Page 104 of Prince of Masks
“Then I’ll take the Bentley.”
He smirks over his shoulder at me. “Father.”
That leaves one.
The Range Rover.
“Fuck.”
I catch a servant rushing for the doors like a mouse skittering down a corridor under a cat’s watchful gaze.
“Fret not, little sister, I am gracious enough to offer you a ride.”
I thump into stroppy steps behind him. “I’m not your little sister.”
“Well you are smaller.” He pauses to look me up and down like I’m a wet rag, then smirks something infuriating. “And I was born first.”
Yeah, and stole all my magic.
Maybe.
Probably not, but…maybe.
Also, he’s only older by an hour, so I am told.
Doesn’t stop him from lording that over my head whenever he’s in a playful teasing mood. Playful Oliver is a version of him I was once close with, a favourite side of him, but one I have seen so little of over the years, so now, I can hardly stand it. It just reminds me of how ill he’s been to me all these years.
I push into step and make sure that, as I pass him, I swing my bag over my shoulder and whack him on the arm.
My tone is as moody, “We can share the car until Stonehenge, go through the veil, but as soon as we are in London, we go our separate ways.”
Oliver follows me to the car.
The stocky servant who scurried like a mouse now hovers beside the Range Rover, and I assume he’ll be the one to drive us today. He’s a house servant, so his nerves show in the sheen over his bushy brow and the jittering of his fingers.
He can be as sweaty with nerves as he likes, so long as he doesn’t crash—or if he does, only on Oliver’s side.
That thought guides me into the seat on the driver’s side. It’s instinct. In the event of a crash, the driver will protect their own side.
I buckle in.
Oliver follows.
The ride to Stonehenge isn’t exactly silent.
Oliver has no apparent issue talking here and there, or attempting to bribe me: ‘One albino magpie in exchange for your help shopping for the New Year gifts.’
That’s a hard offer to pass up. But I have to.
Can’t wander the boutiques with Oliver today.
I have a date.
And I made sure to dress my best for it.
There might be something a little shameful about the short hem of my dress, especially when—after I part ways with Oliver in London—I dip into the powder room of a restaurant and stumble out of my tights.
I catch a taxi the rest of the way.
