She had a beautiful laugh. She could laugh at him all day, if she liked; Endymion wouldn’t mind at all.
Was he well? That was a very good question. “Never better,” he breathed – Shakespeare had said it well enough: the course of true love never did run smooth, and Endymion would take his bruised pride and knees utterly willingly. “Would you –” he said, shifting onto his knees to halfway right himself – and his mind might not be in his own thrall for the moment, but it was working well enough to finish his sentence in French instead, for she was evidently French. (Of course she was French.) Perhaps that would soften la belle dame.
“May I have a hand, mademoiselle?” A hand, her hand. To help him up; for the next dance; in marriage. Any would do.
Was he well? That was a very good question. “Never better,” he breathed – Shakespeare had said it well enough: the course of true love never did run smooth, and Endymion would take his bruised pride and knees utterly willingly. “Would you –” he said, shifting onto his knees to halfway right himself – and his mind might not be in his own thrall for the moment, but it was working well enough to finish his sentence in French instead, for she was evidently French. (Of course she was French.) Perhaps that would soften la belle dame.
“May I have a hand, mademoiselle?” A hand, her hand. To help him up; for the next dance; in marriage. Any would do.
