Page 80 of Prince of Masks
“Oh, it hardly matters,” Father is saying, a murmur but a shout, a balancing act to keep his voice loud enough that Mr Vasile can hear it over the noise of the terrace, but low enough to not invite anyone into their conversation.
I am invited apparently, as Father finds me, and rests his hand on my shoulder, a gentle reassuring squeeze as though he senses my unease out here.
“The Five Covens and their debutantes this year are irrelevant. Oliver and Serena are loyal to each another. I assure you, Marco, there will be no changes with their arrangement.”
I lean into Father’s hold and watch Mr Vasile’s tense face tighten for a moment before he looks over his shoulder at Dez and Isabella.
Ah.
I understand.
He’s worried Oliver will flake on the engagement at the last minute, like his own son did to his fiancé.
“They love each other,” I say, and lure Mr Vasile’s blank stare to me. “Oliver dotes on her. You should see the tizzy he gets himself into when they are apart over the holidays.”
Father smiles down at me, a look of approval.
Mr Vasile considers me for a beat, then nods, firm. “Yes. Yes, he is quite fond of her, isn’t he.” It isn’t a question, no matter the words he used. He returns his focus to me before adding, as though he is reassuring me, “You might have luck with the Five Covens this season.”
My smile is firm, somewhere close to a grimace.
The Five Covens come together at the Debutante Balls, every single year. The covens are the groups made up of the most powerful elite aristos families, allied, from all over the world.
Marriages are prioritised between the Five Covens before they are outsourced to other elite aristos families, then lastly, the gentry.
None of the elite aristos chose me.
So now I’m up for grabs by the gentry.
The families here on this terrace make up the Coven of Europe: The Barlows, Cravens, Sinclairs, Vasiles—and the Ströms who aren’t here, but they are in the coven.
Zola Barlow comes from the Coven of Africa.
If I was a coven, I would be Antarctica.
I almost smile at my own quip, and then I quickly decide the cold is making me delirious because I’m really not that funny.
Father pats me once on the shoulder—and I understand it instantly for what it is.
A dismissal.
“Why don’t you go find Serena,” he tells me. “You are too close to the rain.”
He isn’t wrong.
Pushed to the barrier of the terrace, the drizzle is getting all over my coat’s shoulder and frosting my cheek raw.
I push up onto my toes and scan the heads and faces of the families crammed onto the long, narrow terrace.
I search for her—for only a heartbeat before her gaze lures mine in, and I see that she’s looking at me already.
Her hand lifts, her fingers glide in a slight wave.
She scoots along the edge of the terrace, between the stone banister and the crowd. The softness of her flimsy cream coat billows around her like a cape as she moves for me.
I would meet her halfway, but now Mrs Barlow comes up the stairs and cuts me off.
Serena doesn’t mind, she moves for me still, and her smile remains, small, lofty, sincere.
