Between her tossing off a line of Shakespeare – her harking to the balcony scene and all the weight of that exchange was not lost on him, and he felt a peculiar flutter rising in his chest – and that unexpected, ethereal kiss and now her stepping close to tie a favour to his arm, Endymion was convinced that he must have made her up.
As waking delusions went, however, he felt startlingly lucid all of a sudden: he could almost breathe in the smell of her, something warm and sweet and earthy where he had expected the tang of salt air – he could feel her fingers tying a knot in the scarf that she had bound around his arm like a promise – the fall of her hair brushing past his arm as she did – the phantom feeling of her lips at the corner of his mouth. There was a strange temptation to lift a hand and touch that place, as if to prove some trace of it was his to keep.
And would her gifts suffice? “My bounty is as boundless as the sea,” he breathed, quite unable to resist quoting back at her, but beneath all the coyness and idle teasing that were quite suitable for a masked ball, Endymion felt the pulling tide of desperate sincerity. He didn’t know why there was such an idea of romance in the air or in his head tonight, didn’t know why everything seemed so easy, but he hated to think it wouldn’t last. Would it feel the same when he saw her again? He could ask her name now, to be sure he would see her again, but – he was afraid that would tear the illusion down around them, and he wanted, at least, to have the rest of the night to dwell in it. So – “I suppose they will have to, for tonight,” he agreed lightly – a little wistful – but in return, with a little burst of chivalry, took up her hand and pressed his lips, soft, to the back of it. “But I dearly hope that we might meet again, Undine.”
As waking delusions went, however, he felt startlingly lucid all of a sudden: he could almost breathe in the smell of her, something warm and sweet and earthy where he had expected the tang of salt air – he could feel her fingers tying a knot in the scarf that she had bound around his arm like a promise – the fall of her hair brushing past his arm as she did – the phantom feeling of her lips at the corner of his mouth. There was a strange temptation to lift a hand and touch that place, as if to prove some trace of it was his to keep.
And would her gifts suffice? “My bounty is as boundless as the sea,” he breathed, quite unable to resist quoting back at her, but beneath all the coyness and idle teasing that were quite suitable for a masked ball, Endymion felt the pulling tide of desperate sincerity. He didn’t know why there was such an idea of romance in the air or in his head tonight, didn’t know why everything seemed so easy, but he hated to think it wouldn’t last. Would it feel the same when he saw her again? He could ask her name now, to be sure he would see her again, but – he was afraid that would tear the illusion down around them, and he wanted, at least, to have the rest of the night to dwell in it. So – “I suppose they will have to, for tonight,” he agreed lightly – a little wistful – but in return, with a little burst of chivalry, took up her hand and pressed his lips, soft, to the back of it. “But I dearly hope that we might meet again, Undine.”
