Chapter 7
Beatrice’s ivory mask had history.
My grandmother wore it at Ashwick masquerades.
Then my mother.
Then Beatrice.
A symbol of senior women.
I had always thought it decorative.
Of course not.
Old families rarely let objects remain innocent.
At private masquerades, the woman holding the ivory mask traditionally supervised children’s rooms and household movement while men conducted business.
Practical once.
Then symbolic.
Eventually power.
Beatrice believed holding that mask meant responsibility for every child under the roof.
Including Lily.
I said:
“No.”
She stared.
“That tradition predates you.”
“So does indoor smoking.”
Rafe almost smiled.
My mother did not.
I removed the mask from household authority.
Not destroyed.
Just stripped of meaning.
Beatrice hated that more.
People tolerate losing objects better than losing what objects let them assume.
The mask became decoration.
Nothing more.
Later, Lily found it on a shelf.
“Pretty.”
Beatrice went still.
“Can I wear?”
I looked at my mother.
Her decision mattered less than Lily’s.
Beatrice slowly nodded.
Lily put it on crooked.
Then immediately removed it.
“Smells funny.”
May you like
Good.
Thirty years of symbolism defeated by a child’s nose.
