A madness most discreet;

Chaos. Disheveled, sleepless, falling apart. Cyrille was a thrice damned mess who'd forgotten the meaning of the word composure in the face of such blatant disregard for basic human fucking decency! Everything in him gave away how violently furious he was at this turn of events, and he made sure everyone knew it.

That Veres had the right of it to appear as careless as he did to Cyrille's doorstep all those months ago when he'd been shackled to his cousin. Gods above, is this what he felt like? His livelihood stripped away so that someone else could continue to live more lavishly than they deserved? Like he was nothing more than merchandise to garner off, for fuck's sake.

Oh, Cyrille made a show of fighting back against his darling aunt and uncle. They had no right to shove him into the hole Lasair left, but they held his cottage, his generous allowance on the Andraste coin, his noble lifestyle; they held all of it by the throat. He had far more to lose than they did if he didn't take on Lasair's responsibilities as heir to the estate, and he bowed his head much too quickly, ill at ease with the thought of having to become a man who earned his living, Grace forbid. They didn't want the work of their titles, and he didn't want to be turned out penniless onto the streets.

But he realized all too quickly that every step he took in Lasair's shoes was next to impossible - the servants were still unfailingly loyal to her even though she'd all but discarded them, snidingly silent when he asked them the simplest questions with flawless derision, and all of her accounting books, ledgers, and notes were all in some obscure language the rest of the Andrastes had never bothered to learn. Cyrille knew Siregelian, Nymenian and sign language, of course, but this had to be decided in spite so that her parents wouldn't be tempted to take the reins of the family back from her.

Joy.

 He felt due to stumble at every turn, the weight of responsibility dragging his feet as he was paraded around like some falsely smiling puppet on his family's whims, their fingers digging into his shoulders painfully. He'd never do as well at running the Andrastes even if he tried, and it felt like everyone knew it, eager to watch him fail before he'd even started. No one believed his flimsy excuses for where Lasair fled to after her fiance's accusation of murder and escape from Namarast, and his aunt and uncle thought all of that was a problem he failed to fix.

So this was what they'd come up with. A quick marriage in order to turn the public eye away from Lasair's scandal, all arranged so he needn't worry his pretty little head on the details, like, say, the name of who he was being sold off to. No engagement period this time, no; look how well that went!

He needed another drink.

He reached for the bottle of Veres wine he'd brought with him into the yellow sitting room, uncorking it with his teeth and praying it could take the edge off this godsforsaken situation.