Page 29 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

The Hall of Mirrors spills out onto the Parterre d’Eau, where all of the guests are congregated, waiting for us.

We, the debutantes, are being ushered into a line in the Hall of Mirrors, moments away from the introductions.

The procession we take is not random. Time and date of birth is what determines the line of debutantes.

That same order is mirrored in the brochure that Dinara Korolyov unfolds in her dainty hands.

She tucks up to the wall, cutting a cautious glare up and down the corridor at our wardens, then lands her gaze on the brochure.

I inch closer to her, a lift to my chin, and I glance down at the glossy page flickering under the light of the wall-sconces.

Her page is her number in the line: 4.

And on that page, with a lovely smiling photograph of her, is a list of information. Her age, eye colour, hair colour, print, family name; followed by some personal trivia.

Dinara Korolyov, as it turns out, has something in common with me. A collector of animals.

I read that on her page, swiftly, before she must hide the brochure away or pass it off to another debutante so that she’s not caught with it.

She makes to close it over.

“Page six,” I whisper.

She throws a startled look over her shoulder at me. Her lashes flutter with a stark blink before she drags her darkening stare over me.

Dinara is one of the faces I recognise from balls over the years, as I recognise every debutante in the Hall of Mirrors.

But there is little acknowledgement spared on me, and the acknowledgement I am greeted with is unkind—just like the look Dinara runs me over with.

To say I haven’t been met with warmth at the annual balls is an understatement. Those same sentiments I am met with at Bluestone are my reality at the balls, by my peers, the ones of my age, the ones who are the Snakes of their own schools across the continents.

Dinara hits the brochure aside, right into my midsection.

I take it, quick, then huddle up to the wall. I flick to my number in the line, my page number, and… there I am.

“Let me see it,” Asta snaps.

Before I get a moment to even look at her, she’s snatched the brochure out of my grip.

I huff and turn my back to the wall.

Asta huddles with the brochure, the booklet of meat on sale, women up for auction.

I deflate.

The bachelors out in the Parterre d’Eau, waiting for us, have the same brochures in their hands.

Makes it easier for some bachelor to think, ‘ oh, number three looks nice, she might do ,’ then mark our pages.

Sometimes I think we make it too easy for them. The men. And maybe I don’t like feeling as though I can be ordered off a menu.

I peel my spine away from the wall as Grandmother Ethel comes stalking down the hall.

My chin lifts, shoulders roll back, and the echo of cane-strikes thrum my bones.

She starts to organise the line of debutantes and reach out for the skirts of gowns to whoosh them out and chuck a finger under a chin to better view the makeup under the filtered light.

Both Amelia and Mother have gone, out of sight now, to join the rest of the guests in the Parterre.

The debutantes are left with the wretched witches who head the board of the organisation. That includes Grandmother.

Her spidery fingers pinch the shell of my ear.

I wince before she yanks me along the wall. “Take your place, girl. The world will not wait for you.”

She steers me down just one spot to stand behind Asta.

The brochure is gone from her hands now, and her full attention is on me; she makes no effort to hide her snicker.

Grandmother doesn’t just release my ear, she shoves it with an extra pinch.

The hiss that cuts through me is sharp.

I slide a glare to her, but she’s already turned her back on me, and she hits her cane on the runner rug as she starts the final inspection round.

Thud, thud, thud.

I hate it, I hate when it comes closer to me, a threat, a mockery, but then it just passes by.

Grandmother runs the inspection stroll to the end, pauses on Serena at the back, and hums a sound of approval.

My face tightens into something ugly.

“Even your grandmother doesn’t love you,” Asta scoffs. Her shoulders jerk as she looks back at me. “Now that’s embarrassing.”

The urge swells up inside me, an ugly adrenaline-tickled sensation, the urge to tell her all the things I did with her boyfriend behind her back.

I don’t, of course.

These games must be played right.

I keep my hand in the shadows.

Still, I smirk something ugly at her. “Bold of you to trash talk when you’ll be going in front of me.”

Her face falls. It slackens into a mixture of shock and fear. “You wouldn’t.”

I shrug, and my dress rustles with the gesture. “I can’t help it if I step on your dress and it rips.”

“And—ready?” comes the singsong call of the other Elderwitch standing by the door. “Girls, smile! And go!”

The sudden swell of music lifts through the air, a symphony, a melody.

It starts.

The Walk of the Debutantes.

One at a time, we will walk through the doors to the Parterre.

I wait my turn.

Dinara Korolyov goes ahead.

Then Asta is called.

I am led into the next room, the doors parted on the stone promenade that spills out onto the sprawling grounds of decadence, of pools and fountains and private nooks and stone pews and tall, thick trees trimmed into tidy beauty.

“Olivia Craven.”

My name is spoken both from the elder witch beside me, and the man out in the promenade; his boots planted on the washed stone, his chin lifted, and the cane in his hand clocking once, twice to announce me.

It is deathly silent out there.

Not a murmur, not a whisper.

I set my arms by my sides, not quite resting on the skirt of the dress, not quite outstretched either, and my spine straightens.

I move for the doors, for the courtyard.

And the moment I reach the threshold, my steps change, my posture shifts that little bit, and then I am gliding .

I step outside—and the lights hit me, bright.

Moonlight, lanterns, fairy lights dotted all throughout the gardens, but the courtyard is ablaze with bright, white floodlights.

I was not prepared for that.

It almost cracks my mask.

The blinding glare steals my sight.

All I can do is paint the faintest smile on my face, stare straight ahead, and hope my sight comes back to me with the slow, practiced blinks of my lashes.

“Olivia Craven is an accomplished equestrian, a collector of exotic and rare animals,” the man’s voice carries with me, “and prefers rainy days at home with her family than the beaches of Saint Tropez.”

I fight the urge to make a face.

I never once claimed to prefer either of the two, and so I know Mother wrote my trivia for me.

She is among them, the guests lining the three gilded walls that cage in the courtyard, she is there, watching me.

My gliding steps carry me through the courtyard, my stare fixed ahead at the moonlit gardens, where Asta’s silhouette is motionless at the steps.

“When Olivia is not poring over the books in her grand library, she can be found at the nearest pianoforte, composing her own pieces.”

I reach the end of the Parterre, and a small breath of relief escapes me.

Still, my mask stays on, firm, and I turn around to face the courtyard. Asta is a statue at my side, and next to her, Dinara is just as gracefully motionless.

I should be prickled by the cold, the chill biting at my flesh. But the heat bubble blesses me with a tepid temperature, a goldilocks of just right .

The weight of my ball gown fights to drag me down.

The thick, heavy skirt pulls me at the waist, but I am sure I glitter like a diamond now that I am out of the floodlights and in the more natural essence of the moon and the stars, and those lovely, soft flickering fairy lights.

The next debutante is coming down the courtyard. Her steps are a little rushed, and her cheeks too flushed.

I don’t watch her longer than a moment.

I start scanning the faces of the guests.

Most are angled to watch the debutante enter; but some faces are aimed at us, the line of the debutantes.

That is why we stand the way we do, women on shelves.

My face is schooled as I flick my gaze around, scanning the faces for a familiar one. Any familiar one. Strangers, acquaintances, unkind glares, eyes full of pity, of disdain, some of approval as I’m eyed over head to toe.

Aristos from all over the world fill the atrium.

Gentry will come later. They are invited, but not to stay at Versailles, and not to be a part of the Walk of the Debutantes. That is for aristos only.

And so I don’t expect to find Eric in the crowds lining the walls, or a friendly face like Teddy’s or Piper’s.

It takes me too long to find my family.

Oliver’s face is the one I first find.

Hands behind his back, he lifts his chin as our gazes connect—and the ghost of a smile tugs the corner of his mouth. He inclines his head, the slightest gesture of approval that he mimics after Father.

I keep my face smooth, schooled, and my chin high. But the urge to smile back is strong, and I clench my teeth to fight it off.

That flimsy moment of approval eases me.

I flick my glance behind Oliver.

There, my father stands with Mother, and he is looking at me already.

Like Oliver, he inclines his head, ever so slightly, and there is a kindness in the way he does it.

A tightness in my chest starts to loosen.

Mother clings to his arm, tears glistening her eyes into inky chandeliers—and her watery smile is highly improper.

In answer, my smile breaks free.

It is a small smile, quaint, and I have no choice but to look away from Mother before it splits into a grin.

I cut my gaze aside—and am snared by diamonds.

The Sinclairs stand with my family. No surprise there. But the intensity of Dray Sinclair’s stare almost knocks the breath right out of me.

It spears into me, a crystal sword, and it is utterly unwavering.

My breath shudders.

The quiver trembles my shoulders, my bodice, but I cannot tug my gaze from his.

He’s hooked me like a fish in the water.

And I just… stare back at him.