Page 141 of Prince of Masks
But I feel every fucking drop, like ice rolling down my face, wetting strands of my hair. It’s my dress that gets it the worst.
I force myself upright to sit in the fountain water, and look down at the soaked fabric drenching me, heavier than moments ago, pulling on me.
I throw a wild look up at him, at Dray, but he’s turned his back on me, and started up the Green Carpet again, back to the main crowd of guests.
And here I am… drenched in a fucking fountain.
Father is so going to kill me.
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No matter how hard I try, I can’t get out of the fountain.
The water is shallow, enough that—parked on my ass—it only reaches to my pelvic bone… but it has soaked into the layers of my dress.
This dress weighed me down through the Walk of the Debutantes, it sagged on me through the dances, but now that it is drenched at the skirt and midsection, it’s as heavy as a tonne of marble.
I strain, hands flat on the bottom of the fountain, as though I can push myself up from the water—but I manage just an inch before I am collapsing back down with a grunt.
I take a moment, my lips shuddering from the cold, and I realise that the heat bubble doesn’t warm up the water of the pools and fountains.
It might as well be snowing all around me for how deep that chill reaches, all the way to my bones.
It’s the skirt that has me pinned down.
It might look whimsical, willowy, lovely, but all those layers and embedded crystals, every strand drenched, it’s a house resting on my lap.
I huff a cold, shuddered breath and look out to the Green Carpet.
Those silhouettes still drift up there, wandering in peaceful walks, weaving around the statues—but the party hasn’t come down this far yet.
Most of the guests will be hungry now, sitting themselves at the tables to eat. Some might still be dancing.
It’s why Father was looking for me, why Dray came to find me in the first place.
And so I don’t expect those silhouettes to reach me for a little while. They are in no hurry.
No one knows I am down here in the water.
I eye the border of the fountain.
If I scoot close enough, I can grab onto it, then maybe roll myself out. But that means submerging my upper body, and the crystallised bodice will get wet, quick.
Then…
I don’t know.
Then I will have to find Father.
I will have little other choice than to drag myself up there, sopping wet, if I can even withstand the weight of the dress that long, and find my father for his help.
His help will come—and it will be accompanied by a good scolding.
No, I can’t go to him.
Can’t let anyone see me in a drenched dress, water droplets falling down my face, my mouth blue under the faint pink lipstick.
I need to figure something out, and fast.
