Page 119 of Prince of Masks
But in life, in reality, I learn little from her. I tell her the sky is cloudy and looks like it might rain, she will whack me over the head with the cane and tell me stop cloud-gazing.
This afternoon, she tells me to read.
She hands me the book before she sets herself down in a prim, certainly unrelaxed and uncomfortable posture. Her hands rest on the handle of the cane, and she’s angled towards me.
“Page thirteen,” she says.
The book in my hands is familiar. My old study book, pages filled by me under the lessons of my governess.
Before I can wonder why Grandmother has it in her home, on her shelves, she tuts, once, and it’s enough to spur me into action.
It takes me a moment to find the page.
Her gaze burns into me the whole time. For such rich greenery in her eyes, her stare shouldn’t be so harsh—and yet, it’s something unsettling. Portals into forests that never end, that consume the body and soul and drive a person mad.
That is her stare.
I avoid it and clear my throat. “A king of non-magic reigned, and he slaughtered those connected most closely to the gods. He killed the necromancers, the prophets, those with sight and those without.”
“Enunciate.”
Hard to do that when I’m struggling over my own childish handwriting, such clumsy letters and ink spots.
“The king concealed his identity and searched for a shadow toucher, a witch to reach beyond the realms to the gods.”
Grandmother scoffs. “Banishes and kills our kind, just to chase our magic later when it suits him. That, girl, is why we do not allow them power anymore.”
I don’t take my eyes off the page. “The ordinary king visited the witch in eagerness to have the privilege of her power.”
“Sit up, you look like a hunchback.”
I roll my shoulders back. “The divine spirits were summoned. Many were disturbed from their slumber. The king recognized only one god for his worship. This transgression affronted the other gods. And so, their prediction was unkind. He was at that moment designed to fall.”
“Stupid krums,” Grandmother spits, literally spits into the fire. The flames roar.
She might be old, but her magic is strong.
“Stupid men,” I murmur.
And I go rigid all over.
My eyes widen. My breath pins.
I shouldn’t have spoken.
I shouldn’t have mentioned the king’s malehood and how it ties into his arrogance.
It takes every ounce of strength to fight my instinct, the urge to recoil.
I lift my panicked gaze.
Grandmother slides her narrowing eyes to me.
She considers me for a long moment.
Her grip flexes on the cane.
Then she hums, a curt sound, and looks to the fire again.
