Page 36 of Prince of Masks
Amelia’s brow arches. She lifts her glass to her mouth, but hides behind it, hides her smirk.
One way to snare Amelia’s more positive attention is to offer up some snark aimed at someone else.
If I really wanted to throw Asta to the wolves of the aristos, to her father most of all, I could just mention her longstanding relationship with Eric Harling.
But that would be to sabotage my own goals with him.
Father hasn’t said anything about it, but I know him well enough. He won’t choose my husband who only picked me as a second option.
His pride will swell and shield me.
I must swallow my pride for Eric.
For my own schemes.
“The jet is the best option,” Mother says, and I realise I have tuned out of a conversation turn. “The veils will be dreadfully packed.”
Amelia nods. “If we depart before breakfast, we will enjoy a full day at Hotel de Saint-Clair.”
I perk up.
Hotel de Saint-Clairis in Monte Carlo.
I love that place, even if the name is a little joke at the expense of the krums, ahiding in plain sightsort of thing.
It’s not one of our hotels, the Cravens, or one of the many our family own with the Sinclairs. It’s just theirs. And it’s…
There are no words to do it justice. It is stunning, elegant, gorgeous, peaceful, ancient, artistic—it is everything.
The only downside is that when we go there, we go with the Sinclairs.
Harold and Amelia always take the Prince Suite. The glass-fenced terrace comes with a seaside view, and an infinity pool and a jacuzzi, but it’s all too modern for my taste.
My parents take the Princess Suite.
It’s the same as the Prince, but a touch smaller, and no pool. Still, far too modern.
I like the French character of the Diamond Suite—and I will have one all to myself.
As always, Dray and Oliver will share the Platinum Suite, in the same corridor as mine.
“How long are we going for?” I ask, because it is news to me—but then, we do visit Hotel de Saint-Clair every year, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
Mother’s smile is fond. “We will stay a few nights once the boys are home.”
Boys.
Faintly, my nose crinkles.
I hate that, when the older witches, the parents, the grandparents, the teachers, call people like Oliver and Dray boys. They are so far gone from boys that it’s hard to reconcile the memories of them as children to what they are now.
Tall, muscled, mean men.
Boysis too disarming.
It doesn’t convey the threat that they are.
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