Page 28 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

The Palace of Versailles is two things today:

Closed to the public Dusted in snow

And it is beautiful.

I sit at the window in the boudoir, the warmth of a teacup cupped in my hands, and no matter the chaos going on behind me, I can’t tear my gaze away from the view.

Enchantments are at work out there.

Illusions are in the boundaries breaking us off from the rest of the city. To us, the metal fencing is tall, painted black and gold. But to the krums beyond the boundary, that fence is the ‘keep out’ sort, stone blockades and chain metal.

I like our fence better.

It doesn’t cage the grounds but cocoons them; it hugs the snowy stone parterre, the black and white Marble Courtyard—and curves all the way around the rear of the palace grounds, where the ball will be hosted.

The snow drifts like powder, so gentle that it’s somewhat startling to see how thick it has gathered on the ground.

I flinch as a sudden crash comes from behind me.

The look I throw over my shoulder is startled and cross, cross that someone dare ruin my moment of peace.

A hairstylist drops to the floor, curses murmuring under her breath, as she balances three bags in her arms. One toppled—and now everything that was once inside the bag is now on the floor. Curling tongs, straighteners, dryers scattered on the rug.

“Careful!” Mother snaps from the doorway. Her glare is aimed at the hairstylist. “That rug is older than your bloodline!”

For a beat, I watch as the woman scoops up the instruments into one arm, but the hold is wobbly.

My brows raise as, uneasy, she pushes upright, then starts to balance the bags and loose instruments through the Antechamber to the Nobles’ Room.

The Queen’s Apartments of Versailles are made up of several grand rooms. Every one of them is packed full of chaos today.

I draw away from the window for the golden trolley. There, I swap out the cold teacup for an empty one, then pour it to the brim with coffee.

Caffeine is all that’s keeping me awake.

I did manage a nap on the jet, but it wasn’t very long, and Mother hasn’t let me sneak off to the private boudoirs for a rest yet.

I need one.

I throw a longing look at the double doors she stands at, snapping at passing servants.

Mother is barking orders here, there, everywhere. If her voice doesn’t call out through the room, it’s distant, an echo through the lavish corridor beyond the door.

Her stress isn’t for nothing.

All around me is a flurry of bustling servants, their boots thumping on the hard floors and thudding on the rugs.

I watch them pass me by and, as I sip my coffee, try to guess their jobs just by the looks of them.

The one in black scrubs, I decide, is a cosmetologist; the one with bulky bags is another hairstylist; the man who walks with flair is a cosmetic artist; the one who wears body glitter is a body artist; and the sudden influx of garment-bag-carrying ladies are the seamstresses.

“No, no. No!” Click, click, click . “You!” Mother is snapping her fingers at the guy over by the doors to the Queen’s Bedchamber. “Are you cosmetics?”

He nods, once. His cheekbones glisten with the gesture.

“Then you are there!” Mother points her finger to the dozen golden chairs planted throughout the room, each one with a side-table tucked to it—and I guess that is where the face-painting will happen.

“Mother!” My complaint is wrapped in a whine. “Can I get my facial now?”

She throws a bothered look at me. Then she blinks, once, as though just realising it’s me.

A tut smacks her mouth before she lifts her wrist and eyes her watch. “Facial now,” she agrees, and the stare she lifts to me is sharp, “then a one-hour rest. Not a second more, Olivia.”

I scurry my way to the Room of the Queen’s Guard, two rooms down, doors opening to more opulence. The walls are drenched in colour, in gold, in art; the ceilings of every room are gilded and painted.

My slippers slap on the parquet the whole way, the silk of my robe catching between my legs with each step and clinging to my dewy skin.

The full body massage I snoozed through an hour ago has left its residue all over me.

I should shower before slipping into the sheets of the gilded bed in the private chambers…

but I won’t, because I care more about my precious time than I do the maid who has to wash body oil out of the sheets.

I down the rest of the coffee before I set the mug on a trolley, then I let myself fall onto a blanket-covered loveseat.

My spine drapes over the arch of the seat, my head lolling back until my face is horizontal.

A cosmetologist is quick to bring her soft fingertips to my face and start peeling away stray strands of hair. Then she slips a headband in place before she gets to work.

Impatiently, I wait.

The itch to be elsewhere flexes my toes back and forth, over and over, in the confines of my slippers; almost as though my feet are on the verge of taking over and leading me through the opulent palace to the private chamber I’ve been assigned to, a chamber that was not meant for the royals of Versailles, and yet is adorned with extravagance all the same.

We don’t live like this anymore.

Krums, throughout history, were only ever used as masks. The royals were in their place because the witches needed them to be the faces of the power.

Just goes to show why it’s done that way.

The revolutions slaughtered royals, krums, masks.

Not the true power.

And over time, the lessons were learned, new patterns and masks woven—until the reality of a too-lavish life in the face of impoverished people became a truth too great to ignore:

They always eat the rich.

So while we are wealthy, we do not live as the royals throughout history did, in gilded homes.

It’s in poor taste.

But that gilded wealth follows me once my facial is done, and I march my way through the corridors, squeezing by the newly arriving debutantes, overtaking slower servants.

I falter before the narrow corridor which will take me to a strip of rooms, all private bedrooms. But I hesitate in the busy corridor because I spot Serena coming up the sprawling marble stairs.

My cheeks swell with a long huffing breath.

For a beat, I stand there, torn between going to greet Serena, who I haven’t even talked to since Rugby Sunday, and turning my back on her for my own private chamber.

I decide on the latter.

I disappear before she can spot me, and I hide away in the bed. Sleep doesn’t find me quickly, I’m too zinged with caffeine.

But I swear, the moment I do drift off, a hand grabs me by the shoulder and shakes me softly.

I blink against the fatigue weighing on me, heavier than the thick, feathery quilt pressing me down into the mattress.

A delicate, angular face is turned down at me.

Amelia Sinclair perches on the edge of the bed, her hand firm on my shoulder. A tender smile is wisped over her full mouth.

The grip of her fingers softens the more I blink awake.

She says nothing, merely watches as a yawn starts to rise through me, twisting my face, then it splits—

I stretch out over the bed, twisting and turning, feeling all the aches ease and the balls of tension unwind.

Amelia slips off the bed, then steals my hanged robe from the hook on the wardrobe door. “It’s time,” she says—and though her smile is tender and warm, and the look in her soft gaze is maternal, and the tone of her voice is gentle, it strikes me like a warning.

My stomach erupts, a sudden burst of moths fluttering.

I really, really don’t want to do this.

The reluctance shows in my lethargic climb out of the bed, the way I tug on the robe as if my arms are as heavy as stone, and the moody kick of my feet into the slippers.

Amelia hands me a small teacup filled halfway with a murky orange brew. “For energy,” she tells me, soft.

That’s all she has to say before I’m throwing back the thick, sludge and it slugs down my throat.

A shudder rinses me.

Gross stuff, thick like honey in texture, but that’s not the bad part. It’s that singe down my throat, the burn bubbling in my chest—

Then a small burp escapes me.

Amelia’s mouth tugs down. The disapproval is painted into every crease of the frown.

I mutter a sorry and abandon the teacup on the nightstand.