Page 12 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

“And for you, Your Highness?” the underbutler asks quietly. He pours ice-cold water in the tall crystal glass to my right.

“Just the water, thank you,” I say just as quietly, and as polite as always.

I’m so desperately aware, painfully aware of my privilege whenever I’m dining at one of my father’s properties.

I understand the importance of running the estates, of employing people, but I much prefer to be on my own with minimal staff other than my royal guards.

“And … the lox and cream cheese on a pumpernickel bagel, please. No soup.”

We sit in uncomfortable silence as we’re all served.

What I really want is a grilled cheese sandwich, cream-infused tomato soup, and an insanely dense brownie to finish. Then I want Rian to fuck me bent over the kitchen counter in my own apartment when I get up after lunch to wash the dishes …

Anne clears her throat pointedly, calling my attention back to the table.

My father dismisses the server and the butler with barely a glance.

I take a sip of water, which does nothing to focus me.

So instead of continuing to struggle at maintaining my perfect facade, I ignore the food that’s been placed in front of me, lean back in my chair, and pin an expectant gaze on my still-silent father.

His own purple-hued gaze rakes over me. And for some odd reason, he smiles. With a flash of his teeth and skin crinkling at the edges of his eyes and everything.

I raise an eyebrow, completely insolent, completely out of character.

His grin widens, then he nods.

In approval?

What the hell?

He takes a bite of his own lox pumpernickel bagel, chewing thoughtfully. Of course we ordered the same thing even without my hearing him do so. Other than our vastly different power levels, we’re practically fucking twins.

“I’ve shortlisted fifty,” he says.

“What the fuck?!” I shout before I can stop myself.

Anne coughs, so harshly that I fear she isn’t simply surprised and is actually choking on something. Even my father touches her shoulder in concern. She waves him off, gulps down some water, and pats her chest.

“Fifty?” she queries breathlessly.

Oh, thank fucking goodness, she agrees that number is insane.

“For a ball and dinner on the equinox at Lake Thun Castle,” my father says, completely ignoring that Anne and I are both staring at him with gaping mouths. “Then to stay after for an extended visit.”

“An extended visit?” I echo in disbelief. What does that mean? Like dinner, dancing, a stroll in the garden, some horseback riding, then maybe some fucking around in a few of the recessed niches to see if I’m sexually compatible with anyone from my father’s list? A list of fucking fifty suitors?

“Not all of the bond-group members will be able to stay the entire time, of course,” my father says, filling the tension-edged pause in the conversation before I can gather my thoughts. “We will invite another fifty to the first evening, the dance itself, to keep the numbers even.”

Bond group. Bond group. The phrase bounces around in my head even though the implication makes complete sense to me.

I’ll need multiple chosen. Yet another reason that Rian isn’t truly a long-term option.

Being welcomed into an established group is the quickest way to …

get me situated. In the way my father wants me to be situated.

I cannot begin to fathom the contracts about to be drawn up, the money and lands to be negotiated, for taking on the burden of a purple-eyed princess who is ultimately powerless. Compatibility will be important, of course. My father isn’t a monster … but … love won’t be a factor in the least.

“Anne, you’ll see to the arrangements?”

My father’s chosen nods on cue, but even I can sense that she’s already questioning this entire so-called matching event as much as I am.

“And there will be time between now and then,” he goes on to say, still with that smile playing around the edges of his eyes as if he hasn’t rendered both of us momentarily mute.

“Time?” I echo him again — but somehow I do manage to follow up. “The spring equinox is next month. It’s, like, thirty days away.”

“So it is.” My father sighs. Then he pauses for a moment as if thinking about adding something.

I hang there in that moment with him, chest aching, wanting, needing him to … to actually be considerate or to speak to me as if … as if he cares about what he’s asking me to do. About the tight timeline he seems prepared to insist upon. That he is insisting upon.

He shakes his head. And instead of gentle words or platitudes, he skewers me with his now-bright violet eyes. “You will have every choice I can give you, Euphrosyne.”

My heart pinches. It feels as if I’ve been called by my birth name as many times in the last twenty-four hours as it’s been used my entire life. I both loathe and love it. It’s both me and not me.

Unbidden, a sudden sob rips free from me. I wasn’t even aware I’d been holding it down. I clamp a hand across my mouth, trying to keep the abrupt eruption of grief — somehow triggered by my father using my actual first name — trapped within me.

Anne grabs my shoulder. Hard. And my hold on my own essence-fueled abilities slips just enough that the physical contact triggers a sense of her own grief suddenly streaking through me. It’s harsh and heavy.

I’m not a true empath — because that might actually be a useful ability. Ultimately, I can pick up emotions only in order to twist them into something terrible and deadly. But under the added onslaught, a tear snakes down my cheek.

Anne releases me abruptly, actually yanking her hand away as if the contact has become … unbearable for her. And maybe it has.

Along with that little loss of control, which wouldn’t have been remotely noticeable if Anne hadn’t touched me at the wrong time, I push all the grief and devastation back down into the depths of my being.

When I finally manage to look up at my father, his eyes are red rimmed.

“I’m sorry,” I say, sucking in a breath. “I just … feel … he’s taken a chunk of my soul with him. And my name. He gave me my real name, and I …”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Anne says, dabbing at her eyes with her linen napkin.

“You aren’t the only one Armin has hurt,” my father says. “And he can’t take more of you than you give him.”

It feels as though he’s trying to connect, to commiserate. That it’s grief, not anger, that threads through his words. But my back stiffens at what I can only hear as condemnation.

Selfish.

“Selfish!” was what my father screamed when we gathered to scatter Armin’s ashes, though we never actually got that far. I had made it through the more formal part of the family gathering, in which my father had refused to participate. But then I broke.

Drawn, I think, by my unfettered grief, or possibly even triggered by me — my essence might have been leaking then, as it was with Anne just now — my father snatched Armin’s urn from me and strode from the room as quickly as he’d appeared.

Leaving me to get hold of myself, to make sure the rest of the family were comfortable and taken care of.

Later, I realized that all the windows on the lower level of the castle had been cracked. My father’s epic levels of control had slipped with that shout of soul-wrenching grief.

“Selfish!”

He blamed Armin. He thought Armin’s death negligent rather than accidental. He deemed it all … selfish. The weekends away. The drinking, the drugs to numb the intense and continual pressure of my brother’s own essence. The riskier and riskier challenges.

I knew better.

I knew …

I knew that Armin was broken in some way that no one else could understand. Not even me. Maybe it was his power. And yes, the utter trap of his responsibility, his duty. But it all combined to twist something inside him.

I can feel that possibility within myself even now.

Most of the time, my brother was steady and focused.

I think, I know, that Armin used me to anchor him even as much as I used him.

But while I was somehow able to keep it all tamped down — not that I didn’t struggle early on — Armin needed to periodically release it, let it go.

The things he’d do to accomplish that, the risks he’d take, were sporadic, not even once a year.

And he never actually asked for help.

Of course, I can’t remember the last time I did either.

I clench my hands on either side of my untouched plate, then look over at my father. “Armin was in pain. He did his best. All of the time. He just occasionally needed … mo re … he needed …” I choke back a sob. “It was a stupid accident. There was no way he could have predicted —”

My father snorts, throwing his napkin on the table as he leans back in his chair.

“Armin struggled for control his entire life. That’s what it means to be awry.

That’s what it means to be responsible for the power that runs in our veins.

He chose to let it consume him. This wasn’t about any mental instability or any childish need to express himself beyond his duty, his place. It was about control.”

I’m shaking now. With frustration more than anger, because I don’t actually know the truth of any of it myself. I don’t actually know why . Why my beloved brother is dead. Why he made the choices that led to that death.

“Please,” Anne whispers. She’s wrapped her arms around herself, her voice strained. And it’s not just from emotion. It’s from the pure energy now pouring off my father. And from me, I assume.

My father ignores his suffering chosen, leaning over his plate toward me. His own hands are clenched into fists on the table.

For a moment, I don’t know if I’m mirroring him or he’s mirroring me.