Artemis Fowl Senior—or Tim, as he preferred to be called these days—stood at the window, looking down upon the grounds. Night was falling, and darkness was grasping with greedy fingers at the brilliant green of the Irish countryside, having already swallowed whole the copse of trees bordering the property line. Tim watched its advance, taking an absent sip from his champagne flute. Here, the sounds of the party were muffled, pared down to faint strains of music and the low, indistinct murmur of conversation. Occasionally, he caught a flash of Angeline's silvery laugh, rising above the rest. He smiled to himself; his wife, the consummate host—always the epitome of grace.

Tim had been against the parties at first. It had been ages since Fowl Manor had hosted a social gathering—and, if he was honest, it had probably never hosted a gathering of this kind: a guest list made up entirely of philanthropists and intellectuals, invited without pretense rather than to serve as a backdrop for clandestine business deals. In a word, polite society. When Angeline had first suggested the idea, Tim had been reluctant to acquiesce. At the time, he had put down his misgivings to the ordeal his family had just endured—had been enduring. Tim knew Angeline's health had suffered when he had gone missing, and though she seemed to have recovered well enough, sometimes he still caught glimpses of a frightening fragility in her eyes. He had worried that hosting these events would be stressful for her.

But Angeline had insisted. And, as with so many other things when it came to his beloved wife, Tim could do little else but give in. Contrary to his fears, assuming the role of hostess seemed to have had a salutatory effect on Angeline's health. Tim realized with a pang that the last time he had seen her so vibrant, so alive, had been in the early days of their marriage—before his father had died and left the family business to him. He had acknowledged for some time that he had neglected his wife and son unforgivably in the years before his disappearance. He had realized this during those awful, soul-sucking days in the Arctic, in the hands of the Russian Mafia, when death had seemed his only surety. Money, which had ruled him for so much of his life, was of no significance then. It was thoughts of Angeline and little Arty that had kept him alive, had given him the strength to go on even when all seemed lost. He had sworn to himself then that, if he got out alive, he would change. He would become the man Angeline deserved: attentive, kind, and decent. He would be a proper role model for his son. No longer would he muck about in the darkness, blurring the lines and bloodying his hands for gold.

And he had kept his vow. It wasn't all that difficult. His years-long absence, combined with the well-publicized news of his…contretemps…with the Russian Mafia had scattered his network and led most of his old contacts to distance themselves. It was a simple matter, then, to refrain from breaking the silence. He had been vaguely concerned for the family's finances—their lifestyle being what it was, and now without the lucrative support an illegitimate income could provide—but an investigation into the Fowl assets soon after his return had assuaged his fears. Rather than floundering in the aftermath of the Fowl Star's sinking, the family's holdings had actually increased. Tim had had a few theories as to how that development had come about. All of them had involved Artemis. Nearly none of them had involved legitimacy. Thinking of them now, Tim winced and took another measured sip of his champagne, resting his forehead against the mullioned glass of the window.

There was a burst of laughter from the party. He really should go back; Angeline would be wondering where he'd gone. It was stupid, to stand here alone and contemplate bygones when he could be in the warmth of the ballroom, dancing with his wife. But even as he told himself this, he stood transfixed. He didn't want to go back—not yet.

As it turned out, honesty in Fowls was a rare trait. This applied even to honesty with the self. But his stint in the Arctic had hardened Tim to bouts of introspection. This was why he knew that his lingering here, in the hallway, had nothing to do with taking in some air. Nor had his initial hesitancy regarding the parties been born completely from concern for his wife. The fact was this: respectability grated. He had spent the past hour making small talk and exchanging perfectly innocuous smiles with all and sundry, and a part of him was constantly alert, searching for something more: a covert hand signal; a pair of familiarly jaded eyes; the razor-sharp, animalistic edge to a return smile. He kept looking and finding nothing—nothing except a muted sense of disappointment. And that—that was what had driven him out here.

He missed it. By God, he missed it. He missed the satisfaction of a successful scheme, the high of a hard-won windfall. He missed moving in and out of the shadows, missed walking among the masses of Dublin and knowing they were oblivious to the shark in their midst. He missed the adrenalin, missed the fear and his ability to induce it. He had given it all up and now he was an ordinary man, surrounded by mundanity. Worse than ordinary, perhaps; he was crippled. Still rich, though. At least he had that.

He grimaced at himself, disgusted. What kind of man was he? He had a loving family, a happy life, and it wasn't enough? He would throw it all away for—what, a thrill? And the old urge to pay obeisance to gold still had not left him, evidently. Even now, after everything, it was that qualifier—rich—that brought him comfort.

He was monstrous.

"Maybe it's in the blood," he muttered to himself, rubbing at his jaw and squinting at the sunset. The Fowls had tried to go legitimate in the past, but it had never stuck. The shadows called to them, the grey spaces. And inevitably, they succumbed.

He couldn't, though. He wouldn't allow himself to. It would crush Angeline, for one. She had been ecstatic to hear of his resolution; she had been trying to convince him to give up the more unsavory parts of the family business ever since they had married. And then there was Artemis…

Tim sighed, draining his glass. Artemis.

He didn't understand his son. Partly, it was his fault, he knew. He had never tried to understand Artemis, though he had appreciated his intellect—had exploited it, in fact, in the past. They had pulled off some spectacular heists together, back in the day. A less pragmatic man would not have risked his son so. Tim had inherited his pragmatism, chilled by centuries of Fowl sangfroid. In those days, he had seen in Artemis not a child, but an heir. He had been cold, harsh, exacting—more a disciplinarian than a father, full of worldly maxims and devious schemes. He hadn't given Artemis much leave to be a child. And Artemis, poor boy, had bent to his will. Worse, his preternatural intellect had made him seem older than his years, so that it was easier for Tim to forget the child his son should have been and focus instead on molding him into the man he planned for him to be. But he had never meant to hurt him. Tim loved his son, and always had done. He had done all he had out of love. He had been raising his son to survive, to win, in the brutal world he had thought was their only choice.

But now…Things were different. Artemis was different. The little boy who had followed Tim everywhere with stars in his eyes was gone. His son had grown up while he was away. He was not young and impressionable anymore, and the impressions Artemis Fowl the First had made on young Artemis Fowl the Second's psyche had sunk deep and were now, perhaps, indelible. Artemis had outwardly expressed support of Tim's plans for the family business, but Tim had the unsettling feeling that his son was indulging him, the way a parent might indulge a young child's passing fancy. Tim may have turned his back on the family motto, but he doubted that Artemis did not find Aurum est potestas to still be a compelling instruction. And Tim knew that Artemis had not sat idle these past few years. Artemis, who had accompanied Tim on many a business outing and charmed many a contact, had been out there in the world. Who had he been dealing with? What kinds of schemes had he been running?

He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

The question was, could his son be persuaded to change, as Tim had? If so, how? And if he did change, how long would it last? Already, the restraints of respectability were chafing for Tim. What would it be like for Artemis?

Tim closed his eyes, clenching his fingers around the stem of the champagne flute as the sounds of the party swelled behind him. There was still time. Artemis was still young. He had not ruined his son. Not yet.

"Father?"

Startled, Tim whirled around. Artemis was standing in the doorway leading to the ballroom, silhouetted by the warm yellow light spilling out.

"Artemis," he said after a moment, studying his son. Artemis was pale, but not as pale as he had been once. Angeline had been forcing him outside most days. He was dressed in a formal three-piece suit, his raven-black hair neatly gelled and parted. His deep blue eyes glittered in the soft light, fixed on his father. His expression was unreadable. He looked, Tim realized, almost exactly as Tim himself had at that age. Skinnier, yes, and his eyes were—older, somehow. But the resemblance was uncanny. "You know you don't have to call me that."

Artemis grimaced almost imperceptibly, but said, "Yes, of course…Dad. Moth—Mum is wondering where you had gone."

Tim sighed, twirling the champagne flute in his hand. "I thought she might. I needed some air, but I must have lost track of time."

"Hmm." Artemis scrutinized him for a moment. Then, he stepped forward into the hallway and closed the door behind him and said quietly, knowingly, "It was more than that."

Tim stared at his son, taken aback. Artemis rarely initiated conversations with him, still clinging to the rigid formality that he had been raised to. It was even more rare for him to invite confidences, as he seemed to be doing now; ever since the initial exuberant reunion upon Tim's return, his son had maintained a cool reserve.

"It is the party, is it not? Or more specifically, the guest list," Artemis continued. "All eminently respectable personages." He raised an eyebrow.

Tim returned his son's arch look with one of his own. "There's nothing wrong with that, Arty."

"I never implied anything of the sort, Fa—Dad. I simply meant…that sometimes it is difficult, to let go of old habits." Artemis studied his nails for a moment. "I speak from experience, after all."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Artemis's expression turned wry. "Surely you've noticed my struggles with regards to…Mum's new lexicon?"

Tim snorted. Angeline had been crusading to turn Artemis into a 'normal' teenager. This entailed, apparently, a new, more casual wardrobe and an induction into slang—as well as an insistence on using less formal language at home. Poor Artemis was taking to it about as well as oil to water. Despite this, he hadn't complained. Like his father, Artemis seemed to prefer to humor his mother rather than risk her wrath—or worse, her disappointment.

"Really, though, Father. I meant no insult. In fact, I find this new direction of yours rather admirable."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes. I…" Artemis seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. At last, he said slowly, "I admit I had my doubts, in the beginning. I still do, in fact. And I will not say that I have not been…tempted to revert to the old ways. However, I have been thinking. A…friend once told me that I have a spark of decency in me, and that I should attempt to blow on it. I find myself inclined to follow that advice." He paused. "I will say this, though: it will…not be natural."

Tim thought of the pull he still felt—would probably always feel—and winced. "No. It certainly won't be."

"It is worth trying." The statement almost seemed to be a question; Artemis peered up at him, his eyes shadowed.

"Yes," said Tim firmly. "It is. And Arty?"

"Yes, Father?"

"I'm sorry, for the past. I don't think I said that to you before, but I am. I wasn't a good father to you. I wasn't there for you…but I'm here now."

Artemis peered at him, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. "I know, Father."

Some of the tightness in Tim's chest loosened. He was here, and so was Artemis. He had made mistakes, true, but they weren't irreparable. There was still time.

"Right," he said, clapping Artemis's shoulder. "Your mum must be wondering where we've got to. Let's get back." He slung an arm around his son's shoulders, and together they walked back into the warmth and light of the ballroom.