Gilded Cage (Dark Gifts #1)(81)
Father was there at the head of the table, and Mother at the foot. He was magnificent; she was exquisite.
The Jardines – first among Equals.
Gavar kissed his mother’s cheek, nodded acknowledgement to his father, and drew out a chair in the middle of the table. The three of them remained in place until the very last parliamentarian had eaten and departed, some two hours later.
The Third Debate was held in the East Wing, one of Kyneston’s two immense glass flanks built by Cadmus the Pure-in-Heart. The West Wing was domestic. Jenner had filled much of it with an orangery. Mother liked sitting in there to read or do needlework, while Silyen had an array of telescopes assembled. But the East was used solely for social events – chiefly, the annual debate and the Proposal Ball that followed.
And tomorrow’s rather special one-off: the heir’s wedding.
Gavar’s thoughts shied away from the occasion. As he walked in, he was relieved to see that it wasn’t tarted up with flowers and white ribbons already. The slaves had worked for hours erecting tiers of seating to match the configuration within the House of Light. The message was quite clear: this, also, was parliament.
Under the household roof of the Jardines.
The glass chamber was mostly empty as Gavar took his place next to his father’s seat, front and centre, directly opposite the Chancellor’s Chair. The great carved chair was brought to Kyneston each year, though never to Grendelsham or Esterby.
Gavar had heard all the jokes about the Jardines’ favourite seat in the House. What would it feel like to sit here and see Father enthroned in it before him once again? His chest felt tight, as if his waistcoat had become two sizes too small for him overnight.
All around, Equals filed in and took their places. Here came Bouda, his not-so-blushing bride, arm in arm with her father just as she would be tomorrow. Gavar closed his eyes and tried not to think about it.
He opened them again when he sensed the chamber falling quiet. There was Crovan, stalking his way to the far end of the first tier. The heir’s chair beside him was empty. At least the man was childless. The question of who would inherit Eilean Dòchais was occasionally a subject for dinner-table speculation. Personally, Gavar thought the place should be burned to the ground. And why wait till Crovan was dead to do it?
The man was mad and the rumoured punishments he meted out to the Condemned were disgusting. Those who committed a crime should answer for it with their lives. A bullet to the back of the head should suffice, not a dragged-out half-life of torment and humiliation. It simply wasn’t decent. Perhaps that was something else Gavar could rectify when he was Chancellor.
Assuming Father ever gave up the chair, once he’d reclaimed it.
After an uneasy moment, chatter resumed. Only a few would have marked, as Gavar did, the arrival of Armeria Tresco. Walking deep in conversation beside her was her heir, Meilyr.
The prodigal son had returned. Presumably to lend his mother’s doomed cause his meagre vote. Because that would make so much difference.
Wherever Meilyr had been, it hadn’t done him much good. His tan had faded and he looked tired and drawn. Gavar devoutly hoped there wouldn’t be any scenes with Bodina tomorrow – no noisy tears and accusations.
The chamber was almost full when Father came in, and there was a momentary hush. More noise than ever followed in his wake, voices bouncing and echoing off the glass walls and vaulted roof. Gavar checked the heavy watch on his wrist; it was five minutes to the hour.
A few belated Equals scurried in and hastened to their places. Old Hengist, slow but upright, made his way to the hammered bronze doors. High up in the cupola of the main house, the Ripon Bell rang out: eleven peals that shivered the East Wing’s steel skeleton.
After the ritual knock and response, the Observers of Parliament filed in behind Speaker Dawson and occupied their benches.
There was nothing for them here, thought Gavar. Only a moment of surprise as the Silence was lifted and they learned of the Proposal, swiftly followed by disappointment as it was voted down.
Everyone was seated. A hush fell as they waited for the Chancellor.
And waited.
It was nearly quarter past by the time the trumpets sounded and Zelston appeared.
Gone was the sobbing, broken man of yesterday morning. The Chancellor was a thing exalted. The sun had come out after days of rain and the glass panes of the East Wing formed tesserae of pure light, but the brightest thing in the entire chamber was the face of Winterbourne Zelston.
The man wouldn’t even care about what was to come, Gavar realized. And he felt a secret, vicious pleasure at the thought of Father being deprived of at least that small part of his victory.
With the Chancellor’s introduction, and the lifting of the Silence, the Third Debate commenced. When those in favour of the Proposal were invited to speak, Meilyr Tresco got to his feet. As Gavar listened, he wondered why Meilyr was so worked up on behalf of these people he had never met.
‘Families of four are living in single rooms,’ Tresco said. ‘There is no educational provision whatsoever; wholly inadequate medical services; a diet devoid of any nutritional value; and six-day working weeks of often backbreaking labour. All performed under the watch – and the upraised batons – of brutal supervisors.
‘If this House won’t vote to end the slavedays, then at least let us acknowledge our common humanity and amend them. Such cruelty is entirely needless. We Equals, who have power, should have compassion.’