A madness that ought not to have been allowed to be. Years of scheming, corruption, and unpredictability.
He only wished that the feeling of pride that swelled in his chest, was not such a subordinate emotion. He wished he could have taken what he'd done for himself, and presented it to his father, and shown him the degree of competence he was able to muster, so the man might finally break out of their permanent frown of his, and offer his son some sincere praise. But Ferdinand could not do that without embarrassment.
He recognized in himself the loyal industriousness of a man that was a subordinate. He found, in his head, that he was doing this on Oliver Patrick's behalf. And the honour of doing that, motivated him far more than if he'd done it for himself or his father. It made him want to cut at his skin whenever he recognized how he was behaving and how he was thinking. He wished it was any other way, but no matter how he tried, it was not.