Page 22 of Prince of Masks
I eat the rest of the macaron.
5
I am freshly lathered in the last of the balm, and all the phials prescribed by Witchdoctor Dolios are finished.
Days at home, and the soft consideration from my parents is all used up, like the balm and the brews.
This morning I woke to Abigail ushering me out of bed and into the shower. The tutor is to start working with me this morning—and I am already late as I come down to the foyer, my monochrome flats smacking off the hard steps.
There is no rush to my movements, no hurry in my lethargy as I stuff my hands into the deep pockets of my Burberry trousers.
Mother waits in the foyer, her back to the looming length of the family portrait.
I avoid the stern gaze of Father’s stare, the sort of portrait eyes that follow you everywhere, and I say a silent thanks to the gods that he isn’t home. Out on business, the jet taken with him, and so it’s just Mother’s watchful stare that follows me down the steps.
“She waits for you in the reading room,” Mother says, impatient enough that she directs me before my flats have even touched the foyer floor.
“Why not the library?”
The reading room is cramped, about the size of my dorm at Bluestone, and the chairs—while cosy—sink in too much, and there is only one table.
Doesn’t seem the right choice for getting through the bulk of my schoolwork.
“It’s being dusted,” she tells me, her voice fading as she turns her cheek to me—and watches a servant move for the doors.
I pause a beat and listen.
Both Mother and I stand, motionless, and listen to the noise of car tyres rolling over the paved driveway, the purr of an engine.
“Mrs Sinclair?” I guess.
Mother glances at me, a faint frown pinching her brow, then shakes her head. “No, I am not expecting anyone today.”
I lean into the banister, the bite of the wood quick to nip at my spine, but I snub the discomfort and watch the servant sneak through the front doors to the driveway.
Heartbeats pass, one after another, until the servant returns—a black, suede box in his hands.
I blink on the box, no lid, but rather stuffed full of glossy wrappings and yellow petals. Some wine bottles lean over the edge, and a large black card is pinned to the top of the pile.
Mother moves for it.
I am quick to shadow her.
The weight of the box trembles the servant’s arms, but he makes no move to set it down.
And the closer I get, the better I see what those glossy wrappings are. Treats. Packaged treats, peanut butter brittle, candied almonds, handmade fudge.
Mother plucks the card from the giftbox.
It isn’t enveloped, hidden, but simply folded. Her thumb slides along the edge, then tugs the card open.
I peer around her shoulder at the cursive words.
And my blood runs cold.
‘Get well soon.
Dray.’
