Page 7 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

I am freshly lathered in the last of the balm, and all the phials prescribed by Witchdoctor Dolios are finished.

Days at home, and the soft consideration from my parents is all used up, like the balm and the brews.

This morning I woke to Abigail ushering me out of bed and into the shower. The tutor is to start working with me this morning—and I am already late as I come down to the foyer, my monochrome flats smacking off the hard steps.

There is no rush to my movements, no hurry in my lethargy as I stuff my hands into the deep pockets of my Burberry trousers.

Mother waits in the foyer, her back to the looming length of the family portrait.

I avoid the stern gaze of Father’s stare, the sort of portrait eyes that follow you everywhere, and I say a silent thanks to the gods that he isn’t home. Out on business, the jet taken with him, and so it’s just Mother’s watchful stare that follows me down the steps.

“She waits for you in the reading room,” Mother says, impatient enough that she directs me before my flats have even touched the foyer floor.

“Why not the library?”

The reading room is cramped, about the size of my dorm at Bluestone, and the chairs—while cosy—sink in too much, and there is only one table.

Doesn’t seem the right choice for getting through the bulk of my schoolwork.

“It’s being dusted,” she tells me, her voice fading as she turns her cheek to me—and watches a servant move for the doors.

I pause a beat and listen.

Both Mother and I stand, motionless, and listen to the noise of car tyres rolling over the paved driveway, the purr of an engine.

“Mrs Sinclair?” I guess.

Mother glances at me, a faint frown pinching her brow, then shakes her head. “No, I am not expecting anyone today.”

I lean into the banister, the bite of the wood quick to nip at my spine, but I snub the discomfort and watch the servant sneak through the front doors to the driveway.

Heartbeats pass, one after another, until the servant returns—a black, suede box in his hands.

I blink on the box, no lid, but rather stuffed full of glossy wrappings and yellow petals. Some wine bottles lean over the edge, and a large black card is pinned to the top of the pile.

Mother moves for it.

I am quick to shadow her.

The weight of the box trembles the servant’s arms, but he makes no move to set it down.

And the closer I get, the better I see what those glossy wrappings are. Treats. Packaged treats, peanut butter brittle, candied almonds, handmade fudge.

Mother plucks the card from the giftbox.

It isn’t enveloped, hidden, but simply folded. Her thumb slides along the edge, then tugs the card open.

I peer around her shoulder at the cursive words.

And my blood runs cold.

‘Get well soon.

Dray.’

For a moment, I just stare at the silver ink that glides over the black card. Not his handwriting—but of course it wouldn’t be. He is at Bluestone, still.

Dray wouldn’t leave to merely send me a giftbox. He doesn’t have to. The message is enough.

It’s a knife twisting in me, a reminder of him in my bubble that bursts.

Those simple, curt words on a card, not even written by his own hand, tell me so much: that he is the reason I am ‘unwell’ and he acknowledges that with a smirk; that even home, I am not out of his reach; and soon, days ticking by, he will return from Bluestone—and so I can never truly escape.

He plunged the knife at Bluestone.

With a mere giftbox, he twists it.

Mother reads it differently.

“Oh, Dray,” she says, soft, and the smile she turns on me matches the sincerity of her tone. “Isn’t he so attentive to you?”

I snort, bitter.

Mother’s gaze flares.

Her fingertips pinch the thick cardboard firmly. Slow, she inches it closer to me, as if to hand it to me, but a hardness has settled over her.

“Dray is thoughtful for sending this giftbox to you. That is nothing to snort at, Olivia.”

My throat swells with a thick swallow, a gulp-down of words that if I dare release, Mother might strike me down for. Well, not strike, of course, she would never slap me, but… those consequences I would very much like to avoid.

She hands me the card.

I take it, gaze downcast.

“Did you not receive a similar package while at Bluestone?”

I lift a frown to her, uneasy.

“You expected I was the one who sent it, did you not? A basket of treats.” Mother considers the giftbox for a moment, a moment that pulses with snake-like intentions.

“Hmm.” She turns a false smile on me. “But of course this must be sent to the servant’s hall. You have no use for sugars at present.”

She snaps her fingers—and just like that, the servant rushes away with the treat box.

I am left only with a card in my hand. A card I mean to burn.

“You will work until dinner,” Mother says, luring my attention back to her, to the reminder of the tutor. “Off you go.”

I hesitate, my tongue lashing once over my lips. “Can…”

Mother arches her brow, but she is patient, waiting.

My voice is small. “Can I have my book back now?”

I’m short on ways to entertain myself over the next week. When the break starts, I’ll be swept off my feet with errands and socialising, kill-me-please . But for now, I’ll be spending most of my time around the estate.

Books help.

Mother runs me over with a frown. “Which book?”

“My book… The one you… took from my room the other morning.”

Mother’s tone lightens into something of a singsong, “Oh, that book.”

“Can… I have it?”

“No. It is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Poor Abigail knocked it into the fireplace. It went up in flames. Those old books are so fast to burn.”

With that, she starts for the staircase and leaves me in the foyer.

I watch her go. My frown is pinned to the back of her head.

Liar…

What a fucking liar.

Abigail is my dresser. What would she be doing with Mother, knocking books into flames for no reason? She wouldn’t be tending to Mother’s coffees or breakfast, teas, fire building, none of that. Mother has her own dresser, and plenty of servants to tend to all those other duties.

It’s ridiculous. So obviously ridiculous that I don’t believe a word of it.

Mother was too quick to steal the book from my things. Didn’t want to give it back when I asked for it.

Now it’s gone?

Please.

Mother didn’t want me to have that book.

That, I know.

Maybe she’s hidden it in the library—

No. Impossible. Because now that I think on it, we have no such literature in our home library.

And that’s an extensive catalogue. But little on the early theories of deadbloods.

Newer books, the sort without leather covers and dusty beige pages, are the only ones I’ve read, but there’s nothing beyond a chapter, or a brief mention here and there.

I make a mental note to visit the crypts over the break.

I might find something. I might not.

But I do know a single certainty.

There was something in that old book that Mother didn’t want me to read.