Page 68 of Prince of Masks
I let a nap snare me. But only for an hour or so before I wake to Mother shaking my shoulder before my body is ready.
Time for dinner.
The sun is lower in the sky, a sky painted all different shades of pinks and reds, brushstrokes of purple. With it, the cooler air has swept over the deck, so we all take refuge in the dining room.
Dinner is pleasant, but I am too tuckered after a day in the sun, and I want nothing but to lather myself in aloe-balm, then climb into bed.
I stifle the third yawn that splits me in the handful of minutes since I woke. On my second tea, and still, the fatigue is draped over me like a weighted blanket.
I’m not the only one.
Opposite, Oliver slumps in his chair.
Propriety tossed overboard, he runs his hand over his face and keeps his gaze downcast. He stares at his plate too long. His quietness tonight is unusual, but since the Sinclairs and the Cravens are so close, and have been all my life at least, no one really bats an eye when our masks slip. It’s inevitable.
Still, I hide my incessant yawns behind my hands, and I murmur asorryeach time.
Makes me feel a touch better that Dray is as subdued tonight as me and my brother. His silence is no weighted blanket, but rather an elegant cloak as he reclines in his chair, one hand resting on the edge of the table, the other bent at an angle so that he can lean his temple on his fist.
The last of the murmured chatter fizzles out when the stewards carry in the main course. Plates and bowls are lifted and moved and swapped, and I can’t keep my eyes open long enough.
Soon, it’s only the soothing sound of forks gently touching plates, the scrape of a chair over the hardwood floor, the slosh of water in a glass, and it becomes something of a lullaby.
It's one of the things I hate about the Sinclairs. Howcomfortableour silences can sometimes be.
That comfort sticks to our group as we, wrapped in blankets, empty out of the dining room and onto the deck.
Whatever elemental printed witches were in Monaco, securing a swell of heat over the country, must be gone now, or they lost their grip on the warmth they brought to us. The air is cooler, too cool, and Mr Younge is only one witch capable of so much.
All magic has limits.
And Mr Younge has been pushed to his, a sweaty sheen over his face, a sickly wash to his complexion.
Now we are at the mercy of the cold.
I keep a blanket wrapped around my shoulders like a shawl as I curl up on a cushioned wicker chair.
Champagnes, whiskies, cherries, and teas are dished out by a steward, and a tray—peppered with salted fudge and strawberry-cream pastries—is placed on the table we huddle around.
I don’t touch the dessert.
But I endure Dray, once again.
Elbow pressed into the arm of his chair, he lounges in a wicker seat across from me. His thighs are spread, feet planted on the hardwood floor, and his temple is leaned on his fist.
He stares right at me.
There’s nothing malicious about his stare, though. No ill intent, merely like he’s considering me.
I only throw him a fleeting, withering look, but it’s enough to see that he’s tugged on the wrinkled shirt I abandoned on the deck hours ago.
I watch the waters turn to land.
Ahead, the lights of Monaco glitter into view.
The yacht spears directly for it.
Within a half-hour, we will be there, docking. The cars will be waiting for us. And so, within the hour, I will be in bed.
