Page 130 of Prince of Masks
Then Asta is called.
I am led into the next room, the doors parted on the stone promenade that spills out onto the sprawling grounds of decadence, of pools and fountains and private nooks and stone pews and tall, thick trees trimmed into tidy beauty.
“Olivia Craven.”
My name is spoken both from the elder witch beside me, and the man out in the promenade; his boots planted on the washed stone, his chin lifted, and the cane in his hand clocking once, twice to announce me.
It is deathly silent out there.
Not a murmur, not a whisper.
I set my arms by my sides, not quite resting on the skirt of the dress, not quite outstretched either, and my spine straightens.
I move for the doors, for the courtyard.
And the moment I reach the threshold, my steps change, my posture shifts that little bit, and then I amgliding.
I step outside—and the lights hit me, bright.
Moonlight, lanterns, fairy lights dotted all throughout the gardens, but the courtyard is ablaze with bright, white floodlights.
I was not prepared for that.
It almost cracks my mask.
The blinding glare steals my sight.
All I can do is paint the faintest smile on my face, stare straight ahead, and hope my sight comes back to me with the slow, practiced blinks of my lashes.
“Olivia Craven is an accomplished equestrian, a collector of exotic and rare animals,” the man’s voice carries with me, “and prefers rainy days at home with her family than the beaches of Saint Tropez.”
I fight the urge to make a face.
I never once claimed to prefer either of the two, and so I know Mother wrote my trivia for me.
She is among them, the guests lining the three gilded walls that cage in the courtyard, she is there, watching me.
My gliding steps carry me through the courtyard, my stare fixed ahead at the moonlit gardens, where Asta’s silhouette is motionless at the steps.
“When Olivia is not poring over the books in her grand library, she can be found at the nearest pianoforte, composing her own pieces.”
I reach the end of the Parterre, and a small breath of relief escapes me.
Still, my mask stays on, firm, and I turn around to face the courtyard. Asta is a statue at my side, and next to her, Dinara is just as gracefully motionless.
I should be prickled by the cold, the chill biting at my flesh. But the heat bubble blesses me with a tepid temperature, a goldilocks ofjust right.
The weight of my ball gown fights to drag me down.
The thick, heavy skirt pulls me at the waist, but I am sure I glitter like a diamond now that I am out of the floodlights and in the more natural essence of the moon and the stars, and those lovely, soft flickering fairy lights.
The next debutante is coming down the courtyard. Her steps are a little rushed, and her cheeks too flushed.
I don’t watch her longer than a moment.
I start scanning the faces of the guests.
Most are angled to watch the debutante enter; but some faces are aimed at us, the line of the debutantes.
