Page 100 of Prince of Masks
I pass Amelia and Mother on the way to the bar, and the pair of them look knee deep in gossip. The butler has found them, and he murmurs private words—words that have both Amelia’s and Mother’s mouths twisting with suppressed smiles.
Those smiles slide to me.
I falter.
Hand on the bar, I startle under their pinned gazes—and it takes me a flushed moment to realise Dez has placed a martini glass in front of me.
I turn my cheek to them, and watch as the espresso martini is poured, rich brown elixir.
I glance back at Mother.
Her attention isn’t on me, anymore.
The butler is shuffling out of the room, but Mother and Amelia are still murmuring about whatever it is he told them, and they both watch Dray at the green felt table.
I trace their stares to him.
Nothing excellent is happening. Nothing to write about.
He’s lounged in his seat, a couple of cards in his loose grip, a lazy grin on his face. Landon is in the seat beside him, Oliver on the opposite end of the table, and they play cards.
That’s all.
I wander to Serena out on the balcony, in the frosty evening air. Without a coat, the cold is quick to seize me, and I wrap one arm around myself, and sip at my drink.
Serena looks out at the village.
It’s far from Thornbury Park. But this balcony has a direct view to those distant twinkling lights, so few, so faint.
Serena says little for the rest of the night.
And I drift off at some point in an armchair before I’m woken by Father, and I’m taken to the Range Rover.
We are home long after midnight, which really is a shame, because I have my date with Eric tomorrow—and I really want to start reading the little pocketbook before that.
18
Just like the one I picked up at the little bookshop in VeVille, this book is small, mouldy and old; its pages are crisp beige, and the stench is musty.
Strangely, there are no dust or mites. I should be choking on the dust as I spread it open—then cringe against the crack that ripples up the spine.
‘Don’t ruin it…’
Dray’s words tense my shoulder as, slowly, I turn it around to eye the spine.
Merely wrinkled, no actual damage in sight.
I flip it back into place, on my knees.
Tucked up on my favourite armchair in my bedroom, closest to the natural light of the stretched windows, I read through the introduction.
‘The most common disability recorded amongst witches is deadblood. Until the 1600s, it was believed the handicap was most prominent in diluted bloodlines. After consideration of the estimated discarded deadbloods as babes, these figures were adjusted.
The consensus is that the non-magic handicap is most prominent in ancient bloodlines.’
I’m angled towards the flickering in the fireplace of my bedroom. But I watch the pages, not the flames.
‘The revision of these figures suggests that one in twenty witch offspring are predisposed to the non-magic handicap, and that in twins of ancient bloodlines, the second born is fifty per cent more likely to inherit the disability.
