She was surveying him in a similar way that he had been her, he felt, but Endymion still hadn’t come to any firm conclusions as to who she might be – and he was starting to wonder whether her identity mattered to him at all. Maybe he had been wrong about love, and how to fall in it: he had been so certain he needed to know a woman thoroughly, inside and out, know her well enough to ensure she possessed all the requisite qualities before he could actually feel anything for her. It was what he had tried to explain to Desiderius Morgan, a few months ago – that it felt all but impossible to find anyone flawless enough to fall in love with – but maybe that was the problem here, and maybe he’d just been unnecessarily impatient with it all?
Maybe the solution was just to forget all that, and simply not know anything about her at all. (And to drink more of whatever he’d been offered him at the entrance, because it had obviously had a good effect on him. He had never felt quite so light and happy and hopeful that everything he wanted was in reach.) Tonight he was a different man, he had resolved it. Tonight he was a believer in fate; a character in a fairytale; he was even at a masked ball, and – after all – this redhead had his hat. Somehow everything came back to the hat.
So there was no sense in thinking about anything: Endymion resolved to let himself go and merely trust in the mystery of it. He would only feel. Give himself up to her as if he was at her mercy, as if she might have all the power of Keats’ Belle Dame sans Merci. As he had the Veela in the garden –
Well, perhaps not quite like that – but a dance with her would be excitement enough, he was sure. Whatever else he was feeling, Endymion was entirely aware of the rush of feeling at her acceptance of the terms – and fortunately, for all their joking, she didn’t sound terribly put out about it, either. (Of course, there was no reason she should: he was a perfectly good dancer.) Still – “Yes, I suppose you must,” he agreed, with a delighted laugh at her clever little quip about the dance, taking her hand to escort her to a better space in the room. His head was, admittedly, too much in the clouds to even truly register what dance it was: but if feeling was king for the moment, it hardly mattered what the steps were, old-fashioned or modern. The steps and the music were all incidental, when keeping his gaze on her felt far more rewarding at this juncture. He could be in love with her, he imagined. He was sure he could.
“A wise choice,” he teased, as he waited for the music and placed his hands in better preparation. “The hat does rather suit you,” he admitted, in part sincerity and also as some excuse for the way his gaze kept returning to her as if riveted. “As does the blue,” Dymion offered, casting his eyes over her flowing costume. “Will you think it a terrible blunder if I ask who you are tonight?” Not who she was, at least; just what she was dressed as tonight.
Maybe the solution was just to forget all that, and simply not know anything about her at all. (And to drink more of whatever he’d been offered him at the entrance, because it had obviously had a good effect on him. He had never felt quite so light and happy and hopeful that everything he wanted was in reach.) Tonight he was a different man, he had resolved it. Tonight he was a believer in fate; a character in a fairytale; he was even at a masked ball, and – after all – this redhead had his hat. Somehow everything came back to the hat.
So there was no sense in thinking about anything: Endymion resolved to let himself go and merely trust in the mystery of it. He would only feel. Give himself up to her as if he was at her mercy, as if she might have all the power of Keats’ Belle Dame sans Merci. As he had the Veela in the garden –
Well, perhaps not quite like that – but a dance with her would be excitement enough, he was sure. Whatever else he was feeling, Endymion was entirely aware of the rush of feeling at her acceptance of the terms – and fortunately, for all their joking, she didn’t sound terribly put out about it, either. (Of course, there was no reason she should: he was a perfectly good dancer.) Still – “Yes, I suppose you must,” he agreed, with a delighted laugh at her clever little quip about the dance, taking her hand to escort her to a better space in the room. His head was, admittedly, too much in the clouds to even truly register what dance it was: but if feeling was king for the moment, it hardly mattered what the steps were, old-fashioned or modern. The steps and the music were all incidental, when keeping his gaze on her felt far more rewarding at this juncture. He could be in love with her, he imagined. He was sure he could.
“A wise choice,” he teased, as he waited for the music and placed his hands in better preparation. “The hat does rather suit you,” he admitted, in part sincerity and also as some excuse for the way his gaze kept returning to her as if riveted. “As does the blue,” Dymion offered, casting his eyes over her flowing costume. “Will you think it a terrible blunder if I ask who you are tonight?” Not who she was, at least; just what she was dressed as tonight.
