Page 23 of Prince of Masks
For a moment, I just stare at the silver ink that glides over the black card. Not his handwriting—but of course it wouldn’t be. He is at Bluestone, still.
Dray wouldn’t leave to merely send me a giftbox. He doesn’t have to. The message is enough.
It’s a knife twisting in me, a reminder of him in my bubble that bursts.
Those simple, curt words on a card, not even written by his own hand, tell me so much: that he is the reason I am ‘unwell’ and he acknowledges that with a smirk; that even home, I am not out of his reach; and soon, days ticking by, he will return from Bluestone—and so I can never truly escape.
He plunged the knife at Bluestone.
With a mere giftbox, he twists it.
Mother reads it differently.
“Oh, Dray,” she says, soft, and the smile she turns on me matches the sincerity of her tone. “Isn’t he so attentive to you?”
I snort, bitter.
Mother’s gaze flares.
Her fingertips pinch the thick cardboard firmly. Slow, she inches it closer to me, as if to hand it to me, but a hardness has settled over her.
“Dray is thoughtful for sending this giftbox to you. That is nothing to snort at, Olivia.”
My throat swells with a thick swallow, a gulp-down of words that if I dare release, Mother might strike me down for. Well, not strike, of course, she would never slap me, but… those consequences I would very much like to avoid.
She hands me the card.
I take it, gaze downcast.
“Did you not receive a similar package while at Bluestone?”
I lift a frown to her, uneasy.
“You expected I was the one who sent it, did you not? A basket of treats.” Mother considers the giftbox for a moment, a moment that pulses with snake-like intentions. “Hmm.” She turns a false smile on me. “But of course this must be sent to the servant’s hall. You have no use for sugars at present.”
She snaps her fingers—and just like that, the servant rushes away with the treat box.
I am left only with a card in my hand. A card I mean to burn.
“You will work until dinner,” Mother says, luring my attention back to her, to the reminder of the tutor. “Off you go.”
I hesitate, my tongue lashing once over my lips. “Can…”
Mother arches her brow, but she is patient, waiting.
My voice is small. “Can I have my book back now?”
I’m short on ways to entertain myself over the next week. When the break starts, I’ll be swept off my feet with errands and socialising,kill-me-please. But for now, I’ll be spending most of my time around the estate.
Books help.
Mother runs me over with a frown. “Which book?”
“My book… The one you… took from my room the other morning.”
Mother’s tone lightens into something of a singsong, “Oh, that book.”
“Can… I have it?”
