Father’s eyes flitted around. There were no constables in sight and the last of the Uprisen cars were speeding away from the park. He was alone and in the hands of the Rootless.
“You were about to put my youngest son—your own nephew and the son of an eldest child, a Landry heir more central to the line than your own daughter—in the gibbet cage and watch him die. For what? Did you think that would stop us?” Jack limped forward and I realized that he was even taller than my father, his figure naturally broader, even after the ravages of radiation. “On the contrary. If you would have succeeded in killing Charlie, I would have killed you myself.”
Father opened and closed his mouth. “Stephen—”
“You’re lucky that your daughter and young David were here to stop you. Had I not a tablet in my possession and had David not contacted me to tell me he planned to spirit Charlie away from his execution, I would have asked my people to unleash their strength upon you and your fellow Uprisen. I would have done so a week ago when you took my son had David not relayed your promise to Madeline that you would let him go. I decided to bide my time, in hopes that you would act on your word. You did not.”
“I—”
Jack’s voice trembled with fury. “I would have burned everything you love to the ground before I would have let you kill my son.” Jack closed his eyes, breathing noisy, chesty breaths. “You must answer for it, Alexander. You must answer for it all now. But your daughter does not need to see you die.”
Ewan, still prowling, looked like he disagreed.
“And it is for my dear niece’s sake that we will pursue a more elegant solution, which perhaps for you will be worse than death,” Jack said. “Our laws dictate that the eldest child of a family controls the estate, even after a lengthy absence. Perhaps even after a supposed death. And as I am still the eldest, I will claim my birthright today.”
Father paled. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I am quite serious, little brother. I have restrained myself during your despotism for years, thinking the route I had chosen was the only way. But I can’t wait another day for our allies to swoop in and liberate us. It is time for humanity to return to Landry Park.”
“You can’t,” Father said, and struggled against Smith’s grip. “Landry Park is mine. And it will be Madeline’s after me.”
“I think you will find the legalities are on my side. And if not, then my people will help fill any loopholes.” Smith and Ewan both looked very eager to fill any loopholes in question. “My friends in the East will be delighted to witness this transition. They are very invested in what happens to the gentry.”
“Traitor,” Father said through clenched teeth.
“As for Madeline,” Jack said, as if he hadn’t heard, “she will have a place at Landry Park for as long as she chooses. And she will have the right to choose.”
Father slumped, and I allowed worry to slice at me.
Father without Landry Park? Landry Park without Father?
“There is one last thing,” Jack added, voice thoughtful. “I have dispensed my justice, but I can’t speak for all the heartbreak you have caused these people. So your daughter and I are going to leave now, and within an hour, you will be delivered alive to Landry Park. But I can’t vouch for what will happen in that hour.”
The wind whipped Father’s white scarf around his face as he stared at his brother. “You can’t hurt me, Stephen.”
The Rootless tightened their grip on him, one of them clapping a sore-riddled hand over his mouth.
I stepped forward, but then caught sight of Charlie on the terrace, shivering in Jude’s coat, tears of terror still on his cheeks. I looked into the haunted eyes of an entire group of people who’d been robbed of loved ones, beaten, starved, made homeless, and arrested—all thanks to my father.
But hurting him now would make them no better than he was.
I ran forward and threw my arms around him. “I love you, Father.” I could feel the expensive silk of his scarf against my cheek and smell lingering traces of opium smoke.
“My Madeline,” was all he said. And then I felt myself pulled away—gently but firmly—and I looked up to see Ewan’s grim face.
“Please,” I asked Jack. “Please do not let them hurt him.”
“I don’t lead the Rootless like your father leads the gentry, Madeline. I’m not an autocrat. They have made it clear they want revenge and that they will take it, no matter what I say. All I could ask of them is to spare his life, and believe me, even that was hard won. It is out of my hands.”
He met my eyes and I shivered, for the knife-edge inside them was exactly like Father’s.
And then the crowd swallowed my father, like the ocean swallows a stone, like the snow swallows sound. Hands passed him on to hands, and backs turned, and as he thrashed, more took hold of him, pushing his body closer to the center of the crowd. I pushed forward after him, but the mob pushed me back, and soon even the distinctive red of his hair was gone. I stopped, my heart pounding.
“Come,” Jack said.
“I can’t leave,” I whispered.
“It is happening whether you leave or not,” Jack said. “Would you like to watch? Or leave, knowing that he will live and be with you in an hour?”
Then Ewan, Jude, and Charlie were there, and David, with his blood-soaked scarf and slightly swollen nose. They herded me toward the street, and reluctantly I went, sending silent prayers up to the stars, now hidden in the rosy glow of a winter morning.
33
Jamie joined us at Landry Park—fresh from his journey from England—and was astounded to find so many Rootless milling about the estate, and me tending to David’s nose. He quickly took charge of David’s and Charlie’s minor wounds and hypothermia, gathering blankets and warm tea while I explained what had happened since I’d last written. Jude helped where he could, mostly hovering over David, looking uncomfortable whenever a Rootless person passed by.
But before we could discuss anything at length, the front doors blew open in a storm of noise and January wind, and several men came through, carrying Father’s body like a sack of grain, his arms dragging to either side of him. Running out of the drawing room, I just was in time to see Father carried up the wide white stairs to his bedroom.
He made a cracked, viscous moan, and I wanted to rush to his side, to hug him and tell him I was sorry, so sorry, but I couldn’t make myself. I was afraid to see his face. I was afraid to see what the Rootless had done. I was afraid he’d open his eyes and all I would see was anger, and I would know that I had lost my father more certainly than if he had been killed.
Instead, I walked slowly over to the doors and pushed them closed, shutting out the snow and the cold. Enough snow had blown in that I could see faint footprints revealing the gleaming marble underneath. The snow looked like white ashes.
I looked around the foyer, lit as it was with winter daylight, and felt a cold fear that I would never see the house the way I wanted to again. I would never see it as simply beautiful, as simply ancient, as simply a part of me. And then I felt a fear about that fear—why, after all I had learned, was it so hard to let my perception of Landry Park go? Would I always be a gentry at heart, caring more about things than people?
I walked toward the stairs and climbed the first step. My fingertips brushed the cold marble of the banister and I found myself clutching the railing, feeling off balance, like everything was being ripped away from me. My father, my house, my life… .
In this light, the bust of Jacob Landry was almost shadowless, and so was the tiny atomic symbol underneath it, the symbol that comprised our family crest, that decorated our home, that reminded us that our power and wealth and legacy rested in the unseen forces of colliding and splitting matter.