Page 19 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

He shakes his head quickly, eyes momentarily flicking to the sides disconcertingly, but keeping the bulk of his focus on me. It’s possible I’m the only other awry he’s ever seen, let alone been able to talk to, but he’s … not nervous … just slightly wary.

I don’t have my purse on me, just the essence-inked pen I’m using to autograph the books. One of the slightly frazzled volunteers strides toward us as she corrals the stragglers still looking over the books that remain.

I tug the book from the boy’s hands. Very, very quickly — very, very uncharacteristically — I jot my private number and email address on the back page.

I press the book back into his hands.

He gazes up at me, all wide-eyed and looking younger for it now.

I just say, keeping it simple but firm, “No one will be locking you or Kitty up for your protection. There are schools you can go to if you aren’t …

” I stop myself before I mistakenly accuse any of his family of unnecessarily scaring or threatening him and Kitty.

I don’t want to add to any tension the boy might be navigating by spouting nonsense.

Even though it isn’t nonsense.

Awry who aren’t powerful enough to walk the earth alone, or who don’t have a strong family to protect them, are routinely hunted and caged.

“Your mom can call me,” I say, shaking my head at the harried volunteer when she glances at me, questioning if I need a rescue from the boy.

One of the teachers roped into service for the event, I assume, because I don’t recognize her.

She smiles, stepping away to answer a question from one of the other students. “Or you can call.”

“I have a family.” He glowers at me. “I’m not like that character in that book you read earlier.”

“I’m glad,” I say, smiling gently. “Think of it as a failsafe, then. Just in case. Or just for Kitty?”

He nods begrudgingly.

“You should probably tell me your name,” I say. “So I know when you call or email.”

“Tommy. Thomas Walsh,” he says, still sullen at even the hint of any perceived negligence on the part of his family. “And yours?”

“Mirth.” The name is out of my mouth and literally slicing through my chest before I can stop myself from answering.

Not that anyone but a child would dare ask me my actual name.

It didn’t even occur to me to give him Euphrosyne, or to reinforce that he should use my title, as I had previously used to introduce myself to the class.

A woman a couple of years younger than me, her brown hair perfectly straightened and half-clipped back from her tanned face, strides purposefully into the room. Her bright-blue eyes settle on me, taking in the boy and the situation in one glance. She shakes her head, playfully chiding me.

Isla Merton. Mage. Lawyer. She occupies one of the five seats that make up the Read With Me executive board.

Normally, such seats are honorary positions, not requiring too much of a time investment.

But Isla took over the last minute arrangements for this particular event in the wake of Armin’s death.

Honestly, I’d been hoping to avoid her a little longer.

I’m grateful for her stepping in. But although Armin leaned toward male lovers the older he got, I’m fairly certain he and Isla hooked up in the back of more than one club.

A few years ago now. And despite my brief shared moment of grief with Tommy, I don’t want to talk about my brother, not in public.

Not right now when I finally feel a little more focused, almost settled in my skin.

“Pizza!” another volunteer exclaims loudly from the open doorway, placing her hands on her hips. “You want to get your first slice hot, don’t you?”

The remaining children, along with the teacher who’s gotten caught up in browsing through the remaining books, snap to attention, instantly flooding toward the doors.

“Nice to meet you, Mirth,” Tommy cries, shoving the pink book into the depths of his backpack as he runs to catch up to the group.

“Did that urchin just call you Mirth?” Isla asks archly as she closes the space between us. Her tone is playful but too pointed for my liking.

I don’t answer her. If she wants to get technical about it, she’s being too informal herself.

“Goodness,” she breathes an instant after, as if she’s shocked herself. “I’m joking, Your Royal Highness. ”

That title is uttered without even a hint of sarcasm.

Isla comes from a similar upbringing — the money, the estates, the schooling.

She’s focused her mage abilities into becoming the type of lawyer — at age twenty-four — that no one wants to be facing.

Not as an adversary. Her father and brothers are lucky to have her.

As am I. For the charity.

“Some lunch, maybe?” Isla asks quietly, deferentially not meeting my gaze. “You look … lovely, of course. As always, Your Highness. But maybe a little …”

“Wan?” I say self-deprecatingly. “Lackluster? Lesser?”

Isla’s shoulders stiffen, and her tone firms. “Nothing of the sort. In need of some food, that’s all.”

I smile at her, unable to completely quash the sadness I can now feel underpinning my own expression.

She meets my eyes, then instantly shifts her gaze away again. “I haven’t gotten a chance to —”

“I got your note,” I say, rudely interrupting what I’m sure is going to be perfectly phrased condolences. “And the generous Merton donation to the foundation I’m … establishing in Armin’s name.”

I’ve done nothing of the sort, of course. Not in any focused way. Though I know my lawyers and accountants have drawn up all the paperwork and set up the financials. My interaction with Tommy has me contemplating creating an annual phrontistery scholarship. Again.

“I’m serious about wanting to head that foundation for you,” Isla says. “I know that you won’t have had a chance to arrange anything on that level yet. And that you are more than capable of taking it on. But —”

“Thank you,” I say, twisting the pen in my hands as I look around for my bag. It’s on the corner of the table to my left. One of my security detail must have set it there for me, anticipating my leaving. “Let’s arrange a lunch to talk about it.”

“Not now,” Isla says. “You’ve got a lot … happening on top of … everything else.”

I reach for my bag, but she gets there first. She plucks up the designer purse. Then — oddly — she slowly slides the loop handle up my arm to my elbow. She doesn’t actually touch me, but her eyes flick up to meet my gaze, and she sucks in her upper lip. Nervously?

“What’s wrong?” I ask her quietly.

“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Before my father —”

“There you are, my darling girl!” a male voice with a pointed, overly deliberate British accent booms from across the room.

Roz and Greg instantly tighten up around Isla and me, both of my personal guards moving so quickly that the mage at my side squeaks under her breath.

Roz is a combat mage who’s been with me since I graduated and therefore moved out on my own.

Greg is a feline shifter who joined my detail after Armin’s accident.

I pivot to find Lord Vincent Merton, Isla’s father, striding across the classroom toward us.

His hands are clasped and slightly thrust in front of him in a gesture of delight.

Roz and Greg, along with the rest of my guards, are the cautious sort, knowing that any mage clasping their hands in my presence is something to be truly wary of, regardless of that mage’s lineage. Or maybe even because of it.

Lord Merton frowns at the show of security, then an instant later smiles at me.

His steel-gray hair is swept back from his high brow, blue eyes blazing with power in high contrast to his pale skin.

That pallor tells me he hasn’t been skiing, as his daughter and the two companions hovering at his back have been, based on the color infused only across their foreheads, cheeks, and noses.

The Merton line holds a seat on the World Council, along with my father.

Though Lord Merton looks to be in his early sixties at most, I know he’s just celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday because I sent him an antique gold pen — a duplicate from our family collection — and a generous donation to his preferred charity as a gift.

Isla brushes her fingers against my inner wrist. Inexplicably whispering, and a little too close to my ear to be proper. “Just remember you get us. We’re part of the package. The main part. And someday it will just be us.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. But then Lord Merton is spreading his arms as if he’s actually going to hug me. That is a huge breach of protocol— but one I can’t do anything about without appearing incredibly rude myself.

Thankfully, he stops short of a hug, clasping my upper arms lightly and leaning forward to brush his cheek against mine, both sides. “Your Royal Highness, what a delight to see you out and about.”

“It’s my charity, Lord Merton,” I say stiffly. “Of course I would attend my own event.”

“Good, good,” he says, clearly ignoring my tone. “Now, I know you’ve met Archibald multiple times.”

I haven’t exchanged more than a few polite greetings with the primary Merton heir, Archibald, in my entire life, largely due to the fact that he’s almost fifteen years my senior.

Also, I’m fairly certain his preferred name is Archie.

He looks like a younger version of his father, though his brown hair is artfully mussed.

He smiles, bowing shallowly when I glance his way.

“But … you haven’t met Noah.” Lord Merton, still holding one of my arms, reaches back and clasps the second male on the shoulder .

Noah is slim, with dark-blond hair and golden skin that looks naturally tanned, darkened even further with the sun of whatever ski-in/ski-out resort the trio obviously visited for a late-winter vacation. No doubt the Mertons maintain multiple ski chalet properties around the world.