Chapter 17
Five years after the masquerade, we held another masked reception in the same ballroom.
Lily was eight.
She hated dresses.
Wore one anyway because Mirelle bribed her with extra dessert.
Beatrice sat near the windows.
Older.
Softer.
Still formidable.
The ivory mask was nowhere near her.
Lily had it.
Covered in tiny stickers.
One corner painted blue.
A crime against heritage.
Excellent.
She ran toward me.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“Guess who.”
“You’re wearing the only ivory mask in the room.”
She groaned.
“You ruin everything.”
Probably.
Across the ballroom, Mirelle laughed.
No blindfold.
No fear.
No missing child.
No Odessa whispering about airports.
Just people behind decorative masks that everyone understood were decorative.
That mattered.
Five years earlier, I believed the worst revelation was discovering I had a daughter.
It wasn’t.
The worst revelation was how many people around me had believed they possessed more right to decide her future than either parent did.
Beatrice called it protection.
Odessa called it stability.
Gerard called it assistance.
Each word softened the same problem:
Nobody asked.
Now Lily chose when to wear the mask.
When to remove it.
What name she answered to.
Who hugged her.
Which house she slept in.
Small freedoms.
Ordinary freedoms.
Exactly the kind powerful families forget children need most.
She pulled the mask off.
“Hot.”
I smiled.
Then she handed it to Beatrice.
“Hold this.”
My mother accepted it automatically.
For one second, the old image returned.
Beatrice Ashwick.
Ivory mask in hand.
Matriarch.
Authority.
Then Lily shouted:
“Grandma, not like that. You’re the dragon’s assistant.”
Beatrice stared at her.
Then laughed.
The entire old meaning collapsed.
Good.
I looked toward Mirelle.
She met my eyes.
No one between us.
No secret left that mattered more than the people living with it.
Lily grabbed my hand.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“Dragon surgery.”
Of course.
May you like
I followed.
For once, Ashwick had nothing more important to do.
