“Oh.” Time seemed to slow as he said it, and with it everything magnified. The ticking of a clock in the corner of the room; book spines glittering as the sunlight hit them; the nervous tapping of his fingers against his cane. Callista felt a rush of affection for him. Affection, followed – inevitably, perhaps – by a sudden rush of fear.
Because she liked him. Try as she might to deny it to herself, it was already too late for that – because he was thoughtful, and earnest, and kind. He had noticed her; worse, he had listened to her. And if she liked him so well already, what if they courted? What then? She could not rule out that she would not surrender to it sooner or later, that she might stumble accidentally into loving him.
The room felt stifling, abruptly, and her face hot; she wished she was out on the lawn losing at croquet instead. If there were other reasons to say no to this – some unpalatable relatives, some eccentric political opinions, the complications of his controversial career or his ward, the disapproval of her family – Callista could scarcely remember them. She could see herself happy: she wanted to say yes.
That, in itself, was reason enough to sway her. “Mr. Echelon-Arnost,” she began, grateful for every syllable to delay having to decide what she must say, “I’m – I’m very flattered.” She hoped he realised she meant it, because she did. Nevertheless, her lips parted again, struggling to pronounce the word but that had to accompany it.
Because she liked him. Try as she might to deny it to herself, it was already too late for that – because he was thoughtful, and earnest, and kind. He had noticed her; worse, he had listened to her. And if she liked him so well already, what if they courted? What then? She could not rule out that she would not surrender to it sooner or later, that she might stumble accidentally into loving him.
The room felt stifling, abruptly, and her face hot; she wished she was out on the lawn losing at croquet instead. If there were other reasons to say no to this – some unpalatable relatives, some eccentric political opinions, the complications of his controversial career or his ward, the disapproval of her family – Callista could scarcely remember them. She could see herself happy: she wanted to say yes.
That, in itself, was reason enough to sway her. “Mr. Echelon-Arnost,” she began, grateful for every syllable to delay having to decide what she must say, “I’m – I’m very flattered.” She hoped he realised she meant it, because she did. Nevertheless, her lips parted again, struggling to pronounce the word but that had to accompany it.
