Page 25 of Prince of Masks
There is a duality to it. The niggling irritation of not quite getting the notes right, of knowing that—while I write my own pieces all the time—they will never be remarkable. Always just average.
Sometimes, I feel that echo in me, the understanding that, no matter my birth, my status, my world, I am ultimately average.
But the other side of it is comfort.
To play this familiar instrument, the one I learned on as a child, under the painted ceiling of godly figures and clouds and tears, the gold chandeliers, surrounded by fresh upholstered Victorian furnishings, grand portraits of every Craven to have ever lived stretching up the walls, and the faint background melody through the open doors of rushing steps through the foyer, the clang of silver platters being carried to the upper levels, the slosh of water in a bucket.
It is home.
This Saturday morning, no tutor on the weekends, I abandon my own composition.
Sonata No. 8 bleeds from my fingers over the keys.
There’s something in the cords and the notes that rejuvenates me. I play for hours.
Come noon, I finally have the energy to call for the car. The driver takes me to Stonehenge where I slip into the London veil.
Father is returned home from his business trip in Tokyo, and he only let me go because I said I was shopping for New Year gifts. A lie crafted to keep Mother off my back, too. I needed a way to stop her from joining me in the city today.
Because today, once I am through the veil, I take the underground and head straight for the British Library.
The exterior is as wretched as the last time I was here; that Australian-red-desert colour, a blocked building that makesutterly no sense. Hideous. A monstrosity that took more than two decades to create, a vision that was best kept in the mind, perhaps.
Still, this aesthetically displeasing beast is a hub for witches, not just krums.
Beyond the temperature-controlled vault for the collection of a once king, beyond the Treasures, is the hidden access point to my destination.
The crypts.
The flat soles of my canvas shoes squeak on the glossed limestone floors until, through the reading room, the carpet muffles my steps.
I pass by the krums littered around the tables and peppered throughout the aisles, and I head for the rear doors where the locks are electronic and the security card swipers blinks a dot of red light on repeat.
I dig out my membership card from my back pocket. Like a black, limitless credit card, it’s small and sleek, with the family name engraved on it.
I cut it through the swiper.
The red light winks green.
I push through the heavy security door.
On the other side, about a dozen librarians more of my nature—witches—zigzag through a humble foyer, determined steps and set jaws. Back here, the real work of the library happens. The preservation of an ancient collection of witchkind.
Card firm in my grip, I find the only desk in the foyer, far across the limestone floor; it is metal and bulked with a single computer stacked on it.
I approach the desk.
My shoes return to squeaking with each step. So before I have even announced myself to the witch librarian sat at the computer, he hears me.
He looks up from pink-rimmed glasses.
I tuck my card away, back into the rear pocket of my baggy jeans. “Where can I find books on deadbloods?”
His brow wrinkles. “Deadbloods?”
He runs me over with his teal gaze, then flicks his severe stare back up to my flushed face.
He recognizes me. That much is confirmed when he says, “I apologise, Miss Craven, but we have very little on your kind.”
