Page 19 of Prince of Masks
Never saw her act that way before. The gentry in her came out. And I never saw Uncle Aldo again.
That’s not a sad thing. I didn’t like him then.
“Mila is great company,” Nonna says, her tone firm. “She has been with me every day for twenty-three years. One could say she’s something like… family.”
Mother tosses the book onto the coffee table. It lands with a smack that I feel in my bones. “Mila is a krum and a servant.”
Okayyyyy.
I did not expect to be invited along to a war. Feels like I’ve toppled into a pot of boiling water.
Mother and Nonna must have been in a fresh bicker about this before I came for a visit today.
That makes sense. It just fits, a puzzle piece, a light switch flicking in my brain.
Mother and Nonna have been having a tense time.
Mother is such a scheming viper, this is why she lured me out with her today.
I am the buffer.
I aim a side-glower at her, but she doesn’t so much as look my way. Her inky stare is on her own mother.
“Vittoria,” Grandmother warns, the lightness gone from her suddenly dark tone. “You would do well to remember what Mila has done for this family.”
Mother arches a dark brow. “And she has always been paid accordingly.”
The creak of the swing door comes, and every gaze swerves towards it.
Silent, we all watch as Mila herself backs into the room. Ignorant to the discussion, the krum servant carries in a wooden tray of teapots, cups and little biscuits.
I perk up at the sight of them.
Mila turns towards us—and I can better make out the biscuits to realise that they are in fact homemade macarons.
My mouth floods.
“Olivia won’t be having any,” my mother says, and she’s cross, I can see it in the pursed pucker of her mouth.
Mother’s icy gaze is on Mila as she lowers the tray to the coffee table. The disdain is misaimed. But Mother has never been too kind to her.
Maybe because she is a krum? It is odd to have a krum for a servant in a witch house.
I asked Nonna about that once, and she told me that Mila came from town looking for work, in an awful state when she was just sixteen years old. Nonna chose to help her. Twenty-three years on, Mila is still here, devoted to Nonna, and I don’t expect that will change.
But Mother is never warm with Mila.
For as long as I can remember, the servant with the mousy hair and sickly pale complexion has been the subject of Mother’s hard looks and sharp words.
Today is no different.
“That will be all, Mila.”
Crouched by the coffee table, Mila’s hand stills over the teapot, and she lifts her gaze to my grandmother.
Beside me, Nonna just nods her head once. “Thank you, Mila. You may take your break. I will see you at dinner.”
With a hard swallow, Mila pushes up from the floor. Her gaze flickers to me for a moment, just a heartbeat, and then she’s gone.
