Page 115 of Prince of Masks
I lock my wide stare onto Father.
It doesn’t stop him from delivering on his threat.
His chin lifts, and he looks down his nose at me. “You will spend the rest of the week with the matriarch.”
I stare at him a moment.
I wait, on the edge of my seat, breath pinned to my chest; a syringe plunged into my vein, stealing my blood, a foreign pressure I can’t stand.
But the true threat is in Father’s next words.
I should ask,which matriarch?
Nonna or Grandmother?
Dorotea or Ethel?
I pray that it’s Nonna.
I pray silently.
But prayer is pointless, and Father decides on my hell: “My mother might set you straight in ways that we cannot.”
My face falls.
I sink into the chair, defeated.
I turn my cheek to him.
I watch the witchdoctor clean the syringe and label my blood samples, but I don’t really see him.
All I see is Grandmother’s perfectly lovely face, twisted with sneers of hatred, the cane rising in her stern grip—
The sting of tears prickles my eyes.
I hate Grandmother Ethel. I hate her to my core.
“Pack a bag,” Father says. “You will stay until Friday morning. I will send Mr Younge to bring you home before we leave for Versailles.”
I will spend my last week before the Debutante Ball with the witch and her cane.
Sometimes, I wish I could just bite off my tongue to stop it from snarking, and then I would save myself all the trouble I get myself into.
If I had just stayed quiet…
A soft sigh deflates me.
Dolios fits the phials into foam slots that line the suitcase’s interior. One, two, three phials. But on the other side of the case, on the other black foam layer, another three are already slotted in place. All without labels but full of crimson blood.
I wonder how he won’t confuse the samples with mine. That’s a mix up waiting to happen.
The thought is quick to drift from my mind, because Father taps his fingertips on the edge of the desk. “Go.”
That one harshly spoken word is enough to force me up from the armchair.
Without a word, I leave Father’s office and return to my chamber to pack.
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