Page 23 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

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.

The Acacius theory proposes that, while the two offspring from ancient bloodlines gestate in utero, one is stronger than the other. The stronger embryo absorbs most, if not all, available magic within the womb tissue, which leaves little for the second.

This theory is underscored in the case of elite twins.

It is estimated that, in the 17 th century, the ancient bloodlines produced a total of 78 twins across the continent of Europe.

While twinship is common amongst all witch lines, the deadblood offspring prove most prominent within elite twinship.

Of the 78 twins, 37% resulted in either the death of the second-born in birth or the registration of the second-born as a deadblood.

Tests for deadblood in newborns are controversial, as the condition cannot be realised from blood samples.

Early tests—as most common in the 1400s—were to lock the babes in a smoky room without ventilation, and the babe who was asphyxiated was considered a deadblood.

As of the 1800s, the examination proves no less controversial: the extraction of witch touch: fine scrapings of each fingerprint to be tested for magic residue, or bone marrow.

The extraction of witch touch is 87 per cent effective in determining the magic status of the witch babe.’

A knock interrupts my reading.

I look up at the door for a beat before my heart skips into a race against time.

I choke on a hurried breath as I yank the woollen blanket from the spine of the armchair, then throw it over my legs.

“Come in,” I call out once the blanket is draped over me—and the book.

The door swings open before the incoming of firm, determined steps.

I face the fire.

Abigail places an envelope on the tall, black table at my side. It nestles beside an empty mug of tea I have long since finished.

“Your mother informs that your dinner party will be joined by the Sinclairs this evening,” she tells me.

Gaze on the fire, I nod.

I feel the book burning on my lap.

She dips her head, ever so slightly, then leaves.

My heart thumps, loud, with each receding step she takes. Breath pinned to my chest, I wait.

It’s only when the door clicks shut and some seconds pass that I unearth the book from the woollen throw.

I forget all about the envelope on the side-table.

I scan the subheadings, then settle on ‘ DISPLACEMENT ’.

‘The practice of relocating deadblood babes into krum society has been the subject of controversy for millennia.

Ancient bloodline families are 91 per cent more likely to displace their deadblood offspring, whether by euthanising or relocating.

While uncommon and unsavoury, deadbloods remain witches in blood and in reproduction.

It is for that reason that, as the Perdita Theory proposes, when deadbloods are released into krum society, and inevitably reproduce with the lesser kind, magical offspring are created.

These are accepted as made ones or made witches.

The question begs, are they made if they are in fact born of a single witch parent whose magic is dormant?’

This isn’t all news to me.

I understand that, as a deadblood, I should have magical children when I do in fact have children. But it makes me think, what would my children be if I mated with a krum?

I have wondered before.

Would they be made —or half-breeds?

A frown tucks my brow as I turn the page.

Still, I search for a hint, an inkling, a word that jumps out at me. I search for the reason Mother and Father don’t want me reading these books.

‘Non-magical witches in krum society were the focus of a 1714-1733 study, which ultimately concluded with the creation of the Venus Theory.

The results of this study determined the difference in value of deadbloods, depending on their sex.

Male deadbloods are without the dormant magic in their reproductive organs, whereas female deadbloods retain magic within the womb, thus only female deadbloods are considered valuable in terms of reproduction.

Modern society shames and thus shuns these handicap witches, however—within cultures across the world and throughout time—there have been moments of worship.’

Worship?

I run my fingertip down the page, one line at a time, as though I can’t quite believe what I’m reading.

‘As far back as the second century, communities within countries we now recognise as Mesopotamia and Egypt, both shared practices where the strongest males would compete in battle.

The males who won victory were rewarded with the wifery of a female deadblood.

This was a revered prize as it was believed that the handicap witches were unable to access their own magic which existed within the tissue of their organs, thus it was supposed her destined purpose was to birth the strongest witches of the next generation.

To mate with such a witch elevated the status of the male warrior within the small society.’

The next few pages are smeared and faded.

The ink is so old on the parchment that time has eaten much of it away and I can’t make out more than a word here and there.

I flick through the blank pages until I find neater ink: ‘ DIFFERENTIATING DEADBLOODS FROM KRUMS .’

‘The magic of a deadblood is dormant, but not non-existent. Thus it will appear within the blood of the witch.

Witchblood, held directly under the moonlight, will reflect the sky itself.

Nature belongs to nature, which belongs to the universe.

Krum blood will appear as it is. There will be no change.’

I huff and flick through the pages faster. I scan every heading on every other page, until finally, I slam the book shut.

For a long while, I stare ahead at nothing.

I don’t see the details on the mantle, the fine frame of the fireplace, I don’t see the flames or the charred log or the metal grate—I don’t see anything.

I’m too deep in my thoughts.

Nothing this book told me is a shock.

None of it is new information, except remote lores about how wonderful deadbloods are for reproduction, and maybe I do wish I was revered instead of ostracised.

But really, I can’t imagine why Mother and Father would want to keep this information from me.

I have always known, since I was diagnosed, that I have the magic in me, it’s only dormant. That it will pass on to my children—and that I have a handicap.

Maybe Oliver really did steal my magic in utero, and my parents are protecting me from that knowledge. I said something like that once, a little rumour I might have spilled at Bluestone, but I never put weight behind it.

I did wonder. His power is great. Mine is none at all. But then, it’s such a weakly supported theory that it borders on guesswork.

I shake my head and reach for the envelope.

I need a break from this reading.

Before I rip the envelope open, I make sure to tuck the book under the seat of the armchair, where it’s safe and hidden.

I read the letter.

My smile spreads as I do.

It’s from Eric.

‘You told me not to respond, and I didn’t, but I worried, and so here is my agreement.’

Takes my mind a moment to chug into place, it’s so bogged down by all the deadblood text, but when I do remember what I wrote to Eric, to meet at the museum on Monday at 11am, I glance up at the clock on the mantle.

It's already 9am.

My hair is a mop, it carries the faintest scent of rain from yesterday’s drizzle, and it will take me more than an hour to get to the museum.

I throw the letter into the fire and scramble for my walk-in-robe, then—after snatching up a bunch of dresses—I race into my ensuite.