"Philippe, a future Comte should not act in such a manner, now apologize to your sister," the stern (usually soft) voice of his mother chastised him from across the table.
He fidgeted in his seat, his dinner still untouched before him.
"Oh, let the boy relax. He has a long time before he'll become a Comte. He's only a child once—"
"That is still not a valid reason to kick Emilia from underneath the table," her attention turned from his husband at the other end of the table back to her eldest. "Philippe."
His father sighed and the clatter of a fork being set down reached his ears. "I have not yet heard an apology, son."
He sat wide eyed, his eyes glancing between his parents until they finally landed on the blue eyes across the table from him.
"I am sorry for kicking your leg," he mumbled, eyes now downcast.
His mother sniffed and gave a nod, her attention turning back to the plate in front of her.
The rest of dinner continued in silence, no one wanting to touch on the subject at hand until his father pursed his lips and twitched his mustache and his eyes landed on him.
"Have you packed? You will not have time to in the morning."
Philippe nodded, not looking up from his plate.
"And your supplies…you have all of those ready as well?"
Again, he nodded.
"Look at me while I am speaking to you."
At that, Philippe raised his eyes to those of his father. The same eyes that looked back at him in the mirror everyday. The same that sat across and beside him around the table. Gentle blue concealed by the intimidating iciness they'd been taught to show.
"We will miss you Philippe. But do not let that distract from you from your education, understood?"
He straightened up and nodded (which his father reciprocated, a proud gleam to his eye while his mother hummed in a agreement across the table) before turning back to his dinner, still untouched before him.
He did not want to go to school away from home. He did not want to grow up in a boarding house with other boys. He did not want to play their rugged sports or learn anything about them. He wanted to remain here and learn about what his father does and hug his mother and sisters each night before bed and play with the dogs in the gardens. He did not want to leave home at eleven years of age. Would it be a crime to wait another year? Or perhaps even two?
He bowed his head lower and hoped no one saw the tears welling up in his eyes.
To be continued...
