Page 37 of Prince of Masks
I sway with the car as it crawls over a road littered with potholes and dents. The ride from the city is long, hours long, and by the time we are driving through the smaller towns and villages, the rock of the car has lulled the Cravens into a silence.
Opposite me, Mother and Father have both put away their mobile phones, devices that kept them occupied for the first hour of the drive.
Now, Mother has her slender weight leaning on Father, her head rested on his shoulder, her lashes shut—but she does not sleep. Every so often, her gaze flickers to the window, as though to check where we are in our journey.
Father, one hand threaded through Mother’s, has his other hand rested on the sill of the window, his fingertips thrumming faintly on the leather.
He watches the fields pass by, but I suspect his thoughts are elsewhere.
“Father,” I say and lure in his weathered gaze.
Mother’s lashes flutter—and she looks at me.
There is nothing threatening in either of their gazes, both tired, waiting, listening.
Still, nerves ball up in my chest.
“Eric Harling wrote me.” My voice is small, and my fingernails dig into the meat of my palm. “He asked if I would be free to meet with him over the break.”
And he did.
The second letter I received from him, just yesterday, a letter I suspect was intercepted by Mr Younge because it came directly from him, not Abigail. The letter was fine, nothing untoward. It mentioned the predictable things, like he is glad to hear that Iam doing better, that my rest at home is helping me, that he’s pleased I’m working with a tutor…
But it did end with the simple question:
‘I understand your schedule might not allow for it, but I would regret not asking if you are free one day to meet me in the city.
I have not yet seen the new Machu Picchu exhibition at the British Museum.
Would you like to accompany me?’
Father considers me.
If his mind is working under the mist of whisky, then it’s slow moving.
I go on, “I just need to know when I’ll have free days in England, so I can schedule a time for him.”
Free days in England, those are scattered and few over the solstice season. Between the New Year, the debutante season, and the society that my family must tend to constantly, I am dragged all over the continent, through veils and hauled onto a jet like I’m mere luggage.
My time is not my own.
Father sighs something soft, then turns his cheek to me. “I will think about it.”
My mouth tucks inwards and I bite down on my lips.
Think about it?
I wasn’t asking permission to go. I only need the dates that I can be available.
I loosen my lips, then turn my frown on Mother.
Her stare is on me already. Waiting for me to look her way. And when I do, ever so slightly, she shakes her head.
She warns me off pushing it any further.
I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention to whatever my father and Mr Sinclair were discussing. Most of the time it’s business, or a threat to it.
Whatever it was, it was sour enough to have Father simmering in a mood the whole car ride home.
