Page 37 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One
M IRTH
Done with being petted and prodded into some ideal princess-perfect mold, I slip away from my overly enthusiastic mage stylists while they’re eating their lunch in the front room of my suite.
Mimi and Tavi, working with me at Anne’s specific request, practically press their heads together, whispering back and forth about all the rich and famous figures descending on the castle.
All of them coming for the spring equinox ball and dinner. Tonight.
Then, after the hundred-plus extra guests filter off into the evening, the remaining guests and I are to proceed with the ‘getting to know each other’ portion of my father’s master matchmaking plan.
Because apparently, my father believes that surrounding me with all the eligible chosen mates he can corral on short notice should be all it takes for me to realize who I should make a lifelong commitment to.
So no pressure to look and act perfect at all .
Avoiding the main room and the main entrance to my suite, I slip through a not-so-secret passageway tucked within the walk-in closet off my bedroom, then exit into the main corridor that cuts through the family quarters.
These short runs of passages are woven throughout just about any property where my father spends any extended time.
They’ve been used to escape multiple incursions over the centuries, but Armin and I just used them to sneak between our rooms after lights out during school breaks.
My suite, which includes a bedroom, living and entertainment area, luxurious bathroom, and a walk-in closet the size of a second regular bedroom, overlooks the lake.
It’s been redone since I last spent any extended time at the property.
The pretty-princess pinks and white oak have been transformed into sedate beige walls, cream accents, and brown-oak furniture.
The quarters used by my father and his chosen when they’re in residence are on the other side of the castle, overlooking the inner gates.
Still channeling my inner five-year-old, I swiftly cross through those currently empty rooms to get my own peek at the new arrivals as they filter in through the gates.
Fifty overnight guests, plus easily twenty full-time staff, plus family, is going to strain the capacity of the castle.
But Anne and my father are convinced that the number of guests will whittle down quickly.
While the family suites have been renovated to offer every modern luxury, parts of the original castle keep date back to the twelfth century.
Under the care and occupation of the many families that preceded my father’s stewardship, towers and other buildings were added, then removed, then rebuilt again.
Some of the original Baroque-style influences remain, but the most extensive changes took place during the Romantic era.
A massive and meticulously maintained park was added.
Also a water tower — literally, a tower with a fanciful spire thrusts out of the lake, connected to the central castle by a walkway.
Other additions include a grand hall, a massive dining room, an ornate library, and a smoking room.
Plus, having recently completed his own extensive restoration, my father modernized the entire property, including the stables and cottages, in addition to adding a modern glass conservatory in the courtyard at the edge of the lake.
Yes, it’s a rather ostentatious ‘summer home.’
As quietly as possible, though I don’t sense anyone nearby, I slip out onto the small balcony off the living-room area of the family suite.
I can see the inner gates from this vantage point, but if I keep to the far right, I’m hoping I won’t be caught spying on my guests as they arrive.
I’m not wearing a lick of makeup, and my hair is rolled tightly against my head in huge curlers. Rather comically, I presume.
A stream of vehicles are being directed by the royal guard to unload their passengers at the outer gates, forcing my guests to walk the path to the grand entrance.
The vehicles are then directed to park elsewhere after having the luggage unloaded.
Bags will be brought to everyone’s assigned rooms by a staff member.
Normally, vehicles pull through the outer and the inner gates, then drive right up to the front entrance to unload their passengers. But with the number of overnight guests arriving, doing so would cause traffic-flow issues.
My father and Anne are standing just beyond the open doors to the central hall, greeting guests before one of the staff escorts those guests to their rooms or to partake in refreshments in whatever lounge area has been readied for them to mingle in before dinner.
The guests who have only been invited to the ball after dinner won’t arrive until after sunset .
I imagine that all the extra traffic has the full-time residents of Thun cursing me right now. London would have been a more central and easier-accessed location for all the guests. And in the city, there would be no need to house everyone for the duration of the so-called matching event.
But that, Anne informed me, wasn’t the point. If my father is going to rush me into finding them, then I need to be in continual close proximity to my potential chosen mates.
My father and Anne are stoically watching the Merton bond group — all of them, including the older generation — arrive.
Isla and Noah are dressed in designer casual with their arms linked as they trail behind the gray-haired elders, most of whom I’ve never formally met.
Archie is in a navy suit and tie, striding at the front of the pack next to his father, Lord Merton.
The Mertons, I realize, are all mages, excepting Noah.
That’s a little odd. Most bond groups embrace diversity among their chosen.
High-pitched, sweet-toned giggles draw my attention away from the arriving guests. Keeping as far back as possible — literally slinking along the exterior wall — I cross to peer down the stairs that lead into an overly manicured section of the gardens.
Just beyond the base of the long span of stone steps, my toddler siblings, Twinkle and Tinsel, are huddled behind a low, cube-trimmed hedge.
Their nannies are nowhere to be seen. And likely frantic.
Not even taking a moment to think about it, I hustle down the stairs— barefoot, in drawstring lounge pants and an oversized sweater. It’s a designer sweater and probably some blend of cashmere, of course. But I’m still pretty much wearing sweats as I try to keep low and out of sight .
I’m not even halfway down when the twins look up in unison, spot me, and squeal in delight.
Well, that’s going to draw attention.
“Hush, hush!” I hiss, hustling down the remainder of the steps. It’s way too cold to be barefoot outside, and the combed gravel paths are going to be nasty to walk on.
The twins take off.
Seriously? They can barely walk steadily or in a straight line for extended periods of time, but they just barrel away before I can get within reach. Tumbling into and off each other, they head directly toward the front entrance.
I hit the gravel path, grimacing. The trimmed bushes that the twins were using as cover don’t even come up to my knees.
Another shriek has me picking up my pace, and I all but spin around the short hedge. Twinkle has run or tumbled into an early blooming bush. Tinsel, casting wide-eyed looks of delight back my way, is desperately trying to tug her twin free by his little arm.
Both are wearing corduroy rompers with feet but no shoes. Red for Tinsel, and blue for Twinkle.
Less than a dozen meters away, my father, Anne, and the entire Merton bond group, including Lord Merton himself along with Isla, Noah, and Archie, are staring at us.
With me in sweats and hair curlers.
Tinsel abandons her brother at my approach — once again, just a moment before I get within reach — gleefully and sharply shrieking as she takes off toward Anne and our father. I scoop Twinkle out of the crushed bush, sighing, because even a three-year-old can do a lot of damage when well motivated.
Twinkle claps his hands to my cheeks and half-shrieks/half-giggles in my face. Attempting to look somewhat dignified, I walk the rest of the way to my father’s side. I try not to limp from the raw gravel underfoot while I carry the desperately wiggling Twinkle on my hip.
The Merton family watches my every step, openly and unabashedly.
Anne abandons my father in an attempt to corral Tinsel, but my baby sister somehow manages to dart out of the reach of the uber-powerful shifter. She uses the legs of the guests as shelter, employing Anne’s need to not look completely undignified to her advantage.
“Tinsel!” Twinkle shouts — in my ear — as we near, finally redirecting his twin’s attention. She races toward us instead, narrowly missing getting scooped up by a laughing Noah. Archie is also smirking.
The elder Mertons do not look at all amused.
“If I put you down,” I say to Twinkle with mock seriousness, “you will go with nanny back into the house.”
“With you, Mir!” Tinsel shouts while dancing around my legs. “With Mir, with Mir!”
In my arms, Twinkle grabs hold of one of the oversized curlers decorating my head, yanking at a large hunk of my hair in an attempt to secure my compliance to his sister’s demands.
And … I’m happy.
I’m suddenly desperately happy. But it’s painful, twisting through the ever-present grief and somehow sharpening it even further.
That agonizing happiness feels so wrong, so foreign, that I look through all the space and the people situated between us to meet my father’s steady, purple-eyed gaze. I use my father to hold myself in the moment, to anchor me.