Page 35 of Prince of Masks

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I mumble, though I shouldn’t, “There are so many advancements in the science,” andthescience is a brand of magic, not to be confused with the krum sciences, “that it surely can be removed.”

“Certainly, it is possible.” Amelia lingers her smile on me. “But will he want to have it removed is an entirely different question.”

My face scrunches.

Before I can ask,why the fuck wouldn’t he want it removed, Mother sighs something elegant and utterly false.

“A little keepsake,” she says.

I decide I want to throw up on her.

It’s a scar from when I bit him, sank my teeth right into his shoulder, and if I think back hard enough, I can still taste his blood.

A keepsake.

A scoff catches in the back of my throat.

Glares flash at me from all angles.

Father holds his stare and the warning isn’t subtle.

I pat myself on the chest and clear my throat. “Pardon me. Wine went down the wrong way.”

Amelia lifts her chin and studies me for a moment.

She doesn’t believe my little lie. No one does.

But my excuse is polite enough to return my father to his conversation with Mr Sinclair.

My shoulders relax with the weight of his pinning stare released from me.

But the bitterness of the conversation lingers.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I tackled Dray and sank my teeth into his shoulder.

I do recall that I was crying, and looked like a wild, rabid monkey, and that it was a retaliation, because he stole my colouring book and wouldn’t give it back.

I bit other children—a lot.

It was a problem.

Father sent me away for a whole week to Grandmother Ethel’s when he decided I needed firmer punishment. That was a day after I bit Dray.

Grandmother smiled when she greeted me, then the moment my father left me there, and we were alone, she bit me. Twice. On the arms, hard enough to draw blood and twist my face with a scream.

I kicked and thrashed and wailed, but the bite didn’t stop, not for a long while.

She warned that if I ever did it again, she would come find me, wherever I was, and bite my fingers off.

I never did it again.

The last bite I ever gave anyone was the one I scarred Dray with.

That flashes in my mind, not in old childhood memories, but in the warmth of a simmering hearth in the cigar room, washing over the warm tones of the leather couches and button-tufted armchairs, the smooth mahogany coffee table, the soft beige hue of Dray’s complexion, the muscular curve of his shoulder—interrupted by little white nicks.

I throw the memory from my mind.

“He might get it revised.” I set my empty glass down. A waiter appears behind me, a ghost, a shadow, and tends to my refill. “Asta won’t like my mark on him.”