Page 117 of Prince of Masks
I stop, still, a statue sprouted in the middle of the foyer. The space is modest, somewhat crammed compared to Elcott, but not too small to not have the bench seat along the wall, the fireplace on the other, a door on each side leading to lounge rooms, and the staircase ahead that takes to the bedrooms.
I dip into a curtsy—and I hold it.
The clack of a cane hits the floorboards.
That releases me from my curtsy, and I rise, but I make no other moves. Again, I am a statue.
Grandmother takes one, pointed step towards me.
Another step, another clack of the cane.
My toes curl.
Then the cane hits a final strike—and she stands nose-to-nose with me.
My muscles brace, jump beneath my skin.
I expect a strike. The whack of the cane, a welt on my skin. But it doesn’t come.
The willowy witch towers over me. A head taller, a straight and proud spine, slim shoulders set with purpose.
Always, she carries this silent authority that even makes male witches shudder. I’ve seen Father flinch from her quick cane movements a few times.
Grandmother’s deep voice is strangled with tobacco pipes over time, and I taste the stale stench on her breath as she speaks, “Tell me you will have your hair done before the ball.”
No hello.
No greeting.
No warm welcome.
Not that I expected it anyway.
My mouth twitches as though to flatten. “I will—”
“Spare me.” Her grip tightens around the curve of the cane. The leather creaks. “You will need more than that. Some spa days, too. A salon to tackle those nails.” Her free hand flicks out in a smack to my fingers. “You are not biting them, are you?”
I shake my head.
Then my neck shrinks, a cringe as she knocks me, hard, on the shin. The cane strikes the bone enough that a breath startles in my chest.
My nostrils flare.
A long inhale floods me before I steady myself. “Pardon me, Grandmother.” The monotony clings to my dull tone. “No, I am not biting my nails.”
She doesn’t care for my answer.
Already, she’s moved on, this time to my face, forgotten all about my perfectly neat nails that I doubt I have chewed once in my whole life.
Her rainforest eyes rinse me over, glaze my jawline, scrape over my nose. A beat passes before she draws her weight off the cane and lifts it until the tip pushes under my chin; the pressure tilts my head, angles my face to align with hers.
More heartbeats pass.
It isn’t silence.
Behind me, the thuds and scrapes and rustles of my luggage being carted inside is a melancholic orchestra that fills the quiet—until Grandmother’s upper lip curls.
“Not a looker,” she says. “You never did have a pretty face.”
