Page 116 of Prince of Masks
Theonlypositive about Grandmother Ethel is where she lives. This quaint little village is a dream, it is the picture on a Christmas card, it is winding stone streets and lovely slanted cottages, it is boutique chocolate shops and moss covered stone.
These sorts of villages always have the best fudge and toffee and hardboiled candy. When I was young and gullible, Serena told me that it was the air. The mist, the rain soaking the farmlands and the rich soil, the morning steam that lifts from the brook—that it salted the air and, thus, flavoured the food.
For a short minute, I believed her.
The memory whispers the faintest of smiles across my face, a brushstroke that never quite touches.
I slump in the leather seat and, cheek turned, watch the village pass me by through the car window. Bridges arch over the brook before they are swept away behind me, the crooked shops waft the aroma of sugared candies and toffees through the gap in the car window.
My gaze hooks on the passing shops for as long as they are in my line of sight—but they are stolen away by the speed of the car.
Saliva slicks my tongue, and I force it down with a hard gulp.
Mr Younge throws a smarmy look at me from the seat opposite. Probably thinking I’m gulping at the fate just moments away, that I will be under the cruel cane of Grandmother Ethel.
Around her, I won’t be eating any sweets.
The dread thickens in my gut.
I turn my cheek to the window and press the button—it slides up and the silence is quick to tense.
I’ll be fed like I am little more than a rabbit. One on a diet. I’ll be shamed for my body, my looks, my mind, my breathing.
Because for Grandmother Ethel, I will never be enough to carry the Craven name. No deadblood is.
I huff a breath that swells my cheeks, then cross my arms. My oversized white shirt might wrinkle, like the hem of my skirt likely does under my slouched posture, but I slump anyway, I slump in protest as though Mr Younge, my escort, has enough power to decide against my fate and take me home.
He doesn’t.
He wouldn’t.
The village is fast to pass before the car turns onto the road splitting between meadows.
Yellow and green, that’s all I see for a long while up the driveway, until—ahead—my gaze finds the familiar moss-faced country house that has no business looking this pleasant. It’s as scheming as hell having an entrance of gold and pearls.
I narrow my eyes on the small country house, a cottage more like, that stacks up only two levels. The vines are out of control on the stone façade.
Last time I was here, the vines arched to the slanted roof, now they are smothering the slates and creeping around the root of the chimney.
I unbuckle and let the metal of the belt hit the car door, hard. My jaw is tense as I stuff my stocking-clad feet into my boots.
Mr Younge is first out the car.
I don’t wait for him to open my door before I’m climbing out, then swatting at the creases of my skirt.
Never leave Grandmother Ethel waiting. Not even a damn moment.
So I’m finger combing my flyaways, then yanking at the length of my oversized shirt, then swatting at my skirt, all as I run up the old stone steps to the front door.
It opens for me.
I spare no lingering glance on the servant who holds the door, not when a thin, willowy silhouette in black tickles at my peripherals.
Her skirt-suit does nothing for her, since she has no hips, no chest, she just looks like a tall, stretched boy in Chanel.
My movements are automatic.
My chin lifts, hands straighten down my sides, my shoulders roll back for better posture, and I march towards her.
