Page 77 of Prince of Masks
And the Videralli are charged with the duty of the world, including its economy.
When a rare made one is born with a great print like Father’s, like Oliver’s, they are brought into the fold of the upper classes, never elite, but they are welcomed—because they must be taught.
And if they run away with their own fantasies of unlimited wealth with no consequence, they vanish.
Everything has its limitations.
Magic and wealth included.
So I know, as I wander my gaze around the home I have seen so many times, and I flick my attention between the new chandeliers above and the gold-painted marble floors, that Amelia Sinclair might be the most expensive wife in witch history.
The old butler leads us to the party.
His steps are slow, given his greyish age, and so we wander at a medial pace from the foyer, down the wide, spanning passage lined with gold-framed portraits of Sinclairs throughout the ages, and to the rear sunroom, whose glass doors open onto the terrace.
I draw in a deep, steadying breath.
The mere sight of the crowd beyond the open glass doors is enough to flurry me with a sudden whoosh of cold panic. A dozen witches out there.
And I will have to greet most of them, if not all.
I doubt I’ll be able to slip by them and make for a private corner, since the thick of the group is standing right on the other side of the doors.
Oliver must be having the same exhausted realisation as me.
His sigh is gentle, but since he’s right beside me, I hear it, and when I glance at him, I see that he’s running his hands down his face.
“Questioning your decision to come?” I murmur.
He scoffs, bitter, an unspokenyeah, no shit.
But he says nothing, because in a heartbeat, our parents have entered the throng of witches, and we are quick to follow.
Mr Barlow is first to notice us.
He turns at the right moment, nursing a whisky, and his gaze lands on us. A grin splits him as he moves to approach.
I’m glad that my parents are in front of me, a buffer, and so he can’t reach around to shake my hand.
I’m not a fan of Mr Barlow.
“Where is Zola?” Mother asks, loud enough that her voice carries over the constant murmur and ripples of voices on the terrace. “Is she here? Is she well today?”
Others have noticed our arrival, and they are all closing in.
I ache to shrink back and run to the foyer, to hide.
“She’s down there,” Mr Barlow flurries his hand over his shoulder, a gesture to the grounds. “Having her moment of peace.”
I crane my neck to look to where he said—and there she is. Mrs Barlow, a curvy woman in jeans and a raincoat, strolls around the rock-shored pond before the steps that descend to the water feature rockpool.
Zola Barlow is another elite aristos, of course, but not from Bluestone Academy; not from the European circles. Mr Barlow met her at the Debutante Ball of their eligible season—and that was that.
My gaze cuts away from her satin brown complexion, a brilliant contrast against the yellow raincoat, and I scan the grounds instead.
The grounds of these old Tudor manors,castles, seem never-ending. Thick, lush greenery as far as the eye can see, with that fresh fragrance of wet grass in the midst of a storm. There’s something oddly refreshing, comforting, about that smell.
I draw in a deep breath on instinct, flooding my lungs with the dewiness of nature, and I squint out through the drizzled mist smearing the grounds.
