Page 18 of Prince of Masks
“No one, of course.” I lift my chin. “I am there to learn.”
She scoffs. Her hand retreats. “You keep your secrets, then. Don’t pity me, an old witch out here, alone—no stories to feed my vines.”
My grin is accompanied by a faint blush.
I would tell her something, something small, like that I have an interest in Eric Harling, and I would tell her some small details about him… if Mother was not around.
But she is, and she makes herself known as she cuts in with a sigh, “It is your choice to be away from the world, Mother. You would do better with us. You must consider it. And if you maintain this stubbornness for independence, then have The Pink Cottage.”
The Pink Cottage is one of many cottages on the grounds of Elcott Abbey. It is, however, the largest and best kept of them all. Closest to the manor, too. Only a ten-minute walk through the gardens, or a minute or two on one of the buggies.
I would love for Nonna to live so close.
I tell her that. “I will visit you all the time. We can have tea every day—and I will show you my animals.” I’m practically beaming at the prospect. “Oh, you’ll love them. And you can hear me play whenever you like.”
Mother’s smile is faint, as is the nod she gives.
Approval.
I feel lighter.
But Nonna gives the same answer she always does whenever the matter is raised: “I will leave this home when I am taken out in a casket, Vittoria.”
Mother clacks her nails, her steady stare lethal. “Alone.”
I suck my lips inwards. Eyes wide, I stiffen on the couch. I become a statue, silent and unmoving.
Mother’s right.
I would never say that to Nonna, obviously, but still. I get it. I hate that she lives out here, alone, so far, so stubborn.
When her husband, Grandfather Vincenzo, passed away, Nonna didn’t want to move out of the home she shared with him. A little villa out in the mountains, an hour’s drive from a small city. Privacy, but close to civilisation. A rare thing, so she believes. But it isn’t, because we have the same in England at Elcott Abbey, where the nearest village is a thirty-minute walk, and the closest town is a half-hour drive.
But then, Nonna loves her land. Her land is great. It has a greenhouse, a small vineyard, it houses a servant’s cottage and a barn not even within eyesight of the back porch.
But it’s still just a gentry villa.
This home is where Nonna’s heart is.
Mother loathes it.
“Is that what you want?” Mother demands and, with a huff, slams the photo album shut. “To die alone in this house, so far from your child, your grandchildren?”
“I am not alone,” she sniffs and lifts her nose, proud. “Your brother visits twice a month—”
Mother scoffs. “Oh, does he? He lives only an hour from here, but I am so pleased to know he makes the effort—twice a month.”
My mouth tilts at the reminder of Uncle Aldo’s existence.
He isn’t all that familiar to me. He’s gentry, married low to a commoner. And, according to Mother, he’s awful lazy, entitled, wanting ‘hand-outs’ all the time, and a drunkard.
I met him a handful of times here, at this very villa, over the years—but on my ninth birthday at Nonna’s, Aldo went on some booze-fuelled rampage about bloodlines, everyone wearing masks, hypocrites, and him deserving more.
Mother punched him.
She broke a nail.
Then she punched him again.
