Page 122 of Prince of Masks
Makes sense, because in the bathroom, I find the balms that will massage away the aches of my bones and muscles. Beside them, little jars of salves are set out. I need those to vanish the bruises from my time at Grandmother’s.
Can’t go into the ball black and blue, and stiff and sore.
So I spend the better part of an hour in the bath before balming my body, head-to-toe.
I suffer that gentle bliss, the kind that comes after a deep tissue massage, as I drag myself to bed.
I sleep a solid four hours before I am woken by a servant—and it’s time to leave.
But I won’t be going back to Elcott Abbey.
Grandmother and I will take the car to the airport, where the others will meet us at the jet.
Tomorrow, we travel to Versailles.
23
The Palace of Versailles is two things today:
Closed to the public
Dusted in snow
And it is beautiful.
I sit at the window in the boudoir, the warmth of a teacup cupped in my hands, and no matter the chaos going on behind me, I can’t tear my gaze away from the view.
Enchantments are at work out there.
Illusions are in the boundaries breaking us off from the rest of the city. To us, the metal fencing is tall, painted black and gold. But to the krums beyond the boundary, that fence is the ‘keep out’ sort, stone blockades and chain metal.
I like our fence better.
It doesn’t cage the grounds but cocoons them; it hugs the snowy stone parterre, the black and white Marble Courtyard—and curves all the way around the rear of the palace grounds, where the ball will be hosted.
The snow drifts like powder, so gentle that it’s somewhat startling to see how thick it has gathered on the ground.
I flinch as a sudden crash comes from behind me.
The look I throw over my shoulder is startled and cross, cross that someone dare ruin my moment of peace.
A hairstylist drops to the floor, curses murmuring under her breath, as she balances three bags in her arms. One toppled—and now everything that was once inside the bag is now on the floor. Curling tongs, straighteners, dryers scattered on the rug.
“Careful!” Mother snaps from the doorway. Her glare is aimed at the hairstylist. “That rug is older than your bloodline!”
For a beat, I watch as the woman scoops up the instruments into one arm, but the hold is wobbly.
My brows raise as, uneasy, she pushes upright, then starts to balance the bags and loose instruments through the Antechamber to the Nobles’ Room.
The Queen’s Apartments of Versailles are made up of several grand rooms. Every one of them is packed full of chaos today.
I draw away from the window for the golden trolley. There, I swap out the cold teacup for an empty one, then pour it to the brim with coffee.
Caffeine is all that’s keeping me awake.
I did manage a nap on the jet, but it wasn’t very long, and Mother hasn’t let me sneak off to the private boudoirs for a rest yet.
I need one.
