Page 10 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

The servants lugged my bags down to the car a half-hour ago, and I’m just now ready to leave.

The clutch in my grip glitters under the dim light of the corridor, winking in my eyes as I fish around under the flap for my earbuds. The cool touch of the case is a kiss to my palm—and I loosen a breath of relief that I have them with me.

Ever feel like you have packed and dressed and packed again, then checked everything a hundred times over, just to feel like there’s something still missing? Something overlooked.

Those nerves gnash at my insides.

Maybe it’s just that I’ll be seeing Dray today, that the anxiety gnawing at me from the core of my bones all the way out to the prickled texture of my flesh, is for him—and not because I have forgotten anything at all.

So I fish around the clutch once more, feeling the MP3 player, the earbuds, the lip-gloss, a narrow container of perfume, a small pocket-sized book that takes up most of the space in the bag, my black card—and that is everything.

Still, I can’t shake the nerves as I clasp the clutch, then turn the corner onto the long landing that overlooks the foyer.

Mother and Father stand at the top of the stairs, just down the way, but they don’t wait for me, like I first think when I spot them there, loitering.

I frown as I advance on them, the short heels of my loafers muffled by the runner rug.

Father’s head is bowed, his mouth moving with a murmur. His voice is a deep hum that reaches me along the landing, “He was adamant, Vittoria. It is to be done by their witchdoctor.”

My steps slow.

My hands still on the clutch, the metal ring for a handle hooked around my middle finger.

“Then we do what we have always done,” Mother’s whisper is hushed, but not so gentle, it is urgent. “And if we can’t, we will pay whatever price we must. There is always a price.”

A frown cuts into my face.

I wonder if this might be something to do with Harold Sinclair.

Dinner the other night had him and Father in something of a shared spoiled mood, but not one they simmered in together, rather one that seemed to wedge between them. The farewells as we parted into our respective cars were frosty between the two old friends.

I didn’t think much of it at the time, since it happens here and there, the cost of business, of empires joined at the seams.

Still, my curiosity has prickled.

My steps slow some more, until they are intentionally soft and gradual, and I stick to the further wall of the landing.

Father shakes his head, then turns to look down the staircase. “I have ill thoughts about it. The risks… The risks are too great.”

I look down to the foyer.

Nothing and no one there.

Servants will be preparing the car outside in the driveway, and Oliver is due here any moment since he isn’t here already.

I feel the slightest tug of relief that I’m not the only latecomer this morning.

Mother’s hissed whisper softens with doubt, with… fear , “There are risks if we do not get control of this. It must be done by ours, or we pay off his.”

Father’s breath deflates his shoulders. Still, his gaze is aimed down at the foyer—and it takes me a moment to realise that he’s staring at the fireplace arched up the wall.

No fire burning in that hearth. It’s clean, soot-free, and scrubbed to its natural grey limestone.

Above it, the family portrait—a painting that took months of sitting for—is latched onto the wall. Father and Mother sit, Oliver and I stand.

“If he doesn’t realise before,” Father says, soft, “or in the tests, there will come a time he does. And then what?”

Mother’s face is severe. Harshened by the dim morning light in the corridor, the soft hues of the sconces on the wall. “Not if we get ahead of it now. We approach the witchdoctor and—”

Oliver’s dark tone is a sword flung down the landing. “Liv!”

I blanch.

Mother and Father whip their faces to me.

I spin around to glare at my brother.

He saunters down the landing, hands in his pockets, and a tired, moody glaze to his menacing eyes. “Not eavesdropping, are you?”

My face crumples into an ugly sneer.

“No,” I snap, dark, and make a show of hooking my middle finger even firmer around the clutch’s clasp. “I’m making sure I have my MP3 player.”

“Oh, how vintage of you,” Oliver says, sharp. He advances, and with a cutting and fast glare over my head at our parents, adds, “I could have sworn you were listening in on private matters. Pardon me for my assumption.”

My jaw ticks before I draw in a deep, swelling breath through my nostrils. The waistband of my Burberry trousers constricts with the inhale, then settles as I release it in a hurry.

I turn to face my parents.

Their stone faces are aimed right at me.

“I wasn’t,” I snap at them, though far softer than my annoyed tone with Oliver, of course. I dive my hand into my clutch, fisting my grip around the MP3 player, then yank it out. To punch my point, I lift it. “I won’t survive the flight without music, ok?”

Father’s jaw hardens. His grip on the banister tightens until his knuckles are seared white.

Mother lifts her chin for a beat, then—with a false, tight smile—gestures for Father and Oliver to go ahead. “Olivia, walk with me to the car.”

I am struck motionless.

Oliver brushes past me with an annoyed hmph . His brisk steps match his mood as he advances on Father who, at the last moment, spares me a lip-curled look before he turns for the staircase.

I dip my head as I start my slow, painful approach to Mother.

She makes no move to descend the stairs.

“What did you hear?” Mother’s tone is firm before it darkens into something laced with a growl, “And do not lie to me.”

“Really,” I start with a lame shrug, “I only heard one thing about uh, a realisation and risks. I don’t pay attention to Father’s business talk. It’s a bore.”

Mother eyes me.

A thick, heavy silence presses down on me like a thousand woollen blankets pushing me down and down, and it’s a wonder my legs don’t buckle.

Whatever she reads on me, it’s acceptable.

With a curt hum in her throat, she leads the charge out to the driveway and to the car, idling silently.

I follow without a word.

In fact, few words are spoken.

The car takes us straight to London Airport, but between all four of us Cravens, and Mr Younge at the front with the driver, it is a tense and quiet ride.

So when the car rolls to a slowing pace, I feel the relief soothing some of the tension in me.

The private wing of the airport is where the jet resides, a straight drive to the tarmac. No fussing about with passport control or customs or queues, and especially—thank the gods—no veils.

Monte Carlo is one of those places we travel to by plane. The nearest veil leads to Nice, France but that is a headache too far.

So we take the jet.

And I’m not complaining—I love this thing.

The smile tugs at my lips as I peer out of the car window.

There it is, sleek black, fuelled and ready for taxiing to the runway. The family jet, co-owned with the Sinclairs, of course, because it’s technically belonging to the shared company.

It’s for my father and Harold, mainly. Business. So I don’t often get to go on the jet, no more than a couple of times a year.

From the outside, the car door opens and, instantly, the fuelled air is a punch to the face.

My nose crinkles as I turn my cheek to the stench of thick pollution. As veils have their price on the body, the energy of the witch, jets have their price on the world.

That doesn’t stop me from placing my hand on the attendant’s, then slipping out of the car. I’m barely standing upright when I hear it, the other car pulling up.

I shift out of the way for Mother and, throwing a glower over at the other Royce, watch as the door is opened by an attendant—

And Dray steps out.

His head is bowed a tad as he fixes the button of his tailored blazer. It’s a fine suit. New, I think, and light enough that it will be breathable for travel in a plane.

The feel of his gaze scrapes me, and I know he’s looking right at me, but with the shades pulled on, concealing his eyes, he’s hidden.

I look him up and down like he is nothing more than dirt on my shoe, then I turn my back on him.

I’m first to move for the metal stairs pushed up against the edge of the jet.

The others hang back, loitering to greet each other as though we haven’t just spent most of the past couple of weeks with the Sinclairs, minus Dray, of course.

I hate this constant dance of greeting and farewells.

So I avoid it, and my clammy hand lands on the barrier as I hike up the stairs to the open door.

Attendants bow for me as I enter the jet, give their greetings that I am immune to now, and I snub the performance entirely.

I make straight for the back of the jet.

The interior is narrow, both walls windowed and lined with fresh leather seats angled towards each other in sets of four. I pass the first set, then the screen divider, then the next set, then the screen divider there, before I find myself at the back of the plane.

I toss my clutch-bag onto the table wedged between two leather seats, then drop into one with a huff.

Hopefully back here, the help will be my company. Better Mr Younge and Mr Burns (Harold Sinclair’s right-hand man) than Dray and Oliver.

I guess they will take the middle section, as they often do.

The first section is always reserved for our parents.

But for the moment, the two chairs opposite, and the one to my left, remain empty. It eases me some.

My breath is gentle and steady as I buckle myself in, then kick off my loafers. They thud to the carpeted floor, soft, as I tuck myself up.

I reach for my clutch.

The book I fish out of the bag is small enough to fit into a coat pocket. Makes for easy carting around when travelling if I don’t want to lug a tote with me.

I flick to the folded page as the compressed noise in the jet starts to thicken.