Endymion’s mind had been on the bottle, mostly, trying to recall anything particularly of interest or value about it, if his brother had the gall to want it back (rude, honestly), when he found himself awkwardly positioned, hovering in the middle of something that he was fairly certain was nothing at all to do with him.
He could feel Don Juan so near he might be breathing down his neck. Endymion, gaze caught on his mother’s hand and the way it was shaking with the parchment in it, was certain of only one thing, which was an inclination to remove himself from the crossfire as swiftly as possible. Before he ended up as accidental cannon fodder.
So he shifted sideways, away from his brother (and conveniently towards the side buffet), when the finer points of their conversation caught up to him. “Uh. What?” From this safe vantage point, Endymion gaped, dumbfounded – and struck by the odd temptation to laugh, which felt like a bad idea. (And also became instantly more tempting, upon that feeling.) “Since when does Don Juan have a daughter?”
He could feel Don Juan so near he might be breathing down his neck. Endymion, gaze caught on his mother’s hand and the way it was shaking with the parchment in it, was certain of only one thing, which was an inclination to remove himself from the crossfire as swiftly as possible. Before he ended up as accidental cannon fodder.
So he shifted sideways, away from his brother (and conveniently towards the side buffet), when the finer points of their conversation caught up to him. “Uh. What?” From this safe vantage point, Endymion gaped, dumbfounded – and struck by the odd temptation to laugh, which felt like a bad idea. (And also became instantly more tempting, upon that feeling.) “Since when does Don Juan have a daughter?”
