Page 33 of Prince of Masks
The corners of my smile tuck into my cheek and feel a lot like a grimace on my face.
Father dismisses me, and I don’t need to be told twice.
I get out of there, out of the Blue Wing, and hide out in my bedroom’s lounge until supper.
I sift through my new belongings, the shopping bags, the gifts, and I write out a list of things I need Abigail to pick up for me, wrapping papers and cards.
The timepieces and the art supplies were delivered to the estate when I was with Father: I put the watches in the small safe in the walk-in-robe, where I place the rest of the gifts except the clumsy art supplies that I shove under my bed just to get it out of my way.
On my bedside, two envelopes are torn to shreds, and the two letters that once belonged to them are strewn. The letters that Ireceived when I returned to Elcott Abbey. One is from Courtney and the other from Eric, which—when I first read it in a hurry as I was being rushed out the door—was a surprise.
Now, I find the letter from Eric is plain enough to not lift my brows.
But I should respond. To them both.
So that is what I do until supper: I scribble out the usual stuff to Courtney, I don’t quite tell her the whole truth about why I left, but I am sure she will find a way to say ‘I told you so.’
Eric’s response, I put more thought into. I must filter my words, take care in what I write—but be bold enough to encourage him, too. It takes me a lot of pen tapping until I am sealing envelopes, addressing them, then sending them down to be delivered with the mail in the morning.
7
Bluestone’s semester ends in just two days—and that means Oliver will be home soon.
I dread it.
It’s been so pleasant with him gone.
I am the only child of the house now, and so I get all the attention, all the love, all the smiles. I love that they dote on me and only me.
But Oliver will return soon, and when he does, the favour will shift. As he’s to inherit the family empire, and his final exams are drawing closer and closer, I doubt Father will have much time for me upon Oliver’s return, not that he had a whole lot of time for me without Oliver around.
I just… I want things to stay as they are now. Mother and Father are both on speaking terms with me, both warmer now, and the school break will change that.
It will change everything.
I dread his return for a lot of reasons, but one is that it means I will suffer more of Dray.
Oliver is bad enough on his own. He doesn’t haunt me, but he’ll trip me up in conversation around our parents, get me into trouble.
Maybe I can pay an imp to push him down the stairs or to put manure in his bathroom pipes.
Mind, I did that last one two years ago. I don’t mean to repeat myself, but Oliver turning on the showerhead to be blasted with watery manure, that’s amazing and I love myself for it.
Might be worth repeating.
Dray is the real problem.
He’s the threat.
He doesn’t concern himself with conversational warfare. He has no stakes in getting me into bother with my parents. It isn’t his way of doing things.
Dray’s preference is direct. He won’t trip me in conversation, he will trip me in real life, then crouch down at my side, take my hand, help me onto my feet—all the while, cutting his nails into my palm.
I hate that he’s haunting me now without even being here. Still at Bluestone, and yet he’s the fucking star of our night at the restaurant, Tulip.
We dine with the Sinclairs, under the stars of the misty night. Wisps of clouds paint the skies above, speckled with glittering lights, and the stagnant air means I can sit comfortably without my coat wrapped around me.
It's a plain Ralph Lauren sweater that keeps me warm out here on the terrace; paired with black jeans and heeled boots that I threw on at the last minute after spending too long at the piano and losing track of time.
