Two floors down, in a glass-walled office that was significantly smaller than the one he used to occupy, William Croft stared at a proposal for a “Clean Water Initiative.”
He was the “Consort” now. The Head of Philanthropy. It was noble work, ethical work–exactly the kind of work he had claimed he wanted when he was trying to escape his father’s shadow. But as he signed a grant approval, he felt a phantom itch. He missed the war. He missed the high-speed acquisitions and the terrifying thrill of the deal.
He sighed and walked out to the terrace where Leo was waiting for his ride to prep school.
Leo, now twelve, was sitting on a bench with a travel chess set and a collection of antique toy soldiers. He wasn’t playing with them. He was lining them up in precise, strategic formations.
“That’s a flank formation,” William noted, sitting beside him. “Your grandfather taught me that.”
Leo looked up. His eyes were dark and unnervingly intelligent. “Grandfather said the flank is useless if the center is weak. I’m reinforcing the King.”
William felt a chill. Leo sounded so much like Alistair, yet there was a softness in his face that belonged to Victoria.
“Grandfather was a great strategist,” William said gently. “But he was lonely, Leo. He thought everyone was a soldier to be moved around.”
William put an arm around his son’s shoulders. To his relief, Leo didn’t pull away. He leaned into the embrace, resting his head on William’s arm.
“I miss him,” Leo whispered.
“I know,” William said, kissing the top of his head. “But you have me. And I’m not going anywhere.”
William realized then that he had something Alistair never possessed: he didn’t have subjects; he had a son who trusted him.