Page 72 of Prince of Masks
I just need a ruse so I can walk the twenty minutes to the nearest post box.
The red pillar of a drop box is tucked at the edge of the village. Takes me a wet walk on a winding path-road hybrid to the outskirts, where I shove the letter addressed to Eric into the slot, then turn on my heels and march back the way I came.
Some villagers pass me by, and each one of them looks longer than what might be considered polite. It’s so rare that I venture out beyond the grounds of Elcott Abbey on foot. The stares are inevitable.
And plenty of stares come.
Some from cars, others from bicycles, and I can make out an older gentleman walking his Jack Russell Terrier over free country that is doused in drizzle; he has his hand flattened like a visor above his eyes, his chin lifted, and he squints across the windy, country road as my brisk pace passes him.
I have my fur hat on, but by the time I make it home, the tip of my nose is red and runny, and the cold is in my bones.
I’m barely through the doors when Mr Younge turns on me in the foyer.
Standing by the hall table, where the rotary phone hums as though touched only a moment ago, his narrowed gaze runs me over, from the soggy fur that I pull off my frizzed hair, down to the wet toes of the boots that trek in dirty streaks over the limestone floors.
I glower at him. “What?”
“Miss Serena Vasile called for you,” he says, but that suspicion slitting his eyes hasn’t dispersed. “I told her you were poorly with a headache.”
“I was. I am.” I tug off my coat and toss it onto the nearby chair. Before the upholstery can be soaked, a maid skitters out of the shadows and snatches it up. I spare her a glance. “I took a walk to see if it would help.”
“In the rain?” Mr Younge nods, thoughtful, disbelieving. “And did it? Shall I report to your father that your health has improved?”
My smile is sharp and false. “No.”
And with that, I stalk off.
His suspicious gaze follows me.
Abigail premeditates me, or—more likely—Mr Younge called the servant’s hall on the rotary phone and sent her to my room.
Before I’m in the lounge of my chamber, peeling off my clothes piece by piece, she’s rushing past me for the ensuite, where she draws me a bubble bath.
I read in the bath a while.
Then dinner in the hall is a quiet affair.
Each one of us feels the relaxing lull that comes post-travel. The only sounds to thrum in the grand room are the clinks of glass, the tinkles of forks on plates and the slosh of drinks being poured.
I’m not dismissed after dinner.
Mother announces our move to the drawing room, where the smaller pianoforte is kept, and so I know I’ll be expected to play for them.
I do.
My fingers glide over the keys, monotonously, a melody that appeases Mother, her favourite. Not mine.
Father seems in a soft mood this evening.
He keeps to a gentle silence, shed of his usual suit, and he lounges in plain slacks, loafers and a lumpy sweater. His softness always draws him closer to Mother, and now, it draws him to her side on the settee.
Oliver undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, then sags in the armchair opposite the hearth. For once, his cell isn’t attached to his hand, the screen doesn’t glow in his face. He slouches, eyes fixed ahead at the fireplace, and he listens. Just listens.
My fingers glide over the keys, muscle memory of melodies I have played so many times before. But it doesn’t get old, doesn’t tire me.
Like the rest of my family, I let the song soothe me.
“Play something from the book you were just reading,” Mother says, lulled, draped over the sofa. She kicks off her shoes and lets her socked feet rest on Father’s lap.
