Page 44 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

“Most people,” Tavi says gently, “would see you as … a prize, right? They’d want you to know that they’re the best choice.

That they are the wealthiest or the one with the most power, right?

But peaches are a simple sweetness that implies more …

more intimacy. No matter how rare this variety is, it tastes like a peach, like any peach. ”

I’ve never tasted a peach— have never tasted anything, really— that affected me like that one slice did. But I keep that thought to myself. I don’t need more of their misplaced sympathy. I don’t deserve it.

Tavi continues, “Or think about the scramble it took to get them here from Vienna —”

“There had to be at least one transportation spell involved,” Mimi adds. “Otherwise, the timing is impossible.”

“Without bruising them?” Tavi says teasingly.

Mimi shrugs. “If the duke doesn’t have a mage of that caliber on staff, he has access to one.” She waves her hand offishly. “They all do. And that was your point, right? The toffs have all this cash to throw at Her Royal … err … Euphrosyne.”

“Mir,” I murmur. “In private. That’s what the twins call me. No one, barely anyone, uses Euphrosyne.” Because my name is Mirth. It has always been Mirth. But for some reason, it still occasionally hurts when people use it.

Okay, when a few specific people use it.

And Bolan is an asshole. But he’s an asshole who has no way to know that I suddenly don’t like being addressed by my own fucking name. A name he’s used for me since I was seven.

I’m so all over the place.

Mimi hums softly. A polite way to draw me out of my head and back into the present. “So sous gets four of the peaches, and you keep the fifth?”

“Yes.” I have a plan for the fifth peach, and I have to quash a smile as I think about implementing that plan.

I suddenly notice another item next to the tray— a long blue velvet case that obviously holds jewelry with a note card attached to it.

I flip open the card, noting that the handwriting, nearly as painstakingly perfect as my own, and the signature etched across the thick linen paper in thin black lines are in two very different hands.

I take my leave of you, lovely Euphrosyne. But think of our future as you wear this, and I will see you soon. — Merton

Written by Isla, no doubt. And signed with his last name, not his first, by her father.

“Well, that’s … informal,” Mimi says, peering over my shoulder. I’m fairly certain ‘informal’ isn’t what she really means.

“Totally creepy,” Tavi clarifies. “Isn’t he, like, ninety?”

“Seventy-five,” I say absentmindedly as I open the slim jewelry box. It contains a thin gold chain strung through a rough-hewn antique gold coin. It takes me a moment to recognize the coin, then another moment to figure out the barely disguised meaning underlying the so-called courting gift.

A tiny fissure of that far-too-present simmer of anger cracks open in my chest, threatening to ruin the peaceful moment brought on by the gift of the peaches .

“I don’t get it,” Tavi whispers, though loudly. “I mean, it’s striking, I guess. But you … gold isn’t your color.”

“No, it isn’t,” I say. “And that coin is … first of all, it’s an antique. Museum quality, given how clear the stamp still is.”

“Before he had a hole drilled through it,” Mimi mutters.

Exactly.

“And?” Tavi crowds closer to peer down at the necklace, to take in the stamp. “Is that supposed to be a king?”

“The last king of the Merton line,” I say wryly.

Tavi blinks at me, but it’s Mimi who laughs harshly.

“Do you think he’ll require you wear it? At your bonding ceremony?”

“Right before he or his chosen representative tries to fuck the next ruler of Europe into me?” I laugh cheerlessly. “I think that’s the implication.”

“Entitled asshole,” Tavi huffs.

I sigh quietly. A very not-princess-like noise that I have to be careful to not make in public. “He’s not wrong.”

“You aren’t going to wear it,” Mimi says, all poised and pointed. “It clashes. With everything.”

I smile, snapping the case shut and retrieving my smoothie. “Please have it make its way to Anne. It can be entered into the household collection.”

“Perfect.” Tavi sniggers.

“Now,” Mimi says, clapping her hands together. “You’ll want a braid for riding —”

“I’ll wear my hair down,” I say. Then I point toward the bed. “And I’m not wearing a sweater set to breakfast. Or pleated pants, for that matter.”

Tavi quashes a smirk, practically skipping off toward my walk-in closet to put together another outfit.

“Hair down.” Mimi nods thoughtfully. Then she adds tentatively, “It’s very long …”

“We can trim it.”

“Nothing drastic,” she says eagerly. “But some face-framing layers would be lovely. Nothing so short it can’t still be pulled back, as is your preference.”

I down the last of my smoothie, then stride off after Tavi to dig through the closet myself and put together my own bloody outfit. “I’m not certain about my preferences anymore. Maybe I’ll chop it all off.”

Anne escorts me to the conservatory for breakfast, not even batting an eyelash at my casual outfit — dark-brown faux-suede pants that are perfectly broken in, and a delightfully oversized black Aran sweater that somehow manages to be figure flattering.

A result of the knit cables, I presume. I’ve never worn either item before, but the too-perfect fit makes me fairly certain how they appeared in my closet, along with a pair of black-suede slip-on shoes.

My typical strand of pearls and Armin’s ostentatious ring make for an odd contrast, but I find I don’t give a shit.

I’ve left my hair partly down, though Tavi insisted on twining three slim braids back from my temples, loosening them slightly when I complained they looked a little like a crown.

Anne hasn’t commented on the peach I carry carefully at my side.

Prepared to be assaulted by the energy from dozens of my so-called suitors, especially given the size of the gatherings usually held in the conservatory, I stumble when I realize that the glass-roofed-and-walled event room is mostly empty.

A ridiculously massive buffet has been set slightly to one side, but only a single long table has been placed at the far end of the space.

Two smaller seating areas, along with portable fireplaces and cashmere throws, have been set up in either corner, but the long wooden table would look perfectly at home on a ranch. It doesn’t suit the castle.

The relief that runs through me has nothing to do with the cozy, almost-casual setting. It comes from noting that the table is clearly set for only fourteen guests.

I throw an incredulous look at Anne, moving so quickly that I actually crank my neck a little too harshly.

She smirks at me, all narrow-eyed and smug. “What? You think I don’t know you?”

Bolan lounges next to Sully at one end of the table.

With his messy blue hair and smudged, black-lined eyes, Salvatore looks as though he’s just stumbled out of bed, then pulled on a thin, wide-necked, dark-purple sweater perfectly ready for the runway.

The rock star is dressed in distressed black jeans and a T-shirt from the Blitz’s first world tour.

Bolan is also cupping a large mug of steaming coffee as if it’s the elixir of life.

His head snaps in our direction at Anne’s words.

“You asked everyone else to leave?”

“I gently suggested that the bond groups to which you’ve showed a preference self-select those members that you might find it easier to connect with, or already have a connection to.”

Our murmured exchange draws the attention of all the other sharp-eared shifters. Then the rest of the suitors follow those glances in our direction.

In a light-gray henley stretched precariously tight across his impossibly broad shoulders, the top two buttons undone, Christoph is seated next to Sully with his back to the lake view.

He’s deep in conversation with Elias on his other side.

The earl is casually clad in a pinstriped dark-blue dress shirt, forearms rolled up and with the top three buttons undone. No tie. No jacket.

The peach is still gently cradled in my palm. I tuck it behind my back.

From the Landenberg bond group, Tereza, Lukas, and Radek are slowly making their way along the buffet.

Radek is feeding little treats to both of his chosen as they fill their plates.

Tereza’s svelte figure is complimented by a long, loose burgundy knit dress.

Her fellow lynx, Radek, is wearing sweatpants.

Designer sweats, but still. Lukas is in jeans and a thick cream cabled sweater.

I’m oddly delighted that they haven’t waited for me to arrive to start eating. And also that the older siblings and various parental figures who attended yesterday’s equinox event have ‘self-selected,’ as Anne put it, leaving the actual courting to the three closest to me in age.

Seated at the other end of the table, nearest the buffet, Isla and Noah appear to be the only remaining suitors from the Merton bond group.

I’m slightly surprised that Archie has left, but not upset by it.

He is a fair bit older, and we had a chance to chat when I danced with him last night.

Noah and Isla sip mimosas, smoothing dollops of butter and jam over torn pieces of freshly baked croissant.

No one rises to greet me— though Elias visibly stops himself from doing so. And Isla raises her mimosa-filled champagne glass and winks at me.

Caden, Miller, and Diaz, the remaining members from the Hernandez bond group, have taken their morning coffees and pastries to one of the small seating areas. Miller is more interested in the tablet they have propped against one knee — no doubt already deep in work — than the coffee.

“You told them …” I murmur to Anne.