Page 13 of Prince of Masks
I lower my fork to my plate and smear off half the scoop of chocolate cake from the prongs.
Under her watchful stare, I can’t bring myself to eat all the cake I ordered—the cake that lured me out of bed in the first place.
Mother says nothing about it.
Disinterested, she turns a look around the quiet shop, from the hand-painted teapots and the glass cased croissants to the krum couple in the corner, leaning into each other, but eyes on the smartphones in each of their grips.
Amelia isn’t so quick to let it go. “You appear a little fuller in the face.”
My mouth thins.
Amelia Sinclair is not my mother, yet that doesn’t stop her from acting like she is.
I try not to get too put out about it.
I’m used to it after all these years.
Amelia had a couple of failed pregnancies, and when even the magic of our world can’t change that, it leaves a mark. A hole. She had Dray first, and after… no other pregnancy seemed to stick longer than a few months.
Guess she always wanted a daughter. One to boss around, shame for calories, dress up in pretty gowns. The most superficial idea of motherhood she can think of.
My whole life, she has used me to fill that hole.
Mother doesn’t help the situation.
Her attention has returned to our small, round table, red and metal.
Sitting opposite me, she drags her stare over my plate, eyes as dark as pits of tar—but powerful enough that I don’t lift the fork to my mouth.
Mother clasps her long, slender fingers around the short espresso mug, but doesn’t lift it. “If your measurements are more than what we submitted in June, you will need to cut down on sweets.”
I smear off more cake from the prongs. Now, on the fork there’s just a smudge of chocolate paste.
I still don’t lift it to my mouth.
“Have you considered ballet?” Amelia asks, completely ignoring her freshly baked croissant freckled with almond flakes.
I don’t know why she bothered even ordering it.
“You once enjoyed it,” Amelia recalls, faint and distant memories of my dance classes. “It might be nice to return.”
I glance at Mother’s plate, a melt-in-your-mouth pink macaron. Entirely untouched, just like Amelia’s croissant. But they both enjoy their waters and espressos.
Fingers click in my brain, a snap of understanding. This was never about Croche, never about treating me in my despair with cakes.
This was only ever about getting me out of bed without the tantrum, without the huff, without the battle—and lure me to my dress fitting.
Scheming vipers, the pair of them.
“Oh, that’s a delightful idea,” Mother adds. “Don’t you think so, Olivia? You did adore ballet—and you were so good at it.”
No, I wasn’t.
The instructor called me a ‘rhino in a tutu’. I liked the pretty outfit, sure, but my landings were too heavy and I never quite cared enough to put more effort into it than dragging myself around the ballroom.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
Just the thought of that beastly ballet instructor invading Elcott Abbey at Mother’s command is enough to clench my fist around the stem of the fork.
