Royally Matched (Royally #2)(14)

I close my eyes, but it doesn’t matter—everything goes gray.





I come to gasping. It’s always the way it happens, as if I’ve been held underwater just until I’m on the cusp of drowning.

“There she is,” Mother coos from the chair beside me, while Penelope rubs small circles on my back from the other side.

“It was a long one this time,” Penny says with concern. “Over ten minutes.”

And the familiar shame tightens and squeezes inside me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“None of that, now,” Mother chides, pressing a cool, damp cloth to my forehead.

“Let’s go into the parlor, Mother,” Penelope says. “Sarah will be more comfortable on the sofa.”

I nod, not concerned with missing the rest of the meal—I think we’ve all lost our appetites. My sister helps me stand, and though my knees are shaky, I give her a smile.

“It’s all right. I’m all right now.”

As soon as I’m seated in the parlor, the downstairs maid, Jenny, puts a glass of brandy in my hand. I sip it slowly.

“I’ve been reading about a new meditation specialist, Sarah. I think you should make an appointment with him,” my mother tells me. “He’s a Buddhist and rumored to be very good.”

Temporary dissociative fugue state is what the doctors call it. Rooted in stress, anxiety, and trauma, triggered by loud noises, most often breaking glass. But it’s inconsistent. There are times when I can hear the sound and have no reaction at all; other times the echo of a single dropped glass in a restaurant can cause me to “blink out.”

It’s not as bad as it could be—for some it can last days or even weeks, and the poor people afflicted wander and act in ways they have no memory of when they come to. My episodes last anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes. I don’t move or speak—it’s like I’m just gone . . . dead, but still breathing. I’ve tried medication, but it doesn’t really help and the side effects are unpleasant. I’ve tried hypnosis, therapy, acupuncture . . . but they’ve also been mostly ineffective.

“All right, Mother.”

We enjoy our drinks in silence for a few minutes and then Stanhope enters the room.

“There is a visitor, Countess.”

“A visitor?” Mother looks toward the rain-drenched windows. “Who would be out in this mess? Has their car given out?”

“No, My Lady. The young woman says her name is Nancy Herald. She apologized for not making an appointment and provided her card. It seems to be a business proposition.”

My mother makes a sweeping motion with the back of her hand.

“I have no interest or time for business propositions. Send her on her way, please.”

Stanhope places a business card on the table, bows, and leaves the room.

Penny picks it up as she sips her drink, looks it over—and then spits her brandy all over the carpet.

“Penelope!” mother yells.

My sister stands up, waving the card over her head like Veruca Salt after she got her hands on the golden ticket to the chocolate factory.

“Stanhope!” she screams. “Don’t let her leave! She a television producer!”

Penny turns to me and in a quieter but urgent voice says, “She’s a television producer.”

As if I didn’t hear her the first time.

Then she sprints from the room. Or . . . tries to. Halfway to the door, her heel catches on the carpet and she falls flat on her face with an “Ooof.”

“Are you all right, Pen?”

She pulls herself up, waving her hands. “I’m fine! Or I will be, as long as she doesn’t leave!”

The second try’s the charm, and Penelope scurries out of the room as fast as her four-inch heels will take her.

My mother shakes her head at my sister’s retreating form.

“Too much sugar, that one.”

Then she drains her glass.

“The producer is most likely interested in filming on the property,” my mother adds. “It seems like every few months I get an inquiry.”

A few moments later, there’s the echo of Penelope’s quick, high-pitched chatter from the foyer and, shortly after, she walks back into the parlor. Her arm is linked with a petite, dark-haired woman in a drenched trench coat. Stanhope follows behind them like a frowning shadow.

Penelope introduces her like they’re old schoolmates, stealing Stanhope’s thunder.

“Mother, Sarah, this is Nancy Herald. She’s a television producer.”

I stand and offer my hand. “Hello, Miss Herald. Tell me, are you a television producer? I wasn’t sure.”

I wink at my sister. She sneers back.

“Assistant producer, actually,” she replies, shaking my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Stanhope sniffs. “May I take your coat, Miss Herald? And offer you a hot beverage?”

“Thank you.” She hands over the dripping garment. “Coffee would be awesome, if you have it.”

Without rising, my mother motions for her to sit. “What brings you out in such terrible weather, Miss Herald?”

She smiles, sits, and pulls out a folder from the briefcase in her hand. “Before I explain, I’m going to have to ask you each to sign a nondisclosure agreement. And I realize that’s very odd, but I have a special opportunity for . . .” she checks her paperwork, “Sarah and Penelope Von Titebottum.” She glances at my sister and me. “For both of you, but it’s a matter of national security, so I need evidence of your confidentiality in writing. You’re under no obligation, except to keep my offer to yourselves.”