Page 74 of Prince of Masks
Soon, I’ll do something that—if Father finds out—will land me in a boiling cauldron of trouble.
On Rugby Sunday, I am going to break into the Sinclair’s library.
16
Each year, on the second Sunday of December, the Sinclairs host the tradition at their home, one shire over.
Since the Vasiles, the Barlows, and the Ströms come from the mainland, and that means travel, they all stay at Thornbury Park, a much older, larger, country manor than Elcott Abbey. Often the families will reside at Thornbury Park for a couple of days.
But I am only forced to visit the Sinclairs’ estate on this one day.
And like always at this time of year, the weather is unkind.
The faint drizzle outside comes and goes, and with it, the clouds smear the sky in grey and white. But no storms will hit the countryside today, it’s saving itself for the seaside, just passing over.
I dress for the wet weather.
A pair of black breeches, a fitted turtleneck, boots and—a stroke of colour—a teal coat to match.
None of these protect my hair, wound waves and curls, an updo of glossy strands, thanks to the salon Mother dragged me to just yesterday, and I don’t know if she had an appointment lined up for me already that she didn’t tell me about beforehand, or she used numerus to get me in at the last minute.
Umbrellas tend to be more of a hindrance than a help, and a hat would ruin my updo, so I bother with neither.
I’ll just have to stay out of the rain.
But an umbrella held by a servant escorts me to the Range Rover—and I am not last in the car.
I am buckling myself in when Oliver drags himself down the driveway, then climbs inside, a clumsiness to his movements.
He drops onto the seat beside me, a haggard sag to his slack face.
I consider him out the corner of my eye, but it’s when he draws out a phial from his woollen coat pocket that I understand.
Migraines.
He complained of one last night, left dinner early, and I suppose it is still hanging around.
I turn my cheek to him as a servant shuts the door, and the Range Rover starts its turn around the fountain in the driveway.
It isn’t a long drive to Thornbury Park. As it’s only one shire over, we will be there in less than half an hour—if there are no cattle herds passing over the country roads on our way.
But the country roads look clear, aside from the constant mist of drizzle, as we pull out of the grounds.
I nudge my shoulder into Oliver’s.
He turns a frown on me, a soft one, patient.
“Are you looking forward to seeing Serena?”
He rubs his knuckle under the bone of his eyebrow, as though easing a tension deep in there. “I saw her for lunch in Nice.”
Oliver slumps in the leather seat.
His knee almost knocks into Mother’s.
She’s turned towards Father, tapping her nail at something on his cell screen, murmuring under her breath.
I suspect they are discussing New Year presents.
