Page 39 of Prince of Masks
Mother’s face is severe. Harshened by the dim morning light in the corridor, the soft hues of the sconces on the wall. “Not if we get ahead of it now. We approach the witchdoctor and—”
Oliver’s dark tone is a sword flung down the landing. “Liv!”
I blanch.
Mother and Father whip their faces to me.
I spin around to glare at my brother.
He saunters down the landing, hands in his pockets, and a tired, moody glaze to his menacing eyes. “Not eavesdropping, are you?”
My face crumples into an ugly sneer.
“No,” I snap, dark, and make a show of hooking my middle finger even firmer around the clutch’s clasp. “I’m making sure I have my MP3 player.”
“Oh, how vintage of you,” Oliver says, sharp. He advances, and with a cutting and fast glare over my head at our parents, adds, “I could have sworn you were listening in on private matters. Pardon me for my assumption.”
My jaw ticks before I draw in a deep, swelling breath through my nostrils. The waistband of my Burberry trousers constricts with the inhale, then settles as I release it in a hurry.
I turn to face my parents.
Their stone faces are aimed right at me.
“I wasn’t,” I snap at them, though far softer than my annoyed tone with Oliver, of course. I dive my hand into my clutch, fisting my grip around the MP3 player, then yank it out. To punch my point, I lift it. “I won’t survive the flight without music, ok?”
Father’s jaw hardens. His grip on the banister tightens until his knuckles are seared white.
Mother lifts her chin for a beat, then—with a false, tight smile—gestures for Father and Oliver to go ahead. “Olivia, walk with me to the car.”
I am struck motionless.
Oliver brushes past me with an annoyedhmph. His brisk steps match his mood as he advances on Father who, at the last moment, spares me a lip-curled look before he turns for the staircase.
I dip my head as I start my slow, painful approach to Mother.
She makes no move to descend the stairs.
“What did you hear?” Mother’s tone is firm before it darkens into something laced with a growl, “And do not lie to me.”
“Really,” I start with a lame shrug, “I only heard one thing about uh, a realisation and risks. I don’t pay attention to Father’s business talk. It’s a bore.”
Mother eyes me.
A thick, heavy silence presses down on me like a thousand woollen blankets pushing me down and down, and it’s a wonder my legs don’t buckle.
Whatever she reads on me, it’s acceptable.
With a curt hum in her throat, she leads the charge out to the driveway and to the car, idling silently.
I follow without a word.
In fact, few words are spoken.
The car takes us straight to London Airport, but between all four of us Cravens, and Mr Younge at the front with the driver, it is a tense and quiet ride.
So when the car rolls to a slowing pace, I feel the relief soothing some of the tension in me.
The private wing of the airport is where the jet resides, a straight drive to the tarmac. No fussing about with passport control or customs or queues, and especially—thank the gods—no veils.
