Page 75 of Prince of Masks
I frown at him. “When did you go to lunch?”
Nice is the middle point between us and Serena’s home in Milan, just one veil each, but it takes enough time that I wonder how he managed to squeeze a good five or six hours out of the day at Elcott Abbey without my noticing.
“The day we returned from Monte Carlo. You were poorly, remember?”
Oh.
That’s how I didn’t notice. I was hiding out in my chamber until dinner.
The smirk is sharp on his face. “I took the car, and I swear I saw someone who looked just like you walking down the road—though it was from a distance and it was rather foggy.”
I still.
Our gazes are locked.
So he saw me take my stroll towards the village, maybe witnessed me pushing the envelope into the red pillar post box. Whatever he saw, a lot or very little, he knows enough to suspect I was up to no good.
A breath of relief sags me as he turns his cheek to me. He dismisses it. Just lets it go. Like he can’t be bothered.
Migraines.
I’m grateful.
So there’s no harm intended, no hitch or snarl or sword in my voice, as I ask, “Did you two smooth things over?”
Oliver spares me a side-glance. Then, after a beat, he nods. The gesture disturbs his dark chocolate waves, dishevelled.
“I believe so.”
The smile I give him is tight, then I offer him what he wants—a reprieve.
I shift around to look out the window as we pass through the village, then down more country roads until, after about twenty minutes, we are turning onto a road that splinters from tall, iron gates.
I inch closer to the window.
If there is one thing I like about Dray Sinclair, it is his estate, his home, the grounds, the gardens.
The driveway, a paved road that winds through lush green bushes and trimmed hedges, leads us past a scattering of small stone cottages, barns and sheds.
It’s a long ride to the second walls: stone walls that encompass the private grounds of Thornbury are lush green with sprawling ivy and moss and vines climbing all over them.
IadoreThornbury Park.
But it isn’t lost on me, the prickle of anxiety I feel as I peer through the window at the massive castle looming ahead, dark grey in the smoggy weather.
Country houses from Tudor times resemble castles, without the full artillery of military, of defence and offense. The style is Medieval in the grey stone, in the octagonal towers, stretched bay windows tinted with stained glass art.
It’s intimidating. Even more so in the dark.
This drizzle, the grey clouds in the sky above, the incoming storm some hours away, it only masks the morning. Less than an hour from noon.
Still, the windows glow like warm candlelight against the grey mist, luring in those who seek comfort, who seek warmth, only to wander into the belly of beasts.
We are passing the bloated pond when Oliver tugs at the inner pocket of his coat.
I cut my gaze to him as he threads out a blue, murky phial then unscrews the topper.
He lets three exact drops hit his tongue before he tucks away the phial.
