The library smelled of old paper and expensive peat. Malcolm poured two generous glasses of Alistair’s private reserve–a 50-year-old single malt that cost more than most cars.
“To the twins,” Malcolm toasted, clinking his glass against William’s. “And to not sleeping for the next three years.”
William took a sip. The burn was familiar, grounding. “You’re going to be a great dad, Mal. You’ve got the patience for it.”
“And you’ve got the practice,” Malcolm countered, sitting in one of the leather wingbacks. He looked at his brother. “How are you really doing, Will? You’ve been quiet lately. Even for you.”
William swirled the amber liquid. He looked at the empty fireplace. “I read the quarterly report for the Foundation today. We built three schools and a hospital. It’s good work.”
“But?”
“But I feel like a mascot,” William admitted, his voice low. “I walk into the building, and people smile at me like I’m the First Lady. They don’t fear me. They don’t respect me. They just… like me.”
He looked up, his eyes dark. “I spent ten years trying to be the opposite of Dad. I wanted to be the ‘White Knight.’ Now I’m just the Consort. I miss the fight, Malcolm. Is that sick? I miss the war.”
Malcolm didn’t laugh. He nodded solemnly. “It’s not sick. It’s withdrawal. You’re a Croft. We don’t know what to do with peace.”