And so, it continues with that Joker-like laughter, full of reader-teasing plot twists.
Right now, everyone in this room is confused; they are bewildered, they are wondering.
What is wrong with the Crown Prince?
What is with that boisterous, echoing laughter?
What is with that expression? Has he gone mad? (Well, that last suspicion is technically mine, but surely some of them must be thinking it too, right?).
And yes, we have all turned into statues, much like my maid Mary often does.
But more importantly, Duke Tristan's gallant, large hand is still gripping mine amidst all this. Suddenly, I am distracted again; my hardcore fan soul is rebelling.
I'm almost losing control, nearly screaming hysterically because of this brutal attack on my sensitive spots.
Oh, gods and goddesses, please preserve the life within this heart of mine.
But behind my struggling heart, that loud, ear-piercing voice rings out again.
