Mister Greengrass was awfully understanding despite her saying and doing all of the unadvised things. In fact it seemed like not one of the worst things she’s said to him these last several minutes deterred his friendliness, which might’ve been endearing if it wasn’t so unnerving. Ida struggled to think about what her company could possibly be getting out of all of this – less from a place of low confidence in her abilities to carry on a conversation, more because she truly had nothing else to offer him. Even more clearly now, when she’d professed her love for the wrong type of person. What do you want, Mister Greengrass? she wondered, concealing her frown with a curious look at the man who decided to share what he thinks.

Ida sucked in a breath, anticipating the shoe like it did with her older brother: calling her silly and naive, misguided and ungrateful and going through a phase. (Though it still confused Ida why she confessed as much as she did to Mister Greengrass, she was sure not even this state of mind would have caused her to make such a confession to her brother.) Only– the shoe drop never came. Instead Greengrass carried on with a perfectly sensible plan, one that Ida followed along with eyes that widened to look a bit owlish. He glanced at her a bit worriedly, like she might bite his head off for pointing out she shouldn’t declare her love – but Ida still felt a bit too shocked by his suggesiton. He was encouraging her to carry on with this.

In any case, the rest of his advice felt right– “I find it much easier to express myself with writing,” the young woman admitted, chewing the inner corner of her lip in thought. And it eased some of the tension in her shoulders from having to figure out all the perfect words right this instant – just get an excuse to write seemed far more feasible. Surely the ballerina had many fans, though Ida might be able to distinguish herself from the rest with a nice letter. Perhaps she could read more from that poet Mister Greengrass liked so much.

The walk already did Ida a world of good, cool air evening out her intermittent dizziness. The news made her feel a little more elated, a little more optimistic too– an odd and bubbly feeling that felt foreign as it swelled in her chest, even as the muddy-headedness from the alcohol seemed to wear away. (Note to self: never try those fancy mixed drinks again.) The pair of them carried on walking the length of the state, talking about opening lines and clever ways to impress with writing. It seemed a bit like there was a bag of tricks men were taught for a proper written wooing, and learning his perspective gave Ida that same excitable tingle that a thought-provoking essay might. Rather than feeling deflated Ida felt encouraged, even laughed genuinely, and certainly forgot all about what made her so anxious before.

At least until they rounded a corner that would take them back towards the ballrooms on the other side– and saw her. The recognition gave Ida such a startle that she stopped dead in her tracks, bumping right into Mister Greengrass and grabbing onto his sleeve for dear life.

It was hard to describe what was happening to her brain, but Ida could sense that she had no control over it whatsoever. Everything else faded to nothing, and it was as though the entire world melted away and all Ida could think and feel and do were the things that could get her to be with her – the pretty ballerina who sat in a quiet corner of the estate on a lounge chair, fussing with the ribbon of her ballet slipper. Ford wouldn’t need to be a Legilimens to know from the dramatic shift in Ida’s disposition that this was the object of her affections and their conversation for the last several minutes.

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