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“Everyone needs something to work towards,” his mother says with a shrug.
Appetisers have just been served, and the room is filled with the silvery tinkling of cutlery. Although I attended many dinner parties and other events with my mother, I never saw her do anything other than sip on flutes of champagne.
But the Blackwoods, having served food at their house and hosting a dinner party, are actually eating the food. Even Zahara eats her appetisers with obvious relish.
I glance down at my plate: tiny white circles of bread, crème fraîche, caviar like tiny black pearls. The portion is small—it’s only an appetiser, but I can’t help the wave of panic that rises in my chest.
“It’s not as though your son was ever defeated,” I say quickly before Zachary or his mother can notice my discomfort. “We only ever tied.” I smile ruefully. “Somehow, that was just worse.”
“I disagree,” Zach says, turning to look at me. “Our names at the top of those boards every year might have been a contentious subject in the Blackwood household, but I grew rather fond of the sight.”
“Or perhaps you grew complacent,” Lord Blackwood interjects.
He’s been listening in silence so far. When he finally speaks, his tone is playful, not accusatory, and yet there’s a look of challenge in his eyes.
Zach tilts his head, watching his father for a moment, and then turns back to me with an easy smile.
“Forgive my father—he’s used to politics, where one’s rivals must always be treated with the utmost disdain.”
Lord Blackwood, to my surprise, responds exactly like his son, turning to me with an easy smile.
“Forgive my son—in the spirit of youthful rebellion, he must despise politics as best he can. One day, he’ll come to his senses and realise a country cannot run on intellectual debate alone.”
“Caleb,” Lady Blackwood says in a tone of warning, “I thought we agreed to not bring up politics at the dinner table.”
“We agreed, my darling, and I held up my end. Zachary was the one to bring it up.”
“And you can be the one to let it go,” Lady Blackwood says.
“A country cannot be run on intellectual debate alone,” Zachary answers his father’s statement as if no interruption had occurred, “but education is where every civilisation starts. Without education, there would be no civilization—no country to rule, and no politicians to rule it.”
Lord Blackwood leans back into his chair, narrowing his eyes. “The baker bakes the bread; the hungry man eats it. Take away the bread, and the hungry man cannot feed himself on the presence of the baker alone.”
“Take away the baker, and there would be no bread.” Zach lets out a laugh. “Even by the logic of your analogy, Father, the baker still holds the most importance.”
“You purposely misconstrued my analogy, Zachary.” His father remains calm. “My point is that the baker is necessary to make the bread, yes, but the bread itself is what satisfies the hunger of the man and keeps him alive. The point of my analogy is that the baker and the bread both fulfil different functions—and that the function of the bread, ultimately, is more important than the function of the person who creates it. The politician might be taught by the teacher, but it is the politician who looks after the country and its people.”
“Except that the way the government currently is, the baker is making fine, delicate cakes, cakes which might please the palate of the man who has already eaten without ever touching the lips of the hungry man.”
“Hah!” Lord Blackwood lets out a booming laugh. “The bakers at your school must not know how to make those fine cakes you speak of, Zachary. I send my son to a private school and he comes home a socialist!”
Zachary grins at his father. “Ah, yes, socialism—the dirtiest word in your vocabulary, Father.”
Lord Blackwood suddenly turns to me. “Please, forgive me, Theodora. My son and I have reached the point every father and son must eventually reach. I wish him to follow in my footsteps and use his voice, his intellect and his privilege to enter a political world that sorely needs young men like him. He, on the other hand, wishes to sacrifice his intellect at the altar of academia and education.” He takes a sip from his drink. His tone is still somewhat playful but only thinly veils his displeasure. “What about you, Theodora? Your father is involved in politics, is he not? Are you thinking of following in his path?”
The question makes my stomach twist. I glance uneasily at Zach, reminded once again of the secret I’m keeping from him, the crucial information I’m withholding.
Looking back at Lord Blackwood, I give him the perfect mixture of truth and lie.
“I dream of being a writer, actually.”
The truth—because it is my dream to study and read and write.
A lie—because unlike Zachary, who so bravely and openly defies his father’s wishes for his future, I’ll be following in my father’s path. Exactly as Lord Blackwood said, except not as my father’s equal, as Lord Blackwood sees Zachary. I’ll be following in his path with a golden collar at my throat and a leash in his hand, a tool rather than a colleague.
“A writer?” Lady Blackwood asks with kindness in her voice. “What would you write?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I turn to give Zach a slight smile. “Maybe children’s books.”
