Page 82 of Prince of Masks
She’s undeterred by my hissing tone.
“Asta has lost her mind,” she whispers, hot and rushed, her eyes burning with life. “She’s sworn it all off, the whole season.Of course her father won’t let her miss the debutante season, but can you imagine—”
“Dears.”
I look up.
Behind Serena, Amelia reaches out her flimsy, jewel-crusted hand in a limp gesture, acome-here-now.
We do.
Amelia makes us do the rounds.
Well, makesmedo the rounds, while Serena is my shadow. She’s been here since yesterday, apparently, so why she’s forcing herself into these little pockets of uncomfortable conversation with the likes of Mr and Mrs Barlow and Harold and Dez is a niggle in my mind.
Amelia is the warmest of the lot on the terrace towards me. Her smiles are sincere, and she says to Mrs Barlow how darling I look today, and so I guess I am visibly losing some of that weight she’s been harping on about.
Whatever Serena wants to tell me, it excites her enough that she follows me through the trenches, until Amelia winds us over to the end of the terrace, where there is a tray of teas and sandwiches waiting.
I am huddled with Mother, Amelia and Serena not far from the swing bench I adored a decade ago, and where the air seems thicker, fuller somehow.
Serena hooks her arm around mine and tilts into me.
Mother leans against the stone barrier, one hand cupping a teacup, the other pinching the edge of a biscuit.
Amelia hands me a teacup sturdy on a saucer. “The Ströms won’t be coming. To say that meeting was tense is something of an understatement.”
I sip the tea, aware of the nudge Serena gives me.
Amelia poured just the right amount of milk in the tea, it’s a lovely brown, but the steam wafting up into my face tells me to wait.
Amelia dips a buttery biscuit into her own tea. “Edward is in a twist about it.”
I nurse my cup. “But why is Mr Ström in a twist?”
I have half a mind to go find Oliver and kick him on the shins. If it wasn’t for him sulking around the whole morning with tonics and rest, I would be caught up already, I would know this gossip.
I must know this gossip.
A clocking sound lures in my gaze.
I look over my shoulder as Landon, Dray, Dez and Grey head down the steps for the gardens. The clomp of their metal fanged boots on stone narrows my eyes.
Before I can look away, Dray lifts his head, damp hair brushing over his brow.
He finds me, fast.
And he just looks, his steps slow down the stairs.
I turn my cheek to him. “What did Dray do to Asta?”
Amelia parts her lips to respond, but Mother clears her throat—and that silences her, fast.
That quiet settles over us as a servant carries a tray of freshly brewed tea, a full pitcher of black coffee, and some small cakes. That silence keeps as the servant tends to the trolley.
I wait.
Bouncing on the balls of my heels, I fight the urge to scream,what happened, what did Dray do, someone tell me now!
