The words were out before Sabine could catch them. An idealistic idea that had run away from her, thought to speech, before she could think twice about how it might sound. Perhaps the mead, the evening, and being in such close proximity to Mr. Dempsey all had something to do with it, but she had forgotten for a moment where she was. The oppressive boot of English society came down on her hard then at the wild look and stutter that startled the gentleman across from her.

Immediately Sabine’s face flushed red and she ducked her gaze away from his. She kept her mouth shut this time, at least clever enough to realize that anything she said would only make things worse, and tucked her wand back into her boot, the small bottle of mead forgotten. She felt warm and embarrassed. It was one thing to do as she liked in Italy where her exploits and potential scandals had been more commonplace across the ton, and it was another entirely to forget herself here, in the society that would condemn her if they so much as knew anything about her.

Letting out a short breath, Sabine tried to brush away such thoughts. She glanced up to Mr. Dempsey as he came back into his own and climbed out of the carriage then followed him herself. She had only meant to show him her work, or so Sabine hoped, but suddenly even that seemed too intimate. Deciding she couldn’t be bothered to care, not at this juncture of the night, not when they were already here, she breezed past him and grabbed her opportunity by the sleeve— literally. (If they were to be seen, well so be it. Perhaps then Mama would let her go back to Italy.) Because he was, too, an opportunity. And in this moment art outweighed propriety.

Sabine walked right up to the front door and meandered inside. She lit no lights and said nothing as she ushered Mr. Dempsey inside quickly. Then, with one finger to her lips in the darkness, she pointed towards the staircase. It was lucky the rest of the house was asleep and Cassian was absent. She’d hate to think how he might react to this latest of her schemes.

Up the elegant staircase they went, Sabine having paused only to remove her shoes, and it was with the slightest hesitation then that she pushed open the door to her bedroom. (Slight, but noticeable.) This would certainly not help her case any. So, tugging him along inside and shutting the door quickly, she dropped her shoes and crossed the room as far away from him as possible. There, just by her desk littered with drawings and papers and snippets, with herbological canvases lining the walls, and portraits and whatever else she fancied, Sabine sucked in a breath. “Here,” she said softly, gesturing to the mess. “I was… hoping you might take a look at some of these and, well, give me your thoughts.” If her right hand twisted slightly into her dress behind her back, it was a show of nervousness Sabine didn’t care for. “Unfettered, of course. I don’t expect you to be polite, I would hope you might be honest in light of, well, this evening.” She paused, wondering if it was too forward or opportunistic, but a slightly pleading look came over her face at that moment. “We are friends, aren’t we Mr. Dempsey?”

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Endymion Dempsey & muse song

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   Endymion Dempsey

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© Fox

Actions were almost easier than words in the moment of both of their embarrassment, or whatever this odd tension was in the air – so Endymion channelled all his energy into following her lead and her silent instructions, rather than think too hard about what he was doing. Quiet, she had signalled with her finger; this way, she had meant. Endymion paused to toe off his shoes too, and they were dangling from his hand when he stepped after her into her bedroom (which was precisely what he had been worried about, and had nevertheless been expecting).

Why had he come? Was it just the mead getting to him? Miss Valenduris had proved herself, time and again, a veritable natural disaster of a person. People were supposed to run from floods and fires. And here Endymion was, for want of any better judgement, still forging ahead.

When she closed the door, all he could focus on was that his heart was in his throat, his eyes tracing her every movement, half-hypnotised. But then his gaze adjusted to the wider scene, new details filtering through – of course it was a mess – and there was her desk. (He could picture her there, furiously scribbling her answers back when her owl had sent him that odorous plant by mistake; his mouth had quirked into a subconscious smile at it.)

And then she explained herself, looking shy and nervous all over again, and Endymion let out a quiet, breathless laugh at the revelation. He was relieved enough to follow her path across the room to meet her again, setting himself beside her, and curiously touching one of the piles of pages with his fingertips. “If it’s writing criticism you’d like, you would really be better off asking my parents,” he said, half-serious but smiling in spite of himself. For some odd reason, Sabine had asked him, as if anyone had ever really wanted his artistic opinion. “But I’m honoured to be asked,” he added, and he tilted his head sidelong to grin at her, a grin that became a playful, despairing shake of the head at her last question. He wanted to lean across and nudge her, but just about restrained himself. “And Miss Valenduris. If we aren’t friends now, then what are we?” If he hadn’t proved himself a resolute friend to her yet, he wasn’t sure he knew how to.

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His gentle smile as he took in the state of her room made something in Sabine’s heart pinch. Where she ought to have been nervous that anyone be exposed to the chaos of her artistic creation, here she only felt at ease as Mr. Dempsey settled her nerves and joined her across the room. He still had that dopey smile on his face and maybe it was something in the way he moved, but Sabine felt the tension shift from her shoulders. She watched the way his single finger tapped a stack of pages she had poured tirelessly over some few weeks past and gave an eager shake of the head at his response. “I don’t want your parents’ opinions,” she pressed. “I want yours.”

Beyond the obvious, there was something unique about Endymion Dempsey that made Sabine sure it was his opinion that she wanted and not anyone else’s in his family. It was true, she supposed, that the Dempsey mother and father were accomplished in their own right. Experienced, mature and likely a hell of a lot more helpful to a budding creative in respect to practical advice she could action. But that wasn’t what Sabine wanted. Sabine wanted to be seen, by this particular gentleman here, and appreciated for her work. She got the sense that he didn’t perhaps think his own opinion as worthy as that of others too (for this was the second time he’d mentioned as much) and it made her all the more determined.

Levying the gentleman a curious look, Sabine was about to select a small section of her work to press at him when that last question came tumbling out of his mouth. She paused as if caught, red handed. A warm blush bloomed over her cheeks and she shook her head gently as if dispelling a silly thought, one curl flouncing down around her neck at last— loosened as it was from her many adventures this evening. Were they truly friends, she wondered, or was it the mere awkwardness of their continued encounters that made him think so? Whatever the matter, it was in that moment that Sabine realized… she didn’t want to be friends. Not with Mr. Endymion Dempsey. Not just friends, at least, and that was the heart of the matter here. The problem, really.

Clearing her throat, she took a step forward and pressed a folio with a leather bound cover into his chest. Her fingers were cold and he was warm under her touch. “I should like to think we could be,” she responded, quietly, strong gaze coming up at last to pin him as she studied whatever remained there behind playful disdain. “Friends or… whatever else, I suppose.” (Colleagues? Partners?) Sabine wasn’t sure herself what she was implying and so she didn’t elaborate, instead taking a small step back, the hint of something playing against her lips. If she had dared to be brazen in bringing Mr. Dempsey up here, then she might dare a little bit more. Nodding towards the folio, she sucked in a small breath. “Remember, complete and utter honesty. That one… is rather fresh. I just finished it last week.”

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Endymion Dempsey & muse song

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   Endymion Dempsey

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© Fox

He might disagree with the worth of his opinion, but he was far too flattered by the idea to refuse her now – or perhaps he was finding he just had trouble refusing Miss Valenduris anything at all?

(Or perhaps it was the mead swimming in his head, and giving him wild ideas.)

She was shaking her head gently about something, but what exactly he didn’t know – their friendship? He thought of her as a friend already, but if there was something holding her back, Endymion was oblivious as to what, or how to break down that wall. But they could be, she had agreed, friends or something, so – he would just have to cling to that hope.

For now, she had pressed a bound collection of papers into his chest; he swallowed slightly, inadvertently, at the way both her fingertips and her gaze were pinning him there. But if she was nervous about this, then it seemed only fair that he shouldn’t be – the nerves were ridiculous. Because he had snuck into a lady’s bedroom? Because the mead had gone to his head? Because she wanted him to be honest? “Complete and utter honesty,” Endymion echoed, as a sort of promise to her, when his eyes finally flickered to her face to meet her more valiant gaze. She had taken a step back, so – a little self-conscious of his exhale – he looked down at the folio, angling it better to peer at and thumbing tentatively past the cover.

He was having some trouble trying to focus on the words, though, when he was remembering, or could still feel, the pressure of her gaze on him. He raked a hand through his hair, trying to focus better and lose himself in the writing without letting any thoughts or judgement cross his face too clearly yet, until he could properly pay attention to it, but – “You mustn’t look at me while I read, then, if I’m to read it now,” he entreated, because if Miss Valenduris felt like her soul was on show in the pages, he felt just as exposed in the reading of them – he glanced about for somewhere to go or somewhere to sit. He never read at a desk if he could help it – he hated desks generally, even for work, and simply had to be comfortable to read anything that was not. So, before he could think any more of it, he settled himself carefully on her bed.

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Sabine fidgeted a little with the fabric of her skirt. He’d agree on honesty and now, as she watched him peer at the pages and begin to tentatively flip through, she wondered what his honesty looked like. Was it calm, reserved, and difficult to decipher? Was it brazen and bold and vaguely terrifying? She wasn’t sure which was better frankly and thus hoped for neither in the end.

Mr. Dempsey settling on her bed did nothing to alleviate the flutter of nerves that was pressing against Sabine’s daring. He requested privacy. The mead was humming in her veins as the redhead gave a short nod and turned on her heel. There had to be something she could do to keep occupied in the meantime. She could imagine how nerve wracking it might be to read private inner thoughts granted how nervous she was to share them. So, grabbing a sketchbook and pencil, Sabine meandered over to the bed and settled opposite Mr. Dempsey, her back to his.

They were close as the bed dipped to accommodate her weight and Sabine threw up her skirts over the side so she might endeavor to sit crosslegged. If either of them dared to lean backwards, they could support one another’s weight but that was not the point of her settling here. The point was to give him room to breath where he wouldn’t feel like she was suffocating him, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Sabine flipped to a new page.

The sound of charcoal scratching against paper thrummed in tune with her erratic heartbeat. He was so close and yet so far and somehow, Sabine almost couldn’t decide what she wanted to do with him. Was she disposed to playing a complete lady and letting the gentleman go without any untoward activity? Of course, her brother’s voice hissed in the back of her head. Sabine felt her cheeks heat in irritation and embarrassment at the thought. England was so prim, she sniffed. On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly sure Mr. Dempsey was himself any less prim and proper. Would he think her terribly loose if she kissed him? Likely.

Sabine let out a short breath that could have almost been a sigh. This likeness was much better than the one she’d captured from memory in her notebook some months back, even if it was just the sketch of two brilliant, intelligent, insightful eyes. Perhaps she would give it to him as a thank you.

(A not-so-subtle reminder that he too had opinions worth gleaning.)

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Endymion Dempsey & muse song

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© Fox

He still felt the pressure of it weighing on his shoulders, amongst the lingering warmth of the mead in his mouth, and her movements in his peripheral vision – she had come to sit on the bed too, but seemed to be otherwise occupying herself – so it took a few long moments to centre himself, and sink into the writing.

And he was no critic – he was already worrying about what he ought to say or do if he thought it was flawed or needed work, because he had no intention of tearing her self-esteem to shreds (certainly not tonight; indeed, not ever). He hadn’t decided what to do in that event – Endymion thought he might have panicked, and fled – but, fortunately, there was no need of that. He liked her writing. He had read enough of his sisters’ and parents’ writing to know it was not true of everything, that just because one liked the person one liked their literary style, but Miss Valenduris’ was as colourful as she was. Flush and ripe with detail, lush with descriptions; he could taste things, and see them, and feel them, and was huffing little laughs to himself whenever he reached a particularly witty or incisive line.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been there, or how many pages he had turned lost in the magic of it, but he shifted backwards and accidentally came into contact with her, he thought. He glanced over his shoulder first, and then turned his body far enough to smile at her. He stopped himself, though, and schooled his expression into something earnest. She had wanted unfettered criticism, hadn’t she? Not admiration. “You’re an excellent writer, Miss Valenduris,” he said softly. (She had not wanted admiration, but in this moment that was – all he had to give.) “I love it.”

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   Sabine Valenduris

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