Chapter 33: Spearcrest Saints: Part 3 – Chapter 33

a day later, and the day after that, we all have dinner together.

By this point, any nerves or anxiety I might have felt about staying at the Blackwood estate over the holidays has vanished. The house, with two days left until Christmas, is full of guests: a mixture of distant relatives and close family friends, and even a few people I know through my mother.

It’s easy to blend in amongst the guests, and nobody seems to find it particularly odd that I’m there, which takes much of my unease away.

Dinner with the Blackwoods is illuminating—and a strange experience. We sit at a long table in a dining room fit for aristocrats: polished floor, high-backed velvet seats, antique chandeliers and candelabras bearing real candles, silverware and cloth napkins embroidered with the Blackwood crest.

I sit at the end of the table closest to the Blackwood family. To my left is Zachary, to my right is his mother, Lady Blackwood, and facing us from the head of the table, his father, Lord Blackwood.

Zachary and Zahara both look like a perfect mixture of their parents: they have their mother’s doe eyes and long, curled eyelashes, their father’s sharp, graceful bone structure—the prominent cheekbones, the proud chin, the aquiline nose. The Blackwood parents, like their children, are highly articulate, inquisitive and earnest, and prone to sarcasm.

“It’s an honour to meet you, my darling,” Lady Blackwood tells me when Zach introduces me to her. “Your name is spoken in awe around here—you have become as good as a mythical figure in this household.”

She wears a gown in a rich shade of purple, gold bracelets on her arms, and her curly hair, black streaked with silver, is tied in a scarf of ochre silk. Her style could not be more different to my mother’s: Lady Blackwood wears very little make-up, and if she’s had any work done, it was subtle. There are lines around her eyes, but the rest of her face is smooth and polished, like Zachary’s.

Even her smile, the mix of warmth and arrogance, is exactly like his.

“She means a mythical figure like Saint George who slew the dragon,” Zachary tells me, tossing his mother a look. “With you, the sword-wielding saintess, and I, the slain beast.”

“That’s not at all what I meant,” his mother says with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s certainly how you made it sound—year after year. Have you finally defeated Theodora Dorokhova? Knocked her from the top of the results lists? Brought back her head to display at the top of our ramparts?”

“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.”

other topics after that, and I try to take small bites of food whenever nobody’s looking at me. When the main course gets brought in, my heart sinks, but soon after, I feel a warm touch on the low of my back.

Zachary leans into me, his fingers gently rubbing into my back.

“Are you alright?”

I nod. At first, I don’t realise why he’s suddenly asking me this.

Then, he says, “You don’t have to force yourself to eat if you don’t want to. I can take you to the kitchen later if you like.”

It falls so easily from his lips that it takes my breath away for a moment. Of course, Zachary would have noticed my unease. Of course, Zachary would wish to comfort me when I’m distressed. Observant, sharp, lovely Zachary.

“Don’t worry,” I murmur back. “I’m alright.” I give him a smile. “The food is lovely.”

“Then eat as much as you like, Theo.” His thumb traces my spine through the fine wool of my jumper, and I resist the urge to close my eyes with a sigh of contentment. “Nobody will notice—not when my father is so intent on monopolising as much attention as possible.”

He gives his father a wry look.

Lord Blackwood is in the middle of an impassioned story about an argument he had in the House of Lords. He has the same diction and elegance of speech as Zachary, but his voice is deep and booming, carrying like the rumble of thunder down the length of the table.

“Your father seems to be a very… passionate man,” I say cautiously.

Zachary raises an eyebrow. “Mm. My father is like a preacher whose own sermons whip him up into a frenzy. His passion stems from within. I’m afraid he finds it very difficult to accept any thought or idea that was not born in his own mind.” His gaze softens as he looks at me. “I always promised myself I would never be like him, that I would always seek to enrich my mind with new notions, that I would seek knowledge from others rather than conviction from within myself.”

“You really have no intention of going into politics?” I ask in a hushed tone.

He shakes his head. “Never.”

His hand is still on my lower back. He’s not moved it, and I find that I don’t want him to. His touch is warming, comforting, and so natural it makes me wonder why we don’t always sit like this.

“Your father seems like he really wants you to follow in his footsteps, though.” I glance back at Lord Blackwood, his features set into a grim expression underneath the black and grey of his beard. “Are you not afraid he’ll be…”

, I want to say. “Upset?”

“He is upset,” Zachary says. “Don’t let his playful tone and whimsical analogies fool you. He’s more than upset, in fact. I suspect he’s probably furious at me.”

As he speaks, I can’t help thinking of my father, the mere idea of his fury freezing the blood in my veins and sending a shudder through me.

“Does that not make you… I don’t know, hesitant? Nervous?” Afraid?

Zachary shakes his head again. “Why should it? My life is mine, I may do with it what I may. By that same respect, my father’s emotions are his, he may be as angry as he wishes. He cannot compel me to change my university applications or my dreams any more than I can compel him to stop deriding me.”

I think of my father, his cold, dark eyes, his hand gripping my arm, his icy commands.

My father’s word has always been law in my life, and he has always spoken and behaved as though it could be no other way. Objectively, I see the truth in Zachary’s words—my life is mine, and my father’s emotions are his, and he cannot compel me any more than I can compel him.

Except that I cannot picture Lord Blackwood compelling Zachary to do anything at all against his will.

But my father?

My father could easily compel me, with his fingers around my arm and his armed men flanking us and his privately chartered jets and the connections he has all over the world. My father could easily compel me to bend to his wishes. I doubt I would be the first person he would have forced into doing something they did not wish to do.

“I admire you,” I murmur, turning into Zachary, smiling to mask the dark torrent of despair that seems to be drowning me. “Your bravery, your resolve, your dauntlessness.”

“My dauntlessness?” Zachary lets out a soft laugh. “You’re the most dauntless person I know.” His fingers, in stroking my back, find the hem of my jumper and slip underneath it to brush against my skin in an ephemeral caress. Then his hand moves and his touch is gone.

“I wish I existed in this world as the version of me that exists in your mind,” I tell him.

“You would,” he says, voice full of tenderness, “if only you saw yourself as I see you.”