Page 12 of Prince of Masks
She reads the title, ‘THE IMPACT OF DEADBLOODS’, then drops her gaze to the subtitle glittering on the bottom of the cover, ‘The ethics of euthanising deadbloods: What are they and where do they come from?’
Mother turns the book over in her hands. “You should wear the Marchesa Notte dress. The pink brocade one from last season.”
Mother saysshouldbut meansyou do not have a choice, and do not question me about it.
I frown at the tall windows, condensed from the drizzle and battled temperatures. “Does the weather call for a dress?”
The end of the year in England doesn’t make for warm, dress-wearing weather—but then, we are heading to Dijon, Milan and Naples today, so I suppose it’s irrelevant that, outside, there’s a stagnant, damp mist.
“Yes.”
My mouth puckers.
The dress is a pretty thing, cherry blossom pink, and too nice to ruin with a pair of thermal stockings. Bell-like dresses, though, aren’t exactly my thing. No matter how pretty they might be, I feel wrong wearing them, like an intruder in something too lovely. I prefer fitted dresses, but Nonna bought it for me last New Year.
Mother looks up from the book—and her gaze lingers around my face for a beat before shifting to glide along the outline of my hair.
I don’t need a mirror to know it looks a bird’s nest or something of a lion’s mane, since my sleep was so long and deep, and I wear the itch of a drool rash along my cheek.
“You will need an appointment at the salon,” Mother decides, and so it must be severe, straggled strands and split ends.
That’s all she says before she turns for the door—with my book still in her grip.
I scoot off the bed. “Mother, my book.”
She pauses and looks over her shoulder at me.
Her brow is hiked, ahow-dare-youlook that she rinses over me, head to toe. That look alone is a reminder to stay in my place.
“I would like a read of it myself,” she says and continues for the door. “And you have no time for books today. Get yourself ready. We leave in an hour.”
I make a face at the back of her head.
But I do what she says.
It’s not until I’m in the shower that Abagail finds me—and brings me my three serves of coffee.
*
Amelia eyes my plate. “Are you going to eat all four?”
The cutting blue of her gaze flickers over each tiny cube of cake that I ordered. Chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, lemon.
That familiar gaze sends an icy chill through me, pins my shoulders with an echo of the same tension that comes under Dray’s stare. Eyes so similar, roughly cut diamonds, a shallow bed of seawater, fistfuls of crushed glass.
But where Dray’s gaze carries the essence of threats, of danger, of spilled blood—Amelia’s lingers with mere judgement, and so I shouldn’t react to it at all.
Yet, I feel small under her stare, even smaller when she adds, “And with a dress fitting today… Your boldness never ceases to amaze me.”
It’s no compliment.
With a tender tut, she shakes her head.
I look up from beneath my lashes.
Some fallen tendrils frame Amelia’s heart-shaped face, the rest of her hair piled on the top of her head in a bundle of elegant waves and curls, clipped in place with diamond clasps. The sort of hairstyle I would wear to a ball, not a casual indulgence in the cosy bakery, then a dress fitting.
Amelia’s style has always been a touch more than my mother’s. I grew up seeing the difference, Mother in muted wealth, sophisticated; Amelia in glossy wealth, polished. The slightest of differences.
