Endymion did pick up the magazine from time to time (and occasionally one could find copies lying about at the club, in case one needed fodder to mock whichever bachelor had been raked across the coals for far-fetched content that week), but he had never considered the Lonely Hearts pages with any seriousness. Somehow it felt so... contrived.
Endymion had always rather been of the opinion that his soulmate ought just to appear before him one day spontaneously, unmistakable and instant and so ludicrously attractive to him that he could not think of anyone but them from that day on. (This may have been the true curse of his tryst with the wild Veela.)
“Oh, yes, of course,” Endymion said instead, with a daft grin – but actually a little bit serious. “I’d rather appreciate finally finding out what I am looking for in a wife.” He knew what he was not looking for, he thought. And he knew what he ought to be looking for, to some extent. But what he actually was? He hadn’t the foggiest.
“So – who did you know?” He nudged her. Invested in the Lonely Hearts, he meant.
Endymion had always rather been of the opinion that his soulmate ought just to appear before him one day spontaneously, unmistakable and instant and so ludicrously attractive to him that he could not think of anyone but them from that day on. (This may have been the true curse of his tryst with the wild Veela.)
“Oh, yes, of course,” Endymion said instead, with a daft grin – but actually a little bit serious. “I’d rather appreciate finally finding out what I am looking for in a wife.” He knew what he was not looking for, he thought. And he knew what he ought to be looking for, to some extent. But what he actually was? He hadn’t the foggiest.
“So – who did you know?” He nudged her. Invested in the Lonely Hearts, he meant.
