Page 14 of Prince of Masks
I never reallydidballet, anyway.
I mean, sure, when I was eleven, and I was terrible, and I hid under the table for most of it so I didn’t have to do anything. I just wanted to wear the tights and the pink skirt.
The only sport Mother ever successfully pushed me into was equestrian. I lost touch with it around the time my life went from a blissful daydream to a grimy nightmare.
I still own the horses.
I visit them almost every day that I am home. But I hardly ever ride anymore. Hurts my groin like nothing else. That saddle pain is real, and it is brutal. I was once numb down there for a week.
Not worth it.
Not that any of it matters.
Amelia and Mother are just trying to push me to exercise. It’s their way of telling me I have gained a bit too much.
It silences me.
And I only have a taste of each cake.
Since they are so small already, it’s practically just a crumb of each, a lick of the cream fillings. But under two judgemental, watchful stares that don’t waver, don’t blink, it’s hard to shove the cakes into my mouth like I want to.
I give up and place my fork on the plate at an angle, the gesture of‘I’m finished, now take it away.’
We empty our coffees before we leave Dijon for Milan. We take the veil—and when I step out the other side, pentacle firm in my raw grip, a violent shudder rattles me.
It is Baltic. I swear, the mist of drizzle is on the verge of becoming a blizzard, it’s that cold.
Glad I brought a coat, even if it is this flimsy cream thing whose pocket I ram the pentacle into, it at least protects my arms from the chill, a few degrees colder in Milan than it was in Dijon.
I rush to the taxis, my breath misting around my face.
Mother and Amelia are slower, their woollen coats warmer. I’m already huddled up in the taxi when they reach the door.
The taxi takes us to the heart of the city for my fitting at the boutique—and the heating is on in the store. Takes a few moments, but I start to unwrap my arms from around myself, a loosening embrace, until my shoulders sag with relief and the goosepimples fade from my flesh.
It’s the first time I’m seeing the gown Mother had designed for me. Haute Couture, but not just any custom.
Oscar de la Renta.
That alone has my tummy fluttering.
Amelia and Mother take their champagne on the settee.
Surrounded by mirrors, I can see them in any given direction, studying the details of the gown—
But I only have eyes for this masterpiece.
I’m entranced.
Enthralled.
Enamoured.
The mirrors give me a full view of every detail.
Hand-stitched crystals thick at the hem, thinning out as they climb up the skirt to the pinched waist. A hand-painted flower pattern reaches up the bodice, a lovely blend of blue, and golden paint along the seams to match the headpiece that is lowered onto my hair.
It is whimsical, it is beautiful, it is ethereal—
