Page 132 of Prince of Masks
His waistcoat has been snubbed in favour of a sleek black sash around his midsection, and coupled with the deep, inky black of the tailored jacket, it’s impressive.
Dray wears no bowtie.
The shirt that adorns him is unlike most of the others around the courtyard. The collar is parted down the middle, no buttons, and it splits down to the dent of his clavicle.
It’s definitely a new style, one that draws in my gaze, one that shudders my breath for a fleeting moment, and might crisp my cheek a little more than I care to admit.
Or maybe it’s that his gaze is hooked onto mine—and it stays with me until the final debutante joins the line at the end of the courtyard, and we all spread out our arms and dip into curtsies.
Instantly, my legs ache.
The pain comes fast and burns hottest behind my kneecaps. All those salves and balms at Grandmother’s, they helped—unquestionably—but the residue of her torture lives in me, and I learn that now as I hold my curtsy for all thirty of the seconds required of me.
The moment we rise, the loud rustle of gowns floods the courtyard as we swivel around, and it’s fast followed by orderly clack of heels on marble.
The debutantes lead the way into the gardens.
The aristos follow, silent ghosts, shadows.
The faint melody of the harps in the courtyard fades away and is quick to be drowned out by the orchestra tucked away in the gardens. The louder symphony floods the air, all the way up to the stone-bordered pool as we debutantes spread out into a crescent, and we turn to face the aristos, the families, the bachelors.
Again, we curtsy, in perfect unison.
Then the melody picks up.
The orchestra that plays for us, they bring the tune we dance to. The dance is plain. It is ordinary. It is performative, but not in skill. We display ourselves. Each movement—from the gracefulreach of arms gliding above the head and the slow twirl that ripples through us, to the purposeful sway of our hips to better accentuate our bottoms, and the gentle looks we spare over our shoulders, and the smallest smiles we can manage—is all for one reason:
Look how lovely I am. Buy me.
I am glad when it is over and, after the surge of applause, and all the guests start to pull their gazes off of us, and conversations rise up over the gardens, I can slip off the shelf—and in that alone I find a reprieve.
The second reprieve is in the flutes of champagne I hunt down to the hedges. I down one before I swap out the empty glass for a fresh one, then I go off in search of my parents.
I find them at the edge of the Parterre, drinks in hand, and of course with the Sinclairs.
Always with the Sinclairs.
The urge to roll my eyes is strong.
But under the gazes that flicker towards me as I approach, my face softens into something calm, something polite.
I have barely reached them when Mother pulls away from Father, her face alight. “Olivia,” she utters my name like it’s a prayer. “You are so beautiful—look at you.”
Amelia is beside her in a flurry. Her hands reach for mine, just to hold onto me, and the watery smile she aims right at me is brimming with pride. “You captivated us, all of us. You had so many eyes on you,” and at that, she touches her palm to my cheek, “on your beauty.”
Beauty because my face is painted.
But I take the compliments with a small smile. “Thank you. I thought I would be more nervous than I was.”
Amelia’s wink comes so quick that if anyone saw it, they would gaslight themselves into brushing it off.
“Olivia,” Father calls, hand outstretched for me.
I slip by Mother and Amelia.
Dray’s gaze follows me, ice burning my cheek.
I force my focus on Father and only him.
