Page 18 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

M IRTH

I shift in my seat. Old leather and wood creaks under my ass, but the dozens of children arrayed across the floor of the stone-walled classroom lean forward eagerly instead of giggling at the suggestive sound.

I deliberately place the middle-grade fantasy book I’ve selected to read from on my lap, then cross my legs at the ankles in an attempt to ease my nerves.

I lift my gaze and smile — a gentle, inviting expression that’s thankfully more genuine than practiced.

The group of children — all aged eleven and twelve — shuffle forward as if they’re a single entity, as if they’re a wave of eager humanity momentarily threatening to crash over me.

My larger-than-normal security detail is scattered around the edges of the room, hovering near the doorways and windows.

All of them momentarily stiffen in my peripheral vision.

Roz and Greg, my personal guards, are nearest to me, but another six members of the royal guard are situated near the egresses and through the main corridor.

The children settle back onto the floor — they just wanted to be closer to me — and blink up at me expectantly, attentively.

I’m not the only so-called celebrity guest doing readings for this Read With Me charity event.

And this is my third and final reading of the day.

Third set of preteens gathered. Third book selection.

I’ve chosen a favorite from my own childhood.

But as I sweep my gaze over the abnormally quiet children, I wonder if a book about a young awry finding her family in the most unlikely of places — while saving the world, of course and always — is the wrong choice.

I don’t catch even a hint of purple in any of the alert faces currently gazing up at me.

Though some awry manifest later in their teens, Armin and I were born with eyes of deep blue-purple. His lightened gradually through his late teens and early twenties, while mine remained mostly the same after lightening dramatically and suddenly to violet just after my fifteenth birthday.

Armin’s eyes had darkened to that deep blue-purple again.

In death.

Flustered by that sudden thought, I flip the book open in my lap. I’ve already introduced myself, introduced the book.

I can’t wear sunglasses inside any of the series of smaller classrooms we’re occupying at the main campus of University College London for today’s literacy event — but the preteens seem distinctly unfazed by the color of my eyes.

Perhaps they don’t know what purple orbs mean ?

I read the first few lines of the book in my head, repeating them until I know I can recite them with only an occasional glance down to keep my place.

I’m wearing a simple light-beige wool-and-silk skirt.

Its drawstring waist is hidden under a simple V-neck lightweight cashmere sweater.

Paired with low heels, it’s an outfit that’s easy to move in and as casual as my station allows me to be in public.

I also wear my heirloom pearls, of course.

And Armin’s ostentatious emerald ring. Because I never go anywhere without either.

The children have been bused in from five separate schools situated all over London, given breakfast in one of the college’s large cafeterias, then taken on a quick tour of the more interesting buildings on the campus.

We’ve divided live readings between a dozen-plus volunteers — most of them some sort of recognizable celebrity, including a movie star, a pop star, a footballer, and a few local politicians.

And, well … me. The volunteers read to the children from a favorite book, then ask them to select a book of their own choice from those arrayed on the tables at the edges of the classroom.

With three readings for each group, everyone invited today goes home with three brand-new books.

“It helps to close your eyes and take a deep breath,” a sweet voice pipes up from the middle of the group. “If you’re nervous about reading out loud.”

I look up, not wholly realizing that I’ve been quiet for too long. I find a curly haired, dark-skinned girl smiling at me, concern radiating from her.

I smile back, causing a bit of a murmur to run through the rest of the children. There are thirty or more of them. Classmates, I believe. Though thirty seems like a lot for one class, and some of them definitely appear older than others, so maybe it’s a mixed group?

“She’ s a princess,” one of the slightly older boys snaps. “She knows how to read aloud, you prat.”

The murmur running among the children deepens into a rumble, then instantly quiets when I raise my hand.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m lucky enough to know how to read, but I also get nervous, so … I will close my eyes and take a breath. Just for a moment. Thank you.”

I do so, taking the time to inhale and exhale deeply. As I reopen my eyes, I realize that the children have all joined me. A warmth blooms through my chest, chasing away enough of the grief that keeps me perpetually frozen these days that I can pick up the book and start reading.

The book is about bravery even after loss, and not ignoring fear but confronting it. Moving through it, moving despite it.

I know it’s just a story. And that I can’t actually screw my eyes shut and breathe my way through the next few weeks … but … I can try.

“I heard that all you purple eyes are locked away,” a dark-blue-eyed, pale-skinned boy standing to my right says. His slightly curly dark-blond hair flops to the side as he tilts his head to look at me. He’s tall but slim. “You know … for your own protection.”

He’s lined up with all the other children selecting their books from the piles on the long tables next to the wall, but he hangs back a bit. He’s got his selected book tucked against his side, and a battered backpack slung over one shoulder.

I’m aware that he’s been watching me as I chatted with his classmates, autographing the books they’ve selected when asked. One of the main organizers just popped her head in the room a moment ago, encouraging me to wrap up so the children can all go to lunch.

The blond boy is eleven maybe?

I hold my hand out for his book. He shuffles his feet a little, hesitating to hand it over.

“Never been on a school trip before,” he says. “We don’t do ’em.”

I can’t place his accent. We’ve funded five different schools from all around London to attend this particular event, all driving distance, though it would have been an early-morning commute for some.

His accent isn’t quite East London, and I suspect it’s been distilled by more than simply the region where he’s been born and raised.

Perhaps he belongs to a particular shifter pack or mage coterie?

Or, factoring in his comment about purple eyes, a religious group?

It’s really none of my business.

But … I’m oddly conscious of him. I have been since first seeing him perusing the books. And that’s unusual for me. In public, surrounded by so many people — children or otherwise — I’m typically more concerned about … well, how I’m presenting myself and if I’m engaging enough … doing enough.

The boy’s jeans are clean but torn at the knee. His hands and forearms — the sleeves of his slightly oversized sweater are shoved up — are marked with healing cuts and bruises. Not from anything nefarious, I don’t think. Just regular outdoor play, sports most likely. Football even more likely.

Again, not my business.

“I’m glad you joined us,” I say, trying for a neutral subject because he seems protective about the book he’s chosen, and I don’t want to push him .

“My sis is only nine, so she couldn’t come with,” he says, seemingly changing the subject. Except when he abruptly steps forward to shove the book into my hands, the cover is pink and glossy, and it features a mage princess with long red hair. So it really is the same conversation, unvoiced or not.

“This is one of my favorites,” I say. “Would you like me to sign it for you?”

“For my sister,” he says, watching my hands now. “The movie is one of her favorites.” A touch of color blooms across his cheeks, but his tone is strong, determined, when he adds, “I can read. Well … good enough to read it to her. She’s two years younger than me.”

“And her name?”

“Kitty … ah, Kate. Katherine.”

I sign the book, adding a note to Kitty about her big brother.

“It’s funny,” I say, desperately trying to keep my tone light even though I’m aware — a slow insidious awareness that curls through me — that something else underlies this conversation, this moment.

“My brother was two years older than me too.”

“He here?” the boy asks, looking over his shoulder.

“No,” I say.

I should just leave it at that. A couple of volunteers slip into the room, quietly encouraging the lingering children to follow them to lunch. I should let the boy go with his classmates.

“He … died recently.” I hold the book out to him. “My brother.”

The boy settles his hand slightly over mine instead of taking the book. Our fingertips are just slightly overlapped. “It hurts, yeah?”

“Yes. It does.”

I’m both shocked and pleased at his willingness to touch me, despite my eyes.

No essence shifts between us, so I have no idea if he’s a shifter or mage or even a null.

I press the book fully into his hands, then just hold it there so that we’re still connected, even if only by bound paper.

I circle back to what I think might have been the most important part of our brief conversation.

“Do you know someone with purple eyes?” I ask quietly.

“Yes.” Then, just for a moment, his expression pinches. “No … not anymore.”

“A grandparent?”

He blinks up at me, then nods almost imperceptibly. As if having had a grandparent with purple eyes is a great secret— which it might actually be.

With purple eyes in his bloodline … well, that might actually make it, him, my business after all.

“Mama says that me or Kitty might also get the eyes.”

“Is your mother awry?”