Little maid Rose O'Hara had now become James's complete shadow and biggest flatterer. Every day during lessons, James could hear her exclaiming from the side, "Young Master James is amazing!" and "You're so impressive, young master!"
Mr. Daniel was increasingly satisfied with James's studies. But although James had once again completed all the lessons and exercises assigned to him perfectly that day, he seemed distracted throughout.
"All right, James. We'll end early today. At your current level, there's no need to rush with arithmetic and English. Go and enjoy half a day of play. You've been working very hard these past few months, so consider this a reward. You have the afternoon off!"
O'Hara cheered excitedly from the side, then started praising Mr. Daniel, too. That little schemer was bound to be a handful. James politely thanked Mr. Daniel and left the room. He really needed some time to think and sort a few things out.
"What's Victor been doing lately?" he asked O'Hara beside him as they went downstairs.
"He should still be doing what he always does. He starts by tending the garden and lawn in the morning, then goes to work in the stables in the afternoon." The little maid counted the tasks off on her fingers. "Victor's father is so awful. He makes his own son do all the gardener's work, while he sleeps off his drunkenness at home every day. Young Master James, we haven't gone to see Victor in ages. Why don't we go visit him this afternoon?" She tugged at James's arm and pleaded with him.
"All right. We'll go to the stables and see Victor this afternoon." O'Hara froze for a moment, surprised that her young master, who had been so stubborn lately, had agreed so readily. Then she couldn't help smiling and happily bounced along after him. James really needed to talk with Victor—with his half-brother—about their "father."
There were two things the Howlett Estate had in abundance: horses and guns. In the colonies, whether in the early wars against the natives, the struggle between England and France for territory and influence, or the conflicts between estate owners fighting over grazing land, force had always come first.
To some extent, it resembled a patchwork of rival powers. The colonial governors and government were also happy to deepen their control over the local territories this way. Though the British Empire was powerful, it had limited land and population, and the country could not station enough troops on every piece of colonial territory to keep the peace.
So anyone or any force loyal to the imperial Crown could raise troops and claim land for themselves. All they had to do was pay the required taxes; the government's existence and the law's meaning mattered far less. One of the British Crown's most famous decrees had once stated that anyone who presented treasure to the Queen could be granted a noble title—even a pirate.
The estate had two stables. The one to the east covered an enormous area, and could practically be called a horse farm. It occupied more than ten thousand square meters and housed over two hundred strong horses, cared for day and night by more than thirty workers.
Mr. Howlett could call up a hundred armed, mounted Western horsemen at any time. That was the source of his confidence as the largest estate owner in the Midwest. In this era, an estate like his was, to a large extent, a military base.
The other stable was much smaller by comparison, with just over a dozen horses. It stood right beside the estate. They were all fine animals that Mr. Howlett was especially fond of. Apart from being ridden by the Howlett Family, they were used only for breeding. Each stood over 1.8 meters tall at the head, with sleek coats and lively spirits. Victor Logan worked here.
"Victor! Victor Logan!" O'Hara called out as soon as they approached the stable. The luxurious stable was well stocked with ice, making it fairly cool inside. Victor Logan wore a sleeveless vest and was brushing the coat of a towering, glossy black horse with a soft brush.
It was a stallion, and the finest breeding horse on the estate. Its hooves were far thicker than those of an ordinary horse, and its mane was dense and long. Whether judged by human standards or by a horse's, it was handsome to the extreme. His name was Black Mountain, and he was Mr. Howlett's pride and joy.
Victor lifted his head slightly and glanced at James and O'Hara as they came in, acknowledging them with a nod.
James studied Victor carefully without making any small talk. O'Hara, on the other hand, bounced around Black Mountain, stroking his body as she chattered at Victor, asking him all sorts of questions.
The longer James looked, the more astonished he became. Victor was only fifteen or sixteen, yet he was already as tall as an adult, with an exceptionally broad frame. If not for the traces of youth in his face and his soft, abundant facial hair, his imposing build would have made him look like a grown man.
His hands were especially large. His wrists were more than twice the circumference of an ordinary man's. Martial artists sometimes roughly divided bone structure into "single bone" and "double bone," but Victor was far beyond those categories. His fingers were long and thick, and his knuckles so broad they seemed ready to split his skin. And his nails were absurdly thick and long. They looked less like nails than finger bones poking through the flesh—or, perhaps, the claws of a beast.
To James, a former martial arts grandmaster, Victor's physique went beyond every known measure of a naturally gifted martial artist. Stranger still, James had always heard that Black Mountain was the finest and fiercest stallion in the stable, and that few besides Mr. Howlett could get near him. Yet he was docile around Victor. Drawing on the keen senses he had inherited from his previous life, James could vaguely smell a faint aura clinging to Victor—a scent less like that of a seasoned warrior or a butcher who had slaughtered countless animals, and more like that of some apex predator.
"It's been a while since I've seen you. Don't tell me you're sick again, little James?" Victor spoke first, though he never stopped working.
James paid no attention to the jab. He went over to Black Mountain and stroked the corner of his mouth. Victor instinctively reached out to stop him, but Black Mountain didn't resist as he'd expected. Instead, the horse lowered his head obediently and rubbed it against James's small hand.
Victor looked at him strangely and said nothing.
"O'Hara, look at that little horse over there." James pointed to a pure white foal inside the stable. O'Hara's eyes lit up, and she ran over to wrap her arms around the foal's neck, petting and kissing it. Victor's gaze at James grew even more curious.
"Do you have to do all this work every day? I heard you do practically all of Mr. Logan's work," James asked casually.
"Not everyone's a Howlett. If we don't work, what are we supposed to eat?" Victor said naturally, without any hint of resentment or complaint.
After a brief pause, he continued, "That man spends every night drinking and sleeps like a log all day. If I don't do the work, should I wait for Mr. Howlett to kick us out?" James noticed at once how the muscles in Victor's jaw bulged when he spoke of "that man."
"Does he... does he treat you well?" James asked rather bluntly. He even regretted being so hasty. To his surprise, Victor didn't get angry. Instead, he replied with a mix of pride and mockery, "Hmph. When he hits me now, I can barely feel it. He can't even leave a mark. Useless!"
"Then what if I helped keep him away from you?"
The words startled Victor like a small animal. He stared hard at James. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing. Just asking. Since you hate him so much, I figured you wouldn't want to stay with him."
Victor scoffed and looked away. "I'll leave on my own once I'm a little older."
Just then, O'Hara led the adorable white foal over and called to James, "James, Young Master James, can I name her White Dove?"
"She's a horse. Why call her White Dove?"
The little maid protested, "But White Dove is so cute! She's like a little lady. Please, Young Master James!"
"Do whatever you want. It's not like anyone can stop you from naming her whatever you like," James said helplessly. O'Hara hugged White Dove, satisfied, and begged Victor to lift her up so she could ride for a while. A few firm, measured footsteps approached the stable entrance, and Mr. Howlett pushed the door open. At over sixty, he was already a rarity in an era when the average life expectancy was low. Someone as capable and agile as Mr. Howlett was rarer still. One could imagine how strong and vigorous he must have been in his youth.
Mr. Howlett spotted his little grandson at once. His white moustache twitched as he called out loudly, "Well, well! We have two little truants here!"
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