In the end, Basil wasn’t sure he would ever understand what had gone awry. He heard Ms. Victoire’s protest with an empty head and a heavy heart, releasing her as she wrenched away. He opened his mouth to protest, determined that there was something - anything - he could do to change her mind, but he could feel the sinking ache in his gut anyhow. Desperation turned to anguish as the lady fled the room and his brother, for all Atticus’s faults, interceded. Grey hues turned somewhat wildly to hazel. His brother and Poppy had the same gaze, colored by different emotions and different life experiences. Where his baby cousin was lively and passionately determined, Atticus was dead and spelled doom. “I am not alright,” the youngest insisted. “Did you not just bare witness to my ultimate humiliation? Why doesn’t she love me Atticus. What could I have possibly done differently?” He tugged his arm away from his brother feebly, making no real effort to distance himself. It was more a show of pride than anything. “Maybe I can still convince her. Perhaps she just needs further proof!” He paused for a moment, rounding on the other.
“Tell me, what did you do to win over the ever lovely Ms. Mountbatten?!” If Atticus had done it, surely Basil could too! They were extraordinarily different people but he’d try anything at this stage.