”
His mouth hardens into a thin line. “Of course,” he saystersely. “I figured that goes without saying, but if you need it all spelled out?—”
“I don’t,” I say. “I just wanted to affirm, because Dr. Emrys has selected me for a special project.”
That gets his attention. His expression changes, not softens exactly, but loses some of its keen edge.
“Has he?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “We did excellent work on a team project in class, and so he’s given us an original text to?—”
“We,” my father interrupts. “Another student?”
I dip my head. “Yes,” I admit. “She’s quite accomplished.”
“She?”
Damn it. I hadn’t meant to reveal that. Now, or ever.
But I can’t unspeak what I’ve said.
So I pivot.
“Correct.” I curl my lips. “A female student. Caliburn has admitted them since the 1900s, you know.”
“Don’t be smart,” he snaps back. “You know why I’m asking.” He turns to face me full on, his one eye boring into me. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”
My blood rushes hot in spite of myself.
