Page 8 of Prince of Masks
But I know the truth.
My ankle never would have been broken if not for many things, like my deadblood, or that Mildred Green has a special hatred for me, or the way I looked Mildred’s snowgear up and down before hitting the slopes that morning, the small smirk I hid at the sight of her 80’s block-colour getup.
My snowgear was all black, black zipper and black lined pockets. In style.
Milderd’s were dated. I suspected they were hand-me-downs, which I thought odd since she’s high gentry enough that one might expect she can afford new snowgear.
Still, I let my judgement show in a small smirk.
I paid the price with a snapped bone.
Excruciating.
This time, coming home early to heal, the pain is of a different kind. This time, the pain is a withered mind, a brain melted and sloshing around my skull.
The last of my strength abandoned me in that dungeon storeroom.
It must do something to the body, to the mind, all this constant suffering. Can’t be good for me, it must be eating at me from the inside out.
So many years of this torment, of the vulgar and violent hatred aimed at me, from when I was thirteen all the way to now, at twenty-two. One year shy of a decade, I have suffered, endured,survived.
I had just one year left, and I didn’t even make it to the end of the semester.
3
I wake to a knock on the door. It’s dainty, so faint that it doesn’t even rattle the wood.
Father’s knock would come firm on the frame. It would shudder, and he always calls out my name with it.
The imps don’t bother announcing themselves, they just barge in, if they use the door at all. Mostly, they scuttle about the manor through the vents.
Oliver’s knock is a quick rap of the knuckles by his waist, lazy and disinterested. And he’s still at the academy, so it’s double certain that it’s not him at the door.
The knock is easy to identify.
Mother, my mind mutters as I drag the pillow off my head and croak, “Come in.”
She does.
I aim my puffy face at her, the weight of my lashes bordering my cloudy vision. Still, I make out the navy silk blouse gliding over her body, cinched around her midsection with an eggshell belt that practically melts into the breeches of the same hue. With a glance down at the rug she walks on, I notice her new loafers, cream, and clasped with a gold buckle.
She’s going out.
If the Chanel dripping off of her isn’t the giveaway, then it’s the one constant truth about Mother: at home, she wears slippers.
I blink on the lofty smile she spares on me, and my lashes catch on caked sleep residue.
Mother perches on the edge of my bed.
I just now notice the envelopes in her hand as she sets them down on the quilt. “These arrived this morning from Bluestone.”
I glance at the clock above the dresser. It’s almost noon. I’ve been gone from Bluestone for over twenty-four hours now.
A grunt catches in my chest as I flail my hand around for the nightstand. My fingertips graze the cool kiss of glass. The phial.
I snatch it and, pushing up onto one elbow, uncork it with my thumb and throw back the tonic.
The face I make is instant.
