“Why haven’t you contacted Mr. Pendleton at the club yet?”

I learned a long time ago that there were no greetings or friendly phrases in my household. Once upon a time there might have been, but they vanished the same day my mother did.

Plucking a pear from the bowl on the black marble kitchen counter, I glance at my father. “Because I have no interest in working on his campaign this summer.”

A heavy sigh rumbles from his throat. “Boy, do not make me remind you what happens when you don’t follow orders.”

It’s a threat, one that I know is not empty, but I disregard it all the same. When I was a child, my father struck fear in my heart and mind. But these days, as I size him up, I realize that he’s just an empty, hollow shell of a man.

Once a virulent, powerful man, David Frederick had been the most powerful kingmaker in all of London. He knew how to swoon and stomp, charming his way through ballrooms and back-alleys alike. To most people, he was still that almighty creator that placed unknowns into Parliament and could take down any opponent in one fell swoop. But to me, he was half the person he’d once been, toppled by the loss and betrayal of my mother.

“Fine, I’ll contact him. But its worthless work anyway, Oxford will still be waiting.” He follows me as I traipse around our Downing Street brownstone, through the opulent rooms and up the sleek hardwood staircase.

“Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you!” He was getting a taste for just how hard it was to control me these days.

“You made me into this, Father. I’m my own man, taking no orders from anyone. Aren’t you proud?” I sneer, turning to face him.

I’d grown up in a house devoid of love or adoration, and I guess for the English, that was sometimes par for the course. I didn’t weep for myself or dwell on it, but I did like to shove it in his face whenever I could. He’d created this monster, the one with the black soul and selfish, cocky attitude.

He ignores me. “How are you doing with the girl?”

A pang, so slight my heart doesn’t even register it, vibrates through me. Is it grief, unease? I push it aside.

Father conceived the plan, from a young age I’d heard details and drunken rumblings, but when he’d learned of her arrival just months earlier, the idea had planted itself and he’d shared it with me. A way to finally bury Bennett McAlister six feet under.

“It’s slow going, but I’m winning her over.” I share because deep down, I want him to be proud of something I do. Even if it is deplorable.

“Good, good. You need to gain her trust. Seduce her, use whatever means necessary to get into her good graces. And then when the time is right, we’ll strike.”

There was so much malicious animosity in his green eyes that it was often difficult to catch a glimpse of the man who he used to be. Maybe after this was done, after the guillotine had fallen, maybe he would return to his former self. Perhaps that old shine, the playful sophisticate would come back. At least that’s what I was hoping for. If I could do this for him, to bring him closure, I’d go to any lengths necessary.

“Tell me again why I must do this.”

“Getting soft on me, chap?” My father chuckled, leading me into his study. On the mantel sat dozens of framed family photos, my smiling mother shining out from each.

I needed to hear it again, needed the fuel to keep moving forward.

He clasped his hands together as he stood looking at her pictures. “Bennett McAlister ruined our family. He took your mother, turned her into a heathen. He drove her to secrets and lies, and eventually her death. And then he acts like he doesn’t even know us? Can’t even acknowledge the hand he played in her downfall? A man, no a boy, like that doesn’t deserve to be king. We must reveal who he truly is, we must avenge your mother’s death.”

As my father talks, the fury inside my bones pulses, all the way down to the marrow. His words fuel the demons that have haunted me, haunted this house, since she passed. And I realize, I’m not just doing this for him.

I grew up without a mother, I remember the horrific pictures the media printed after her death. Of the car being pulled from the river, of the twisted, mangled side of the bridge where she veered off.

It was time to get some closure, for both of us. Even if it meant sinking to the bottom, never resurfacing from the river of grief that was always nipping at my heels.