Page 70 of Prince of Masks
I find an envelope on my desk.
I park myself in the chair with a huff and tear it open. My gaze drops to the foot of the letter, to the signature, and see that it’s from Eric.
It’s short, a mere follow-up about our date over the holidays—and I have no concrete answer for him yet, since Father put a wedge in my plans.
I read it through, twice, then sink into the chair.
The imps are putting away my clothes, sorting my shoes, folding my laundry into the basket, and Abigail brings me coffee and a cream cheese and cucumber sandwich. She sets the tray on the edge of the desk.
I flatten out blank paper for my response.
I write out a sentence, then scrunch it up and toss it into the bin. Then again.
My foot taps on the floor as I drag the calendar across the desk, closer to me, and I study the squared dates.
I calculate.
The Debutante Ball will block out two days. One day of travel to Versailles, for the actual ball (or the auctioning of aristosdaughters, because really, that is what it is), and another day to return home.
I block out those days on the calendar, then cross out the date of Rugby Sunday. These dates, I know from years of the same pattern.
The same goes for New Year, the day before, the day of, the day after. We have our routines, our traditions, and so I know those three days are reserved.
Krums celebrate Christmas, and everywhere will be closed for it, even the museum.
I cross out that date.
I’m left with more availability than I expected, but that’s only half the trouble. The other half is sneaking around my parents. If Mother is home, then I need to worm out of her way. She might latch onto my day at the last moment, pounce on my time, and either come with me into the city, or drag me to the salon with her. Father will be more observant. Especially now that I’ve asked after our family schedule, so I can fit Eric into mine.
And… there’s also the fact that I snuck off to the crypts for books he doesn’t approve of. Whatever his reasons are for that disapproval, I don’t know. I just know I am being watched a bit closer now.
Just as much of a mystery to me as Mother destroying the book in the first place.
They have secrets.
Both of them.
But of course they do.
I’m not floored by that. My position in the family has never warranted whole truths. I’ve never been in the know. Conversations have happened all around me in whispers since childhood, as far back as I can remember, and those whispersoften silence under my glances, or as I’ve entered a room. Not the best feeling in the world, but one I got used to.
Family business is family business, but that doesn’t mean it’s my business.
Like the landing above the foyer, when I overheard (ok,eavesdropped) my parents talking about witchdoctors and bribery, and they silenced the moment Oliver announced that I was there, within earshot.
But that isn’t totally uncommon for me.
At Bluestone, at home, I’m always just outside the door, loitering at the threshold, acknowledged by those inside when it suits them, but never invited in.
I stew on that.
Slouched in the chair, my moody eyes aimed at the calendar, the shadow of my brows furrow into my sight. That whispered conversation between my parents, it might have something to do with the books. Not specifically the books but something about deadbloods they keep hidden from me.
Or maybe they’re not connected at all.
Not like I can get answers. Outside of the crypts, where would I find a book on deadbloods?
Our library doesn’t house anything like that, and the material is meagre to begin with. There is little about deadbloods for a few reasons. One, we’re not that important—who would want to study our kind as more than a symptom of a bad pregnancy? Two, a lot of the old records didn’t survive, and we’re taboo enough that I don’t see a lot of money being thrown at research on the phenomenon of deadbloods.
