Page 6 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

That makes sense. It just fits, a puzzle piece, a light switch flicking in my brain.

Mother and Nonna have been having a tense time.

Mother is such a scheming viper, this is why she lured me out with her today.

I am the buffer.

I aim a side-glower at her, but she doesn’t so much as look my way. Her inky stare is on her own mother.

“Vittoria,” Grandmother warns, the lightness gone from her suddenly dark tone. “You would do well to remember what Mila has done for this family.”

Mother arches a dark brow. “And she has always been paid accordingly.”

The creak of the swing door comes, and every gaze swerves towards it.

Silent, we all watch as Mila herself backs into the room. Ignorant to the discussion, the krum servant carries in a wooden tray of teapots, cups and little biscuits.

I perk up at the sight of them.

Mila turns towards us—and I can better make out the biscuits to realise that they are in fact homemade macarons.

My mouth floods.

“Olivia won’t be having any,” my mother says, and she’s cross, I can see it in the pursed pucker of her mouth.

Mother’s icy gaze is on Mila as she lowers the tray to the coffee table. The disdain is misaimed. But Mother has never been too kind to her.

Maybe because she is a krum? It is odd to have a krum for a servant in a witch house.

I asked Nonna about that once, and she told me that Mila came from town looking for work, in an awful state when she was just sixteen years old. Nonna chose to help her. Twenty-three years on, Mila is still here, devoted to Nonna, and I don’t expect that will change.

But Mother is never warm with Mila.

For as long as I can remember, the servant with the mousy hair and sickly pale complexion has been the subject of Mother’s hard looks and sharp words.

Today is no different.

“That will be all, Mila.”

Crouched by the coffee table, Mila’s hand stills over the teapot, and she lifts her gaze to my grandmother.

Beside me, Nonna just nods her head once. “Thank you, Mila. You may take your break. I will see you at dinner.”

With a hard swallow, Mila pushes up from the floor. Her gaze flickers to me for a moment, just a heartbeat, and then she’s gone.

Mother watches her go with narrowed eyes.

I wonder, fleetingly, if she thinks Mila is after a share in the will.

Not that Nonna has much to dish out, nothing beyond this property.

Not even a comfortable nest of gold in the bank.

My father foots her bills. Paid for the whole villa to be restored, too.

He funds her servants, her cars, her gardening—so Mila wouldn’t get anything beyond a severance or a transfer.

Mother would give the severance.

I don’t see Mila being transferred to Elcott Abbey in this lifetime.

Before I can let my mind spiral over it another moment, Nonna squeezes my shoulder, then pats it, firm. “Have a macaron.”

“No.” Mother’s voice is firm. A sword carved from steel. “She has had some treats today already.”

Well, that’s debatable.

Nonna throws up her hands. “Then there is no harm in more.”

I look between the two, unsure of who to obey.

Nonna isn’t offering anymore.

And Mother isn’t playing.

“Have one, have as many as you like.”

“She has a gown to fit into.”

“And a dress cannot be let out?”

“It’s Oscar.”

“Tyranny is what it is,” Nonna tuts. “Telling these young, beautiful women that men will only want them if they can fit into their shackles and if they have enough diamonds on their necks.”

I sink into the couch and hope it swallows me, whole.

The bickering goes on.

And on.

And I just deflate into the cushions that smell faintly of dated perfume and potpourri.

I wait it out.

The two of them are just so strikingly different.

I used to wonder, when I was younger and not so self-aware, if Mother changed once she married my father. If it was the expectations that come with aristos society that hardened and polished her.

Then I came to understand myself better over the years, how—no matter the manner I was raised—I am so strikingly different to my mother, but so similar to Nonna.

We were, perhaps, born the way that we are.

So I know now that Mother had always been a climber. She aspired, as so many do, to reach the rank above her own.

Nonna didn’t. She had more than enough to offer comfort in her life, and she didn’t want for more.

Nonna’s wealth is in the experiences of life and of loves; Mother’s is in gold, diamonds and pearls.

Mine is somewhere in between.

If I let myself be so greedy, I would take it all.

But that is a dangerous thought, because those dreams are for the special cases, like Mother, not the ones like me, born with dormant power.

“So which of your darling suitors do you want to marry?” Nonna asks and, since she’s holding the plate of macarons to me, I guess she won the argument I tuned out of.

Mother chews on venomous words but doesn’t voice them. She’s stiff in her chair, a moody look aimed at the soot-covered fireplace.

I take a chocolate one and, for the sake of my mother, only nibble on the edge.

I frown at Nonna. “Which one do I want to marry?”

She lifts a yellow macaron and takes a bite. “Yes, which of these men do you want?”

That frown cuts deeper into my face. “I… I don’t know.”

“Well you should know. Marriage is something of a commitment.”

My grin comes with a short, curt laugh.

It’s so lower gentry of her. To think I have any sort of choice.

“I…” The hesitation brings the macaron down to the napkin on my lap. “There is this one guy… He’s…” My shoulder lifts. “You know.”

“Hardly sounds promising.”

“He’s good . Gentry, handsome, and he’s training to be a Master of Star Theory.”

Mother scoffs.

My face falls.

Nonna’s question comes soft, “Will he love you well?”

Asta flashes in my mind, Eric’s mouth hot on hers, his arm looped around her, holding her—

I smile because I can’t bring myself to answer the honest way. No, I don’t think he will. But I think, like me, he will pretend. And that is enough, because it has to be.

There are worse fates, worse marriages—like Landon’s parents, who share not a lick of love between them. Not even friendship or respect, they simply tolerate each other.

Nonna taps my knee. “The thing I loved most about your grandfather was how well he loved me.”

A smile curls the corner of my mouth.

So that is where I get it from, the rush of being the one, the centre, the favourite.

“It ran deeper than his blood, it lived in his bones. That made for a happy life.” She nods, wise and all-knowing. “And your mother,” she adds. “Your grandfather never would have approved the marriage to your father if he wasn’t convinced that Hamish loved her more than life itself.”

He does.

Father truly does love her.

If Mother dies first…

I shudder on the thought, because I know, I know Father will join her.

I look down at the macaron. “I’m short on those offers.”

Mother considers me for a moment.

Nonna rubs my back.

I eat the rest of the macaron.