Page 26 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

M IRTH

Chloe and Camille’s enthusiasm at my attending what they deemed “the only runway show worth your time this season” eases only slightly as we settle into our seats in the front row, midway down the side of the runway. I responded to their invitation at the last minute. For multiple reasons.

Following the twins’ lead, I’m somewhere in the middle of Paris in what I presume is a converted sixteenth-century church — based on the exterior Gothic-style architecture and the elaborate window tracery and ribbed vaulting.

The nave has been all but hollowed out for the runway and raked seating, and the chancel is blocked from sight by elaborate velvet backdrops, presumably hiding staging and makeup areas beyond.

They had our seating prearranged, not only to accommodate Roz and Greg as my personal guards, not only for easy access to the extra security arrayed at every egress, as my presence demands— but also to sit us as far away as we could get from the cameras.

No matter that Chloe and Camille adore being in the spotlight, or that the photographers are supposed to be shooting the models, not the guests.

Not the princess slowly coming out of her ‘extended mourning period.’ Yes, I avoid social media and everything that comes with it, but I catch that headline and more on Camille’s phone as she checks her myriad of notifications before the show starts.

Before she hastily tucks the phone away.

The rest of the guests politely ignore me, though they haphazardly stood when I initially entered. Before Anne waved them back into their seats.

It was Anne who insisted I start accepting more public appearances leading up to the matching event. And after my not-so-impromptu run-in with Lord Merton, she rearranged her own packed schedule to become my babysitter.

I know that as a supposedly capable adult, I should be peeved about having a babysitter — a potential buffer between me and the Lord Mertons of our world — but I’m secretly relieved.

Anne is currently seated a row back and a couple of seats over with the twins’ mother, Irene.

My schoolmates from the ages of seven to eighteen — the twins didn’t stay at the Phrontistery for advanced degrees like Armin, Sully, and I did — Camille and Chloe were so-called late-in-life babies.

Irene, their former-model mother, isn’t a fan of the more avant-garde fashion that begins strolling languidly along the runway.

But unfortunately, my and Anne’s presence, whether advertised or not, ups the cachet of the event, so Irene has been forced to attend.

It’s possible that I inadvertently held up the start of the show. Or, more specifically, that it was delayed by Roz, Greg, and the rest of the team needing to do a full security sweep. But I try to ignore how intrusive my presence feels as the models prowl down the runway.

I love every single look— though I instantly feel frumpy in my white-trimmed pink sheath dress, skin-toned silk hose, and sensibly heeled beige shoes. And the pearls and Armin’s ring, of course.

To my right, Chloe laughs sharply. Then, smiling widely, her blunt-cut brown hair swings forward as she leans into me and snarks, “More Cookie Monster blue,” as a tall, slim, dark-skinned model slinks across the runway before us.

The model pauses for the cameras at the far end before swirling back in a billowing of oversize silks — an off-the-shoulder tunic paired with wide-legged pants.

I understand it’s supposed to be high fashion, but it looks ridiculously comfy. The bright blue is offset perfectly by her rich skin tone. On me it would … pop, though. Mostly in response to my eyes.

Camille on my left, who typically wears her brown hair long and sleek, hisses at her twin across the back of my shoulders, “That’s royal blue.”

Chloe laughs doubtfully.

Contrary to the dark cherry and royal blues that are dominating the runway, the twins are smartly dressed in contrasting white-and-black monochromatic outfits.

Straight-legged black pants worn long over red-soled, ridiculously high-heeled boots.

White collared and cuffed shirts. Chloe’s pants are seamed in black satin.

Camille’s shirt is buttoned and silk. Or, more accurately, it’s unbuttoned to show off a black bustier.

Chloe’s shirt is buttoned up to her neck and more form fitting, but the fabric is thin enough to show off her lacy bra underneath.

I’m wearing fucking cotton underwear.

When we met up at the designated side entrance, Chloe and Camille were arguing— over the designers they were interested in, I assumed.

But as the show progresses, it quickly becomes apparent as they snark back and forth that they’re each enjoying the attention of at least three of the supposed up-and-coming designers being featured. And not the same three each.

A pale-skinned, dark-haired model fiercely traverses the runway in a pastel-lilac silk tunic dress. High necked, the dress is form fitting enough to be flattering but still flow around her ankles, leaving her arms bare.

The designer has paired the tunic dress with well-worn thick-soled black boots.

“That could look lovely on you, Your Highness,” Camille murmurs.

“It’s beautiful,” I admit a little wistfully.

The voluminous silk ballgown skirt in the same lilac that the next model is wearing is closer to something a princess is supposed to wear. The skirt is paired with a chunky loose-knit sweater that hangs artfully off the model’s shoulder. Plus another pair of deliberately distressed boots.

Neither item would make it anywhere near my closet.

Yes, poor little princess.

Camille and Chloe exchange a look behind my head, not for the first time.

Then Chloe flings herself out of her seat.

This abrupt move scares the shit out of my security people where they’re attempting to blend in around the edges of the converted church.

Chloe squeaks as Roz, the nearest guard, lunges forward.

Then she hisses and waves Roz off as she hustles away through the curtained-off staging area.

I open my mouth to protest. Because I’m fairly certain what notion has Chloe racing off.

Camille practically snaps, “Let us do this for you, Mirth. It’s nothing. Plus, do you know what a boost it would be for Annalise’s career for you to wear her?”

I close my mouth. The nearby guests are far too elegant, and too famous themselves, to be listening to us. Which means they’re noting every word and interaction.

A flush spreads across Camille’s face. “My apologies for my tone, Your Royal Highness.”

“I won’t be able to wear it. My hips …”

Someone slides into the seat Chloe just vacated to my right. “The lilac dress?” the newcomer leans closer to purr in my ear, though her attention is fixed on the models still striding up and down the runway. “You will look utterly delectable.”

I catch Camille’s lip curl in response to the newcomer, even as I shift to take Tereza in. Lady Landenberg, to be more precise.

“Your Royal Highness,” Tereza adds as an afterthought.

A blond shifter three years older than me, Chloe, and Camille, Lady Landenberg was a year ahead of Armin at the Phrontistery Academy in Prague.

Now she all but controls that school for essence-wielders— albeit in her family’s name.

The Prague branch of the school is actually situated on a former Landenberg estate.

“Not your seat,” Camille snaps. “Don’t make me make a scene. I do adore a scene, but Her Highness doesn’t.”

“No matter,” Tereza says, heavily channeling her inner lynx as she regards me through half-slitted golden-hazel eyes. “Will I see you after the show over a sip of champagne, my darling Highness?” She lowers her voice for the modification of my proper title, so that I barely catch it.

“Let me guess,” I say, perfectly politely. “You received an invitation? ”

A wide, predatory smile stretches across Tereza’s golden-tanned face.

Chloe returns, huffing indignantly at Tereza with her hands on her hips.

The lynx shifter’s curly blond hair tumbles around her neck and shoulders as she stands. Chloe slides back into her seat. Tereza pivots, then very deliberately — and deeply — curtsies before me. She pauses, blinking up at me lazily and finally forcing me to flick my fingers to formally dismiss her.

Still grinning, Tereza sashays back to her seat.

Her leather pants are tight enough to show off every curve.

The pants aren’t remotely vegan, because no predator of Lady Landenberg’s status would be associated with anything that might be considered prey behavior, such as not skinning animals for clothing.

She’s also tossed an oversized, deliberately distressed cardigan over a vintage band tee.

I recognize the logo of the early glam rock band because it was … is … a favorite of Bolan’s.

Tereza also wears a pair of those thick-soled black leather lace-up boots.

I suddenly and desperately want a pair of my own, to wear with flowing purple silk skirts … and pants.

Sometimes, when I surface from the grief and depression and anger, I feel as if losing Armin has triggered something fundamental within me. And that it’s affecting my personality, my wants, my desires.

“What the fuck was that?” Chloe mutters out of the side of her mouth.

The outfits being displayed on the runway abruptly change tenor, shifting into a steady flow of leather jackets, pencil skirts, and flared trousers.

“You aren’t dating Tereza Landenberg, are you?” Camille asks.

“No,” I say, keeping it simple. It’s clear that Tereza— and presumably her bond group— have been issued an invite to the matching event.

I’ve left the full list, which I requested after Lord Merton blindsided me at the charity event, in its folder on my desk. Unread. Because I’m a coward. And apparently I can only handle the buildup to the certain-to-be-disastrous event in small portions.