Page 12 of Red Masquerade

“You may not think it, but I assure you, people speak.” Her hands moved furiously at her cloth, her brow furrowed inconcentration. She had some stray grays that escaped her braid, frizzled and framing her face.

“Why, has someone said something about me?” I asked.

Though I wondered, my head skimming through all of my memories for each salacious, indulgent evening—surely she wouldn’t know aboutthose. The time I’d let that one particular charmer take me into a dark corner and had to wear scarves for the next week. The one party we’d gone to at a rooftop pool and everyone jumped in with nothing but their underthings.

There couldn’t be that many eyes around the city. Not trained onme, of all people, waiting to report back to Mother, or, worse, Lucas. Ready to spread the latest rumors about the sister toLucas Quintrell, heir extraordinaire.

Mother glanced up at me, gray stare pointed and direct. Fingers paused at their task. “No.”

My shoulders relaxed. “Well, then, why worry?” I tried to give her my most confident smile.

My teeth ached. The room nearly spun, the sunlight streaming in the windows still just too bright.

Why worry, indeed.

The permanent scowl on her brows only deepened. “Because, Helena, no respectable man would choose a wife who could not control her whims. Who was the topic of much…debate.” Her fingers began once again, picking up speed, moving deftly along the thread.

Lord Dixon would. He chose Flora. At least, for now. He did not seem too concerned about marriage, and neither did she. She hadn’t mentioned as much to me, but I couldn’t say she would refuse if he offered, not with those deep coffers.

“Mother, you worry too much.”

“I do not worryenough.”

I often wondered if Mother thought we were still in the nineteenth century, if Victoria was still queen across the sea, and our biggest problems were trains and smog and how long it would take for a letter to be delivered. A life that lived with the sunlight, dying with the darkness.

The same era in which she met Father. I did not know much about their romance, or lack thereof. Only that he courted her, the “proper” way, and that they had Lucas not long after their wedding, and then me, a few years later. And from that point on, they never slept in the same room again.

Is that what she wanted for me? A loveless consummation, children born into a house with love most definitely lost, a male patriarch who found affection elsewhere?

She would never admit it, but the years before Father’s death, their disdain for each other was no longer kept to their private chambers. We saw him less and less, especially in the evenings, and when he passed, he did it elsewhere. Mother wouldn’t tell me where, or how, but there were rumors.

The next morning, the papers read,Quintrell Family Business To Pass On To Heir.

And here Mother was, stuck at home with her frivolous daughter, spending her days away, embroidering, having ladies over for tea, waiting with bated breath for any word from her dearest son, the heir of that company now. Her star-child.

“It’s the twentieth century, now, Mother,” I said, taking the tiniest sip of tea. I winced again.NotEarl Grey.

“I don’t care what year it is. You can flout all you want about beingmodern, but I’m telling you,” her hands moved the thread and needle furiously, “itmatters.”

A sigh brushed past my lips again.

“I never had to worry about Lucas,” she muttered.

I lowered my teacup, watching her fingers move. Deftly, they wove over and under in a complicated dance.

Red thread, ribbons, a pale limb.

Hisface.

My breath caught, and I cleared my throat to cover up my gasp. The sudden tightening of my throat, the pinch at the corners of my eyes.

It had to have been a gin-induced dream. A memory, come to haunt me. It was a face I hadn’t looked upon in years, one I’d tried hard not to forget, but to set aside for later. For when I was ready to think about it again, to think on all the good I’d once had.

It was impossible that he was there last night. It was a trick of my mind. A champagne hallucination.

“Are you listening to me?”

Mother stopped her movements, a brow arched.