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17
Despite the appearance of a specter at the feast (I’m quoting Mycroft Holmes to Benedict Cumberbatch in the BBC’s version of Sherlock – go watch the show, it’s awesome), things went well for the rest of the night. The rich people got their opportunity to press the flesh with Connor, the environmentalists raised some money, and I didn’t go to jail for killing Miranda. A moderately passable time was had by all.
Until the end.
The guests were almost all gone. Connor and Sebastian were talking to some silver-haired legal hotshot about Miranda’s threats, and I was chatting with Anh and Johnny when I saw him in the entrance to the ballroom: a tall, regal silhouette, powerfully built, with a profile that reminded me uncomfortably of a man I knew and loved.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
“What?” Johnny asked, and reached for his holster as he turned.
I stayed his hand. “No – it’s okay – just… hold on.”
I walked over to Connor and plucked at his elbow. He turned to me as the legal eagle droned on.
“Time for fun?” he whispered with a grin.
“Not exactly,” I said, and gestured at the doorway.
Connor looked to where I was pointing, and the smile drained from his face.
“Excuse me,” he said to the lawyer, and walked away.
“What?” Sebastian asked, then saw the silhouette in the doorway. “Oh shit.” He looked at me and gestured with his head. Go!
I followed closely behind Connor as he strode across the room. It was a long walk; it always is when you’re about to confront someone you wish you never had to see again.
Connor stopped in the ballroom doorway, five feet away from the silhouette.
“Hello, Dad.”
18
Augustus Templeton was much the way I remembered him: imposing. Handsome. Aristocratic. Powerful.
And he looked a lot like the actor Charles Dance.
But there was something different about him. It was hard to put a finger on, but there was a quality in his eyes. They weren’t as cold as they used to be.
I wouldn’t call it warmth. But they looked like the eyes of a man who has suffered. Someone who has seen some things he hadn’t bargained on, and who has reconsidered his place in the world as a result.
Connor’s father answered in a deep voice, with a quiet dignity unlike his normal, arrogant tones.
“…Son.”
That one simple word absolutely floored me.
I don’t think I had ever heard him call Connor that. Not directly. ‘My son,’ yes, plenty of times – like when he’d called him a liar on national television.
But not ‘Son.’
If Connor was affected at all, he didn’t show it. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard there was a meeting earlier today. With Miranda.”
“You could call it that,” Connor said. “I’d lean more towards ‘extortion’ or ‘blackmail,’ but that’s so common with you guys that I guess ‘meeting’ will do.”
Mr. Templeton looked off to the side and half-smiled, half-grimaced, like he was expecting the aggression… and like he didn’t consider it completely undeserved.
