Page 40 of Prince of Masks
Monte Carlo is one of those places we travel to by plane. The nearest veil leads to Nice, France but that is a headache too far.
So we take the jet.
And I’m not complaining—I love this thing.
The smile tugs at my lips as I peer out of the car window.
There it is, sleek black, fuelled and ready for taxiing to the runway. The family jet, co-owned with the Sinclairs, of course, because it’s technically belonging to the shared company.
It’s for my father and Harold, mainly. Business. So I don’t often get to go on the jet, no more than a couple of times a year.
From the outside, the car door opens and, instantly, the fuelled air is a punch to the face.
My nose crinkles as I turn my cheek to the stench of thick pollution. As veils have their price on the body, the energy of the witch, jets have their price on the world.
That doesn’t stop me from placing my hand on the attendant’s, then slipping out of the car. I’m barely standing upright when I hear it, the other car pulling up.
I shift out of the way for Mother and, throwing a glower over at the other Royce, watch as the door is opened by an attendant—
And Dray steps out.
His head is bowed a tad as he fixes the button of his tailored blazer. It’s a fine suit. New, I think, and light enough that it will be breathable for travel in a plane.
The feel of his gaze scrapes me, and I know he’s looking right at me, but with the shades pulled on, concealing his eyes, he’s hidden.
I look him up and down like he is nothing more than dirt on my shoe, then I turn my back on him.
I’m first to move for the metal stairs pushed up against the edge of the jet.
The others hang back, loitering to greet each other as though we haven’t just spent most of the past couple of weeks with the Sinclairs, minus Dray, of course.
I hate this constant dance of greeting and farewells.
So I avoid it, and my clammy hand lands on the barrier as I hike up the stairs to the open door.
Attendants bow for me as I enter the jet, give their greetings that I am immune to now, and I snub the performance entirely.
I make straight for the back of the jet.
The interior is narrow, both walls windowed and lined with fresh leather seats angled towards each other in sets of four. I pass the first set, then the screen divider, then the next set, then the screen divider there, before I find myself at the back of the plane.
I toss my clutch-bag onto the table wedged between two leather seats, then drop into one with a huff.
Hopefully back here, the help will be my company. Better Mr Younge and Mr Burns (Harold Sinclair’s right-hand man) than Dray and Oliver.
I guess they will take the middle section, as they often do.
The first section is always reserved for our parents.
But for the moment, the two chairs opposite, and the one to my left, remain empty. It eases me some.
My breath is gentle and steady as I buckle myself in, then kick off my loafers. They thud to the carpeted floor, soft, as I tuck myself up.
I reach for my clutch.
The book I fish out of the bag is small enough to fit into a coat pocket. Makes for easy carting around when travelling if I don’t want to lug a tote with me.
I flick to the folded page as the compressed noise in the jet starts to thicken.
