Page 9 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

Bluestone’s semester ends in just two days—and that means Oliver will be home soon.

I dread it.

It’s been so pleasant with him gone.

I am the only child of the house now, and so I get all the attention, all the love, all the smiles. I love that they dote on me and only me.

But Oliver will return soon, and when he does, the favour will shift. As he’s to inherit the family empire, and his final exams are drawing closer and closer, I doubt Father will have much time for me upon Oliver’s return, not that he had a whole lot of time for me without Oliver around.

I just… I want things to stay as they are now. Mother and Father are both on speaking terms with me, both warmer now, and the school break will change that.

It will change everything.

I dread his return for a lot of reasons, but one is that it means I will suffer more of Dray.

Oliver is bad enough on his own. He doesn’t haunt me, but he’ll trip me up in conversation around our parents, get me into trouble.

Maybe I can pay an imp to push him down the stairs or to put manure in his bathroom pipes.

Mind, I did that last one two years ago. I don’t mean to repeat myself, but Oliver turning on the showerhead to be blasted with watery manure, that’s amazing and I love myself for it.

Might be worth repeating.

Dray is the real problem.

He’s the threat.

He doesn’t concern himself with conversational warfare. He has no stakes in getting me into bother with my parents. It isn’t his way of doing things.

Dray’s preference is direct. He won’t trip me in conversation, he will trip me in real life, then crouch down at my side, take my hand, help me onto my feet—all the while, cutting his nails into my palm.

I hate that he’s haunting me now without even being here. Still at Bluestone, and yet he’s the fucking star of our night at the restaurant, Tulip.

We dine with the Sinclairs, under the stars of the misty night. Wisps of clouds paint the skies above, speckled with glittering lights, and the stagnant air means I can sit comfortably without my coat wrapped around me.

It's a plain Ralph Lauren sweater that keeps me warm out here on the terrace; paired with black jeans and heeled boots that I threw on at the last minute after spending too long at the piano and losing track of time.

My cheek is slightly turned to the crystal decorated table, the flowers, the flickering candles, the cream silk runners—and I look out to the glittering city lights.

It’s not often we dine in the heart of London, there are so many lovely places closer to home that don’t require veil travel or lengthy car rides. But on the odd occasion we do venture this far, I find myself more distracted from conversation than usual.

It's the smog of London that irks me, the constant thrum of the crowds moving through the streets, the glare of the lights that disturb the dark of night.

And it only worsens my mood that Amelia won’t stop babbling on about her oh-so-precious son and their phone call just last night.

Might barf up my salad.

“His team won the mid-season,” Amelia tells us, and I tune in and out of the recap of Dray’s life at Bluestone. “But with the examinations in the second semester, the seniors will drop out of the game—so he is pleased to leave on the accomplishment.”

“Dray is a winner,” Mother says with a small smile, and I make a face that neither of them notices. “It’s good to hear he is stepping back from the extracurriculars to focus on the examinations. Oliver has chosen the same for himself.”

Amelia sinks her elbow onto the edge of the table, very poor manners, but she slinks closer to Mother, and that prickles my senses. “How is he now?”

Ooh.

Something happened with Oliver.

I shift closer.

“Oh, he is well enough. The academy witchdoctor healed his shoulder nicely, and with the balms, the scar will fade in a couple of weeks.”

“What?”

Mother and Amelia flicker their blank stares to me.

I clear my throat. “What happened to Oliver?”

“He had an accident in sparring,” Mother sighs, soft, the faint wisp of her disdain for the club lingering in her tone. “The bone of his shoulder came through—”

Amelia flurries her hand. “Please, no.”

Mother’s smile comes with a shake of the head. “Not to worry, Olivia. Your brother was fixed up just fine at the school.”

I almost slump in my chair with the understanding.

I was upset, I was brought home.

I was hurt on the slopes, I was brought home.

Oliver’s bone speared through his shoulder, but he was left at school. He might be extra salty with me when he gets back. Perhaps not, since it might have been his own decision to stay at Bluestone.

Amelia says, “Oliver and Dray could have matching scars now.”

Mother bells a faint laugh.

And my mind chugs to the distant memory. I blink on it, on the image of a circle of white cuts, the teeth marks of a child marring soft, sandy skin.

I reach for my wine.

I’ll need it.

Mother asks, “Did he not have it revised?”

Amelia’s gaze flickers to me. “He still wears it.”

I sip as slowly on my wine as I can manage, when everything in me wants to throw it back and call it a night.

I mumble, though I shouldn’t, “There are so many advancements in the science,” and the science is a brand of magic, not to be confused with the krum sciences, “that it surely can be removed.”

“Certainly, it is possible.” Amelia lingers her smile on me. “But will he want to have it removed is an entirely different question.”

My face scrunches.

Before I can ask, why the fuck wouldn’t he want it removed , Mother sighs something elegant and utterly false.

“A little keepsake,” she says.

I decide I want to throw up on her.

It’s a scar from when I bit him, sank my teeth right into his shoulder, and if I think back hard enough, I can still taste his blood.

A keepsake.

A scoff catches in the back of my throat.

Glares flash at me from all angles.

Father holds his stare and the warning isn’t subtle.

I pat myself on the chest and clear my throat. “Pardon me. Wine went down the wrong way.”

Amelia lifts her chin and studies me for a moment.

She doesn’t believe my little lie. No one does.

But my excuse is polite enough to return my father to his conversation with Mr Sinclair.

My shoulders relax with the weight of his pinning stare released from me.

But the bitterness of the conversation lingers.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I tackled Dray and sank my teeth into his shoulder.

I do recall that I was crying, and looked like a wild, rabid monkey, and that it was a retaliation, because he stole my colouring book and wouldn’t give it back.

I bit other children—a lot.

It was a problem.

Father sent me away for a whole week to Grandmother Ethel’s when he decided I needed firmer punishment. That was a day after I bit Dray.

Grandmother smiled when she greeted me, then the moment my father left me there, and we were alone, she bit me. Twice. On the arms, hard enough to draw blood and twist my face with a scream.

I kicked and thrashed and wailed, but the bite didn’t stop, not for a long while.

She warned that if I ever did it again, she would come find me, wherever I was, and bite my fingers off.

I never did it again.

The last bite I ever gave anyone was the one I scarred Dray with.

That flashes in my mind, not in old childhood memories, but in the warmth of a simmering hearth in the cigar room, washing over the warm tones of the leather couches and button-tufted armchairs, the smooth mahogany coffee table, the soft beige hue of Dray’s complexion, the muscular curve of his shoulder—interrupted by little white nicks.

I throw the memory from my mind.

“He might get it revised.” I set my empty glass down. A waiter appears behind me, a ghost, a shadow, and tends to my refill. “Asta won’t like my mark on him.”

Amelia’s brow arches. She lifts her glass to her mouth, but hides behind it, hides her smirk.

One way to snare Amelia’s more positive attention is to offer up some snark aimed at someone else.

If I really wanted to throw Asta to the wolves of the aristos, to her father most of all, I could just mention her longstanding relationship with Eric Harling.

But that would be to sabotage my own goals with him.

Father hasn’t said anything about it, but I know him well enough. He won’t choose my husband who only picked me as a second option.

His pride will swell and shield me.

I must swallow my pride for Eric.

For my own schemes.

“The jet is the best option,” Mother says, and I realise I have tuned out of a conversation turn. “The veils will be dreadfully packed.”

Amelia nods. “If we depart before breakfast, we will enjoy a full day at Hotel de Saint-Clair.”

I perk up.

Hotel de Saint-Clairis in Monte Carlo.

I love that place, even if the name is a little joke at the expense of the krums, a hiding in plain sight sort of thing.

It’s not one of our hotels, the Cravens, or one of the many our family own with the Sinclairs. It’s just theirs. And it’s…

There are no words to do it justice. It is stunning, elegant, gorgeous, peaceful, ancient, artistic—it is everything.

The only downside is that when we go there, we go with the Sinclairs.

Harold and Amelia always take the Prince Suite. The glass-fenced terrace comes with a seaside view, and an infinity pool and a jacuzzi, but it’s all too modern for my taste.

My parents take the Princess Suite.

It’s the same as the Prince, but a touch smaller, and no pool. Still, far too modern.

I like the French character of the Diamond Suite—and I will have one all to myself.

As always, Dray and Oliver will share the Platinum Suite, in the same corridor as mine.

“How long are we going for?” I ask, because it is news to me—but then, we do visit Hotel de Saint-Clair every year, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

Mother’s smile is fond. “We will stay a few nights once the boys are home.”

Boys .

Faintly, my nose crinkles.

I hate that, when the older witches, the parents, the grandparents, the teachers, call people like Oliver and Dray boys. They are so far gone from boys that it’s hard to reconcile the memories of them as children to what they are now.

Tall, muscled, mean men.

Boys is too disarming.

It doesn’t convey the threat that they are.