Imperial Majesty

I bowed before his Imperial Majesty. It would take time for me to grow accustomed to calling him that. He was my brother, after all.

Born in Toronto, we didn't have pureblood parents. We didn't come from noble stock. We didn't even come from money. Times change. After losing sixty percent of the population to anaphylactic shock brought on by the Deximondas, those of us left behind had to rewrite the rules.

Racklin had met Priscilla sitting by a fountain in High Park. She had been throwing bread to the ducks, despite the sign that warned of the penalties for doing so. He had whispered to her that he wouldn't turn her in to the authorities if she shared the bread. And so, with a single act of defiance, they had fallen in love.

He didn't know then that she was the daughter of the Shaw of North America. Nor was he privy to her family's connections to the inner sanctum of the Deximondas. He chose her because she liked ducks and bore a mountain of blond curls. Racklin was a sucker for blond curls.

After the wedding, I was offered a bed in the Imperial Palace. In return, the head butler assigned me chores. Eight rooms in the northeast wing--all the furniture, windows, linens and carpets--were my responsibility. I kept them clean. We brothers take care of each other. And Racklin's library was one of the rooms in my wing.

He loved to read. I loved the feel of the leather chairs and a crackling fire in the woodstove. The Deximondas despised the smell of wood smoke, so that room became our sanctuary.