Page 18 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

First thing I do when I am through the doors of Elcott Abbey is claim a headache from all the travel and beeline for my bedroom.

I find an envelope on my desk.

I park myself in the chair with a huff and tear it open. My gaze drops to the foot of the letter, to the signature, and see that it’s from Eric.

It’s short, a mere follow-up about our date over the holidays—and I have no concrete answer for him yet, since Father put a wedge in my plans.

I read it through, twice, then sink into the chair.

The imps are putting away my clothes, sorting my shoes, folding my laundry into the basket, and Abigail brings me coffee and a cream cheese and cucumber sandwich. She sets the tray on the edge of the desk.

I flatten out blank paper for my response.

I write out a sentence, then scrunch it up and toss it into the bin. Then again.

My foot taps on the floor as I drag the calendar across the desk, closer to me, and I study the squared dates.

I calculate.

The Debutante Ball will block out two days. One day of travel to Versailles, for the actual ball (or the auctioning of aristos daughters, because really, that is what it is), and another day to return home.

I block out those days on the calendar, then cross out the date of Rugby Sunday. These dates, I know from years of the same pattern.

The same goes for New Year, the day before, the day of, the day after. We have our routines, our traditions, and so I know those three days are reserved.

Krums celebrate Christmas, and everywhere will be closed for it, even the museum.

I cross out that date.

I’m left with more availability than I expected, but that’s only half the trouble.

The other half is sneaking around my parents.

If Mother is home, then I need to worm out of her way.

She might latch onto my day at the last moment, pounce on my time, and either come with me into the city, or drag me to the salon with her.

Father will be more observant. Especially now that I’ve asked after our family schedule, so I can fit Eric into mine.

And … there’s also the fact that I snuck off to the crypts for books he doesn’t approve of. Whatever his reasons are for that disapproval, I don’t know. I just know I am being watched a bit closer now.

Just as much of a mystery to me as Mother destroying the book in the first place.

They have secrets.

Both of them.

But of course they do.

I’m not floored by that. My position in the family has never warranted whole truths.

I’ve never been in the know. Conversations have happened all around me in whispers since childhood, as far back as I can remember, and those whispers often silence under my glances, or as I’ve entered a room.

Not the best feeling in the world, but one I got used to.

Family business is family business, but that doesn’t mean it’s my business.

Like the landing above the foyer, when I overheard (ok, eavesdropped ) my parents talking about witchdoctors and bribery, and they silenced the moment Oliver announced that I was there, within earshot.

But that isn’t totally uncommon for me.

At Bluestone, at home, I’m always just outside the door, loitering at the threshold, acknowledged by those inside when it suits them, but never invited in.

I stew on that.

Slouched in the chair, my moody eyes aimed at the calendar, the shadow of my brows furrow into my sight. That whispered conversation between my parents, it might have something to do with the books. Not specifically the books but something about deadbloods they keep hidden from me.

Or maybe they’re not connected at all.

Not like I can get answers. Outside of the crypts, where would I find a book on deadbloods?

Our library doesn’t house anything like that, and the material is meagre to begin with.

There is little about deadbloods for a few reasons.

One, we’re not that important—who would want to study our kind as more than a symptom of a bad pregnancy?

Two, a lot of the old records didn’t survive, and we’re taboo enough that I don’t see a lot of money being thrown at research on the phenomenon of deadbloods.

Dray.

I blink on the name, the answer—

Dray flashes in my mind like a violent intrusion… but not entirely unwelcome.

Dray seeks answers. That is who he is. He doesn’t dismiss things he isn’t fond of, he is fuelled by the why , the answers. He investigates. Not because his curiosity knows no bounds, but because he’s the type of guy who needs to have all the answers in his pockets.

He might, at least, have one thing on deadbloods. Even just a single article.

The Sinclair Library…

It’s a risk.

But it’s also the perfect opportunity wrapped up in one tradition of ours, one day.

Rugby Sunday.

If I get caught trying to sneak into their home library of all things, I’ll be grounded for the rest of the season, sent off to Grandmother Ethel’s, or something equally as horrible like, oh I don’t know, being clubbed bloody.

It isn’t just rude to break into another family’s home library, it’s mortifying, too. To sneak off into the private, personal parts of someone’s home… even if it is the Sinclairs, it’s just not done.

It’s not right.

Yet I don’t shut it down.

I run the tip of my tongue over my lip and eye my calendar for a moment longer. The felt tip of the pen hesitates for a beat before it comes down on the Monday—the Monday after Rugby Sunday, knowing the risk of it.

If I’m caught the day before, on the Sunday, then I won’t be meeting Eric anywhere come Monday.

Still, it’s a risk I have to take, and I can’t see Eric any sooner than Monday.

Mother and Father are both home all weekend, and it ends with the annual tradition of Rugby Sunday, which leaves me no moments at all to sneak off to London for a secret date.

Pushing aside the calendar, I swap out the felt pen for the writing one and start on my letter to Eric.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek and put pen to paper—

‘Eric,

I’m sorry for the delay.

I was tied up with family matters and not at home. I’m back now, and I think I will be in England for another week before I leave for Germany.

I would like to see you, if the offer still stands.

Are you free on Monday at 11am?

We can meet at the museum in the city, see that exhibition you mentioned.

If yes, please do not write back. My mail might well be spied upon by nosy servants.’

I seal the envelopes with enchanted wax, then plant a stamp on the corner.

The wax seal, pressed with the family crest, will prevent anyone from outside of our households from opening the letters. That doesn’t exactly help with the servants, or my parents if I am right and they do read my mail.

So, once I’m finished my coffee and sandwich, and all the imps are gone from my room, I tuck the envelope into my coat pocket and head out for a walk. A little stroll in fresh countryside air does wonders for a headache.

Not that I have one.

I just need a ruse so I can walk the twenty minutes to the nearest post box.

The red pillar of a drop box is tucked at the edge of the village. Takes me a wet walk on a winding path-road hybrid to the outskirts, where I shove the letter addressed to Eric into the slot, then turn on my heels and march back the way I came.

Some villagers pass me by, and each one of them looks longer than what might be considered polite. It’s so rare that I venture out beyond the grounds of Elcott Abbey on foot. The stares are inevitable.

And plenty of stares come.

Some from cars, others from bicycles, and I can make out an older gentleman walking his Jack Russell Terrier over free country that is doused in drizzle; he has his hand flattened like a visor above his eyes, his chin lifted, and he squints across the windy, country road as my brisk pace passes him.

I have my fur hat on, but by the time I make it home, the tip of my nose is red and runny, and the cold is in my bones.

I’m barely through the doors when Mr Younge turns on me in the foyer.

Standing by the hall table, where the rotary phone hums as though touched only a moment ago, his narrowed gaze runs me over, from the soggy fur that I pull off my frizzed hair, down to the wet toes of the boots that trek in dirty streaks over the limestone floors.

I glower at him. “What?”

“Miss Serena Vasile called for you,” he says, but that suspicion slitting his eyes hasn’t dispersed. “I told her you were poorly with a headache.”

“I was. I am.” I tug off my coat and toss it onto the nearby chair. Before the upholstery can be soaked, a maid skitters out of the shadows and snatches it up. I spare her a glance. “I took a walk to see if it would help.”

“In the rain?” Mr Younge nods, thoughtful, disbelieving. “And did it? Shall I report to your father that your health has improved?”

My smile is sharp and false. “No.”

And with that, I stalk off.

His suspicious gaze follows me.

Abigail premeditates me, or—more likely—Mr Younge called the servant’s hall on the rotary phone and sent her to my room.

Before I’m in the lounge of my chamber, peeling off my clothes piece by piece, she’s rushing past me for the ensuite, where she draws me a bubble bath.

I read in the bath a while.

Then dinner in the hall is a quiet affair.

Each one of us feels the relaxing lull that comes post-travel. The only sounds to thrum in the grand room are the clinks of glass, the tinkles of forks on plates and the slosh of drinks being poured.

I’m not dismissed after dinner.

Mother announces our move to the drawing room, where the smaller pianoforte is kept, and so I know I’ll be expected to play for them.

I do.

My fingers glide over the keys, monotonously, a melody that appeases Mother, her favourite. Not mine.

Father seems in a soft mood this evening.

He keeps to a gentle silence, shed of his usual suit, and he lounges in plain slacks, loafers and a lumpy sweater. His softness always draws him closer to Mother, and now, it draws him to her side on the settee.

Oliver undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, then sags in the armchair opposite the hearth. For once, his cell isn’t attached to his hand, the screen doesn’t glow in his face. He slouches, eyes fixed ahead at the fireplace, and he listens. Just listens.

My fingers glide over the keys, muscle memory of melodies I have played so many times before. But it doesn’t get old, doesn’t tire me.

Like the rest of my family, I let the song soothe me.

“Play something from the book you were just reading,” Mother says, lulled, draped over the sofa. She kicks off her shoes and lets her socked feet rest on Father’s lap.

I hesitate my fingers over the keys. “I haven’t practiced them.”

Father leans his temple onto his fist. “Practice now.”

It’s not an order. Not spoken firmly, his gaze isn’t a sword swerved at me. It’s just family night in the drawing room.

These nights, I feel that they love me best.

I play. Poorly, uncertainly, but I work my way through a melancholic score in the book, not the creepy, thrilling melody I have dog-eared to practice, to master .

Mother won’t like that one.

She does enjoy this melody, enough that she asks me to play it again—and I do, twice more, until I let my fingers slip away from the keys and draw back from the piano.

Oliver turns his eased gaze to me, and I think fleetingly of the soothing shade of aloe vera for his eyes. “That is a new favourite of mine.”

Father—one hand on Mother’s sock-clad feet, the other lounged over the arm of the sofa—hums a soft sound of agreement.

Mother turns her face to me. “What is it?”

“Just a film score,” I say and drop into a plush, upholstered armchair. “One of the most famous film composers of all time, actually.”

There’s no answer, not from any of them.

The snobbery in my family runs deep, like so much does, as deep as our elite blood. And that bleeds out of ancestry, into the arts. They don’t quite consider film composers to be worthy of their own genius.

Films aren’t often encouraged at home.

There is a television in the rear living room, a small room at the back of the house, where the draught means that even blankets and thermals don’t soothe prickled flesh.

The room isn’t often used. But when it is, it’s for one of the DVDs on the shelf, a collection of classics, and each one of them directed by a witch.

In the days I wander London, I sometimes stop in at the pictures and watch a movie or two. I love them. But they have no solid place in my life.

I have no cell, two friends, few films. Just books that Mother might steal and destroy then blame it on a servant, and music.

Beyond films and books, my true escape is the piano.

“Now you have my mind on a film,” Oliver says, but his voice is distorted by a yawn rising through him. He shields his face and lets it ripple over him.

“That might be nice,” Mother agrees after a moment. “What film are you considering?”

I’m so sunken into the delightful armchair that, as I throw a glance at the mantel-clock and note that it’s not even eight o’clock yet, a flicker of surprise passes me.

Oliver suggests, “Cléo de 5 à 7.”

Mother’s agreement is blatant as she starts to scoot off the couch.

I wear a small smile the whole walk to the TV room, but that smile grows, tugs at the corners, when Mother orders us fresh popcorn (unsalted, for me) and fruit platters.

I am sick of fruit.

But I rug up with a blanket, and enjoy a cosy night with my family, watching one of our favourites.

It’s nights like these I think my family not so bad.

That maybe I’m one of the very lucky ones.

It won’t last.

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.