Page 46 of Prince of Masks
My frown is cautious.
Dray’s mouth twitches, as though daring to smile.
Then Oliver groans a drawn-out, frustrated sound before he brings the cell to his ear. And, as though we aren’t here at all, he hisses into the phone, “Are you going to pick up at any point, or are you intending on ignoring me until our fucking wedding day?”
He hangs up, but it’s a thrashing of his thumb on the screen.
I bite down on a smile that’s daring to brew and turn my cheek to my brother. He’s a cauldron ready to boil over.
I avoid Dray’s steady stare.
The rest of the ride goes in silence, but thankfully, the ride isn’t too long, and before I know it, we’re pulling up to the hotel.
I settle into the Diamond Suite, and by that, I mean maids and attendants unpack for me, hang up my bagged clothes, set out my shoes, and bring me fruit and coffee.
I have the suite all to myself, one bedroom, a lounge, a dining room, a terrace with a carved-stone balcony that overlooks the grand casino, in all its 1800’s opulence.
The fountain show at night is lovely, and the balcony has a direct view of it. But it isn’t even close to night yet.
Plucking a strawberry from the fruit platter, I side-step a maid as she crouches by my now-empty suitcases and zips them shut.
I angle my wrist in front of my face, feeling the faint slink of my watch falling into place.
Local time is just a few minutes past noon.
A hum of approval juts my chest.
I’ll have time for a nap.
Love a nap after a flight, especially in a fresh hotel suite.
Just hits different.
But there will be no sleep until the staff are gone from my room. And they still tinker about with small chores, like polishing scuffs off the shoes I kicked off at the door, and steaming out the dress I mean to wear to dinner tonight, all under the supervision of the bellgirl.
I leave her to manage.
I wander onto the terrace, sucking all the juices out of a strawberry the size of my fist.
The air is a cool breeze that threads through my hair.
It doesn’t escape my notice that the warmth of the season, December in Monaco, is a considerable amount better than it should be.Degreeswarmer, maybe ten, which brings it up to the twenties.
Witches are lurking in Monte Carlo.
I’m grateful. I’ll bask in the sun those elemental-print witches bless me with.
And bask in it, I do.
The bellgirl comes out with a fresh black espresso.
I cup the mug in my hands and, leaning against the barrier, watch the grand entrance to the casino ahead, a road that winds around a fountain bigger than my suite, then turn my cheek to the luxury cars that glint under the evening light.
The dazzling sun winks down on the people of Monte Carlo. I watch them skitter and lurk, not knowing that witches are the reason the sun kisses their land with unseasonable warmth.
I people-watch a while.
I’m quick to pick the locals, the tourists, and the classes.
