Page 87 of Prince of Masks
“Ambitious,” she says, and there’s a lick of sarcasm coating her voice.
I turn to her, a blank look on my face. She’s pushing up from the bench, dusting off her coat, then stalking up the terrace.
*
I sneak away when the rain starts to pour.
Servants bustle around with trays of fresh, hot teas and cocoas and mugged soups and fresh sourdough. The rugby game ends, the guys trek dirt up the stairs, then wipe off with towels under the shelter of the vined roof.
I use the moment of excitement, of distraction, of shifting conversations and moving chairs—and I escape, dip through the double doors into the sunroom.
My boots clack on the marble floor all the way to the foyer. There, I tug off my heavy coat, then toss it to drape over the loveseat against the wall of the staircase. It gives me a moment to eye the atrium, check for any incoming or nearby servants.
The coast is clear.
I take a hard, quick right and swing myself up onto the grand staircase. It arches up to the balcony above, curves along the wall, and the marble is a constant glitter and glare all around me, woven with threads of gold to soften the stark whiteness of it all.
However long the distraction out there on the terrace will last, I can’t be sure. But in some moments, they will notice I am not there.
Dray, probably, will be the first.
There is only so long one can pretend to be in the bathroom before another comes looking for them.
I don’t need that trouble.
I need to get in and out of the library, and fast.
Even for the closeness of our families, it is not acceptable to run off through the Sinclairs’ home in search of their library without permission.
I might as well climb into Amelia Sinclair’s bed, it’s so invasive.
Time might be on my side.
If I’m quick, no one will notice.
I take a hard left after the old throne room (when I say this place is old, I mean it, even with its refurbishments). Last time I came down this corridor, I was too young to attend Bluestone. I hesitate, unsure, and study the marble statues lining the walls. Familiar enough that I push into step and hurry down the corridor.
The manor is a labyrinth of hallways and rooms and foyers and servant stairwells. I should be lost, but I seem to remember the way.
Dray and I used to hide out in the library together. A lot. We would hide from Landon, Oliver, Serena, Asta—anyone who interfered too much with us spending time together.
If we wanted to play in the mud, then others wanted to join. If Dray decided that he and I were to swim in the pond, Oliver always wanted to swim, too. Any game of chase, or our privately packed picnics that were stolen snacks from the terrace, the others wanted to come.
Our parents forced us to let them join.
So we would run away. Hide in the aisles of the library, all three levels of it. After we discussed our runaway plans (where we would create a country like Monaco, rule it as King and Queen, and everyone would be our servants), Dray would find a book and read to me, and I’d be on a ladder, swinging back and forth, running my fingertips over the jutting spines of the tomes, pretending I was a character in a book.
Our hideouts happened so often that it’s easy for me to find the arched teal doors, the entrance to a vast collection that rivals the London Crypts themselves.
I reach for the gold knobs.
My fingers coil around the metal.
And I twist my wrists.
The doors click.
Before I can lean my weight forward and push the old heavy doors open, a familiar glacier voice comes from down the corridor—
