Memory
Summoned to his father's study; a room no one entered without invitation.
It was always night in the study. Thick dark curtains; what colour were they? Forest green? Mud Brown? They were always drawn. They ran ceiling to floor, covering two walls. No light could penetrate those heavy curtains, not in, not out.
On one uncurtained wall were bookshelves; mahogany, floor to ceiling, filled with books he could not touch. On occasion, at odd points, his father would bring one to him, expecting him to study it and answer questions.
This always caused great fear that he would miss the significant points, not memorise the required ideas, not understand the point or purpose.
Francis Xavier came to dread books, they were another opportunity for him to disappoint his father.
Memory
It was winter, his ninth winter. He remembered the fire burning in the grate, he smoke of the wood adding to the smoke of the thick cigars the men were smoking.
The study, dark and thick and heavy with smoke, the windows behind the curtains slightly opened, to beg cold air into a room one could suffocate in. A room of power.