Page 24 of Prince of Masks
“No. It is gone.”
“Gone?”
“Poor Abigail knocked it into the fireplace. It went up in flames. Those old books are so fast to burn.”
With that, she starts for the staircase and leaves me in the foyer.
I watch her go. My frown is pinned to the back of her head.
Liar…
What a fucking liar.
Abigail is my dresser. What would she be doing with Mother, knocking books into flames for no reason? She wouldn’t be tending to Mother’s coffees or breakfast, teas, fire building, none of that. Mother has her own dresser, and plenty of servants to tend to all those other duties.
It’s ridiculous. So obviously ridiculous that I don’t believe a word of it.
Mother was too quick to steal the book from my things. Didn’t want to give it back when I asked for it.
Now it’s gone?
Please.
Mother didn’t want me to have that book.
That, I know.
Maybe she’s hidden it in the library—
No. Impossible. Because now that I think on it, we have no such literature in our home library. And that’s an extensive catalogue. But little on the early theories of deadbloods. Newer books, the sort without leather covers and dusty beige pages, are the only ones I’ve read, but there’s nothing beyond a chapter, or a brief mention here and there.
I make a mental note to visit the crypts over the break.
I might find something. I might not.
But I do know a single certainty.
There wassomethingin that old book that Mother didn’t want me to read.
6
For days, I mope around the house.
If I’m not working on my assignments with my tutor, or sifting through the books in the library, or wandering around my chamber, then I’m in the White Wing with the Bösendorfer piano.
The instrument is too grand to fit into my room, unless I take out all the lounge furniture. I fought to do that once, but Mother cut that down, fast.
‘Guests adore when you play,’ she said, as though to soothe my ego into dropping the bone.
I didn’t.
I took the battle to Father.
But Father doesn’t often bother with the house. That’s Mother’s domain. He dismissed me.
So, the Bösendorfer still resides in the grand parlour of the White Wing, where the foyer and the billiard room and the dining hall reside.
That is where I spend my mornings in the quiet estate my second week home. From dawn until breakfast, I perch on the cushioned stool, composing my own piece, watching my fingers glide over the keys, the rustling of the music pages accompanied by my huffs.
